by Jeff Vrolyks
Chapter Eleven
The dinner get-together was at seven. That was the earliest it could be, since I worked till six, and needed to get showered and dressed. I called Norrah on my drive home to see if there was anything I could bring over. She said yes, some dessert. And some wine or champagne. I’d hit Stater’s on the way over. She sounded chipper so I asked what was new. There were no news vans on the street. They had left. Her street looked as it should once again, void of motorists and parked vehicles. I was happy for Norrah. I knew that meant a lot to her.
Aaron texted her at six-thirty to check if everything was still on, and could he bring anything? She said it was still on and he needs not bring anything but his self. She texted directions to her house. He replied: I was there for seven days, remember? LOL.
She LOL’d back and added That’s right.
As Norrah peeled potatoes she stared vacantly out the kitchen window at the darkening sky, wondered what it’s like to cease existing for seven days. For any amount of time. Was it like the phenomenon that is going to sleep and seemingly the same second waking up many hours later? Sleep is kind of creepy like that. Huge chunks of time blink away at once. Or maybe ceasing to exist for those seven days was like how it was before you were born. Just black timeless nothingness, a concept impossible to wrap your mind around. If anyone should know the answer to that question it would be Aaron. Or Brittney, let’s not forget her. She was another reason to be in a good mood. Norrah didn’t have many friends, and Brittney was a fun girl. If Norrah had to guess, before this whole crazy shit-storm happened, she’d have guessed that after a week of being vanished, they’d return starving and dehydrated, smelling like B.O., hair disheveled. That wasn’t the case. She wondered if they slept all right that night, or if being gone for a week was akin to getting the longest most restful night of sleep of your life.
She quartered the taters and dropped them in a pot of water, withdrew the plump parcel from the Whirlpool and placed it on the kitchen island, tore away the paper and examined the fat baggie with three gorgeous pieces of meat.
Norrah ambled to the back deck, stepped outside. It wasn’t as cold as it had been lately. She turned the knob on the propane tank of the barbecue. There was no hollow hissing sound as there should have been. She opened the lid of the ‘cue anyway, turned the burners on and pressed the clicker. She wasn’t surprised that there were no flames. Not hearing the propane seeping through the lines was indicative of an empty tank. There was always the oven. She could broil them. But that’s sacrilege for steaks this nice.
“Ah…” She had an idea. Paul Klein was still living with God-knows-whom down the mountain, and probably hadn’t come up to take his barbecue. That reminded her: she needed to call him to learn what the deal was. He had paid for February, but the month was almost at an end. She doubted he’d be paying for March. He seemed intent on living elsewhere. She figured her home was tainted to him now. Norrah wouldn’t allow it to become tainted to her. She loved the house, planned on living here for the rest of her life. If she and I were to get married, she’d insist that I move in with her, not vice-versa. It would suck badly not having Paul’s four-hundred a month, all the more reason to give that interview. Let’s face it, there were too many reasons to do the interview and not enough to keep avoiding it. Aaron and Brittney didn’t know it yet, but they were going to benefit greatly from the interview, as Norrah has a giant heart. In her mind she already set aside that money for them, so to not interview was to deprive them of what was theirs.
She’d need to tell Paul to get his shit out of her house, unless he wants to continue paying rent. And if he did want to live there, that was fine by her. She harbored no animosity toward him. Sure she was peeved last week when he up and bailed when the going got tough, but she couldn’t hold being a chicken-shit against him. People are inherently chicken-shits, save for the few brave souls who employ themselves as fire fighters, cops (ahem; wink), soldiers and the like. If Paul didn’t come get his shit by March first, and didn’t pay another month’s rent, she was going to keep his belongings. Throw most of it out, but keep the stuff she wanted. She’d make a guest bed out of his king-size bed. It was comfortable, she had laid on it once when Paul wasn’t home (yes my girlfriend can be creepy-weird at times). He had nice furniture, a nice big LCD television. And his barbecue. Hers was nicer, but it lacked a current essential element at the moment: propane. She opened the hatch and went down a few steps before reconsidering. Should she bring the steaks down and a fork? Eh, not yet. It wasn’t freezing outside, but it was in the forties, she judged, so it would take a while for the grill to get hot. She’d let it warm up a trifle. Down the stairs she went.
“Early in the morning, risin’ to the street, light me up that cigarette and I’ll strap shoes on my feet,” she sang as she went. Sublime was happy music. Would there be dessert after the dessert? She wondered. The after-pie dessert known as wicked hot sex? She smiled. “Loooove is… it’s what I got… I said remember that.”
The back door was unlocked. She hit the outside lights, which might not have been necessary, but it had become dusk. Pink and orange sunlight was both strange and beautiful. She stepped out. At the end of the patio the barbecue stood. It was against the railing and facing the last of a series of large basement windows. It took her a minute to learn the barbecue’s functionality, eventually got it started. On a hook was the scraper. The grill was a little crusted, black tar-looking crud stuck to it. She got to scraping it, cringing at the strident sound it made. She checked her watch: 6:43. The food wouldn’t be ready to eat till about half past seven, but that was okay. She never claimed that dinner would be ready at seven.
“…Love is, it’s what I got, I said remember that.” Her hip vibrated, cellphone played Nat King Cole’s Unforgettable. She saw it was me calling.
“Well hello there, good looking,” she said cheerily into the phone.
“I said looove is, it’s what I got, I said remember that,” I sang.
Her jaw dropped.
“Life is too short so love the one you got, ‘cause you might get run over or you might get shot…” I continued to sing. I began laughing.
“How did you know I was singing that?” she said bewildered.
“Because you butt-dialed me. I enjoy your singing voice, dumpling.”
“Oh. You brat. You freaked me out.”
“Sorry. I just left my house. I’ll be there in a few.”
“I was just wondering if there was going to be after-dessert dessert.”
“I have a peach pie. And two bottles of champagne.”
“Sounds good. But that’s not what I meant.”
“After-dessert dessert? Hmm. So peach pie, then… hair pie?”
She burst out laughing. “You’re gross! No, no hair pie for you, sicko.”
“It is a little outdated, that term. Since the wild unkempt look has been out for about a decade or two now. I like them shaved, more aerodynamic. As a benefit you can run and swim faster, too. And I suppose make love faster: less wind resistance. I once dated a girl with a bush so big that she kept her car keys in there.”
“Stop being gross and get your buns over here. Hurry up.”
“Will do. Bye.”
She pocketed the phone. “Hair pie…” she said thickly and rolled her eyes.
She scraped the grill a little more before calling it good. She looked center-deck to the three-foot gap section in the railing, which was an entrance to the acres of forest that was her backyard. Well, not hers, someone else presumably owned it. The snow there had melted partially, the tracks Fred the fat ass and I had made had melted away. It was a peculiar thing, the single set of tracks that stopped abruptly fifteen or twenty feet from the house. Fred had opined that someone had back-tracked perfectly. But for what reason? None of that really mattered anymore, she supposed.
She closed the lid on the barby and turned around, took a single step and stopped. She saw something obliquely through that far window at t
he end. Without looking directly at it, her memory showed her what it was: a person being hanged by that damned blinds cord. She bravely looked directly at it: the body wasn’t there. It was mostly dark inside. She made blinders with cupped hands to cut the twilight glare from the window, and pressed her face against it. On the hearth was a dark mass that she knew to be a broad-rimmed hat. Two little spots of white were the horns. She scanned the room.
“Life is too short so love the one you got, ‘cause you might get run over or you might get shot.” Her heart wasn’t in singing this time. She left the window smelling the charred remains of some old cattle-flesh being seared away on the grill, and opened the door.
“I said remember that… looove is…”
She flipped the inside-light switch on and wished she hadn’t. She gasped sharply. It was like a hologram baseball card that you can rotate to see the batter going through the movements of his swing. Bodies were pulsing into view and fading out just as the next body pulsed into view, all around the room, body after body, no two bodies present at once. She felt dizzy, palmed her forehead and swooned. No-arms Pirate, Phantom dissected like a science project, torn in half Mouse, face torn off Catwoman, back ripped open Frog, and there was the man choked to death by the blinds cord wearing a batman mask, his throat swollen and purple, tongue lolling out of his mouth.
Norrah made a fucked up kind of cry-moan and dashed to the stairs, took one step and tripped, dropping to her knees on the sharp edge of a step. She looked between the posts of the banister: bodies blinked in and out of view, round and round like a carousel. As she pressed herself up to a stand, she saw one particular body that seized her attention. A girl in a deep red dress on the floor beside the bed, headless. It disappeared, appeared, disappeared, appeared and continued to cycle, along with the others. She sprinted up the stairs and slammed the hatch closed behind her.
She strode to the bathroom off the den and cranked the faucet on, splashed water up at her face, looked at her reflection in the mirror.
“What’s wrong with me,” she muttered, splashed more water at her face. She needed to hear the comforting voice of someone she knew, withdrew her cell from pocket and called me.
“Yessum?” I answered. “Call to hear more of my reasons why shaved coochies are more practical than hairy ones? Underwear fit better,” I began, “no gray hairs in private places, giving vaginas a more youthful appearance.”
“How close are you?”
“About a mile or so. Why? Need me to pick up something else? I bought a pie at Stater’s.”
“No.”
Silence. I heard nothing but her heavy breathing.
“Hun?” I said. “Something wrong?”
“…no. It’s just… nothing.” She knew I wasn’t going to let it slide so she came out with it before I had to chance to needle it out of her. “You know how I said I saw them? The bodies?”
“Yes.”
“I just saw them again.”
I hummed meditatively. “I think what’s happening is all the stress you’ve suffered as of late is wreaking havoc on your senses. I thought about that the other day, but didn’t mention it. All the attention you’ve been getting, it takes a toll, you know?”
“You think?”
“I do. Hallucinations. I doubt it’s anything serious, but if you’d like you can make an appointment to see a doctor and I’ll come with.”
“God, Jay, I’m so lucky to have you. I mean it. That makes perfect sense. And that you care enough about me to offer to take me… I’m just so grateful to have you.”
“You’re a peach to say.”
In the ensuing brief stretch of silence, Norrah became cognizant of water dripping periodically in the nearby kitchen.
“See you in a minute,” she said and hung up.
Drip. Drip.
“Damnit,” she said when she saw what was making the noise. On the kitchen island was her plump bag of steaks and teriyaki marinade. The bulging corner of the bag was leaking. It puddled on the island granite before running over the side and dripping onto the wooden floor. She had a mop and bucket on wheels in the den utility closet. She could have it cleaned up before I got there. She was glad she hadn’t emptied the water (dirty as it was) the last time she mopped. She didn’t feel like dealing with filling it up right now.
Drip. Drip.
I should have thought of that, stress-induced hallucinations, she thought. It has been one hell of a week or two. Nerves on edge. She maneuvered the bucket by the mop handle into the kitchen. I’m lucky that’s all it’s been, a few pesky hallucinations. I need a vacation, that’s what I need. To get out of town for a few days. Maybe Jay could come with me, how fun would that be? Maybe Yosemite, or Disneyworld. Maybe a pre-condition of my interview could be a pair of round-trip tickets to Orlando. Would that seem greedy to ask for?
It was getting darker outside, a lavender sky and a chilly wind that whistled through the eaves. The single lighted lamp in the living room wasn’t cutting it for kitchen light anymore. She flipped a pair of kitchen lights, set up beside the puddle and took the mop out of the mostly-full bucket, wrung it dry in the squeeze thing. She evaluated the puddle, which was pretty damned big, considering its source. A couple feet wide and growing slowly before her eyes. She checked the baggie, which was still plump. The liquid lost should make it flat, but it wasn’t. She scratched her jaw, frowning at the goo on the counter top, the red syrupy stuff running down the side of the island, the ever-growing puddle on the floor.
A horrible idea occurred to Norrah. Isn’t teriyaki brown? It’s soy sauce and something sugary, isn’t it? She plopped the mop down on the puddle, and swiped a finger across the counter top. It was red. Her heart raced. Was she hallucinating this? I would tell her yes, and she would waffle before agreeing that I was right. The baggie, though, it was still plumper than ever. She lifted it off the counter: a few drips dropped in rapid succession before stopping. She rested the mop handle against the island to use both hands to squeeze the baggie, applied ample enough pressure that a hole in it would gush teriyaki out. Nothing came out.
“Weird.”
She placed the meat back on the counter, grabbed the mop with both hands. Her breath caught at the puddle on the floor. It was now four feet wide, a good quarter-inch thick, and crimson red. As if she had to contend with the growing puddle before it got out of control, she swirled the mop head around the sauce swiftly, flipped it over and repeated. Her fingertip was wet and red. Curiosity was getting the better of her.
Please taste like teriyaki.
She paused cleaning the floor to lap her fingertip with the very tip of her tongue: a bit salty and not sweet or tangy whatsoever. It didn’t surprise her, she somehow expected it, but it still scared the living shit out of her.
“It’s not blood. I’m hallucinating it, that’s all.” Can you hallucinate taste? She sure hoped so. The mop head was deep red like Brittney’s dress had been, soaked completely, but she kept at it, swirled and twirled, flipped and repeated. The puddle was thinner but still spreading. Frantically she mopped, cutting off the perimeter in every direction. It got to be that the mop wasn’t removing liquid but adding to it. It needed to be rinsed and wrung. She lifted the dripping-wet mop off the floor, and when she looked into the bucket, things went from bad to worse. The water wasn’t water but blood, and there appeared to be a mop head already inside, its many strings of red yarn floating.
Norrah shrieked, a harrowing blood-curdling scream. She dropped the mop, covered her face with both hands. She peeked through her fingers down at the bucket, screamed somehow louder, as the tangle of mop-yarn that was human hair slowly rolled over. Surfacing was a head, the bloody lifeless eyes of Brittney.
I had just closed my car door when she shrieked. I dashed to the house and flung the door open. Norrah was standing beside the mop bucket, staring down into it, screaming bloody murder.
“Norrah,” I said and rushed to her, took her by the shoulders. She didn’t resist being t
aken in my arms. She sobbed, wept. Her eyes wetted my shirt. “Did you see them again?”
I rested my cheek on the crown of her head, breathed her fragrant hair. She shook her head, which shook mine with it. “Do you want to talk about it?”
She hesitated before nodding once. She backed out of my arms, squinted as she looked down inside the bucket, then the kitchen floor, and lastly the island counter.
“What are you looking for?”
“It’s gone,” she said.
“What’s gone?”
“The blood.”
“Blood up here? Is that why the mop is out?”
She nodded, wiped her eyes, one final sob.
“That settles it,” I said resolutely. “We’re going to the doctor’s. Tomorrow. I’m taking the day off work to take you.”
“I have work, too.”
“Call in sick. Take vacation or something. Quit the damned thing.”
She pressed the moisture out of her eyes with her palm. “Yes, I’m going to quit my job tomorrow.”
“Good. Excellent.”
“I’m going to sell my interview for three-hundred thousand. Tomorrow.”
“Again, excellent. You deserve it, Norrah.”
“I’m giving Aaron ten percent of it for his church.”
“If that’s what your heart is telling you, do it.”
“And I’d like to help Brittney in some way. I haven’t decided how yet.”
“How does such a big heart fit in so little a package?” I hugged her, firmer this time.
“I just decided I don’t want Paul here ever again. I can’t express why, I just don’t want him here.”
“You got it. Shouldn’t be an issue, he doesn’t seem eager to return.”
We stood embraced for a moment before she said, “Tell me I’m not crazy, Jay. Tell me I’m not crazy and mean it.”
“I do mean it. You’re not crazy. Just stressed. Maybe some Xanax would do you good. Tomorrow we’ll bring it up to your doctor. You need sedation, something to calm your nerves.”
“You make me feel better, always,” she said, voice muffled against my chest. “What would I do without you in my life right now?” She backed away from my chest and met eyes with me. “I love you, Jay.”
“Don’t say that. Don’t say it because you don’t mean it. Someday you will, and someday I will, but you’re saying that because you’re emotional right now. It’s not fair to either one of us.”
“You’re right,” she said in her tiniest voice. “I’m sorry.” Her face was flushed.
“Don’t be.”
“I shouldn’t have said it.” She took the baggie of steaks and got a fork out of the drawer.
“I’m flattered. Let’s not make this a total loss. You went from the bottom relationship step all the way to the top rung in one giant bound. Let’s take another step, a smaller one, together. Let’s define what we have. Sound good?”
She nodded, eager for me to continue.
“Good. Would you be my girlfriend? Enter a committed relationship with me?”
“I’d be happy to.”
Being so willing and happy to commit to me, her smile genuine and adoring, it touched me. “I’ll bring a toothbrush over next time,” I said, “put it next to yours in the bathroom.” Her smile widened, parting her lips. “We can exchange house keys and all that. Sound good?”
“Are you just doing this to make me feel better? So I’ll feel less embarrassed about what I said?”
“The hell I am. I’m glad you said it, because now we’ve made some progress in our relationship. Norrah Petersen is Jay Davis’s girlfriend. ‘Hey buddy, have you seen my girlfriend Norrah around?’ ‘The one with exquisite tits and perky ass? Yeah, your girlfriend is right over there.’ ‘Hey who’s that guy holding hands with Norrah?’ ‘That’s her boyfriend Jay.’”
“You’re weird,” she said and giggled.
I kissed her lips, ran a hand down her hip.
“Hey, guys,” Aaron said from the open doorway.
“Aaron, my man,” I said and turned to face him.
“I see love is in the air.”
“It is, it is,” I said, and shook his hand.
Norrah didn’t speak of the severed head in the bucket that evening. She remained upbeat from the moment we defined our relationship. If she saw bodies blinking in and out of sight when we made our way out back to the barbecue, she said nothing of it. I suspect she didn’t see them because she was too pleasant for someone who was witnessing images of gory murders. I had my Norrah back, and when she’s herself she’s the liveliest creature you’ll ever meet. It’s infectious, a personality like hers. Lots of laughter and smiles, jokes and witticisms and banter. It’s hard not to have a good time when she’s on her game. From the moment Aaron arrived, that’s the Norrah who was hosting us. I don’t recall when it was, but sometime during the visit Aaron casually mentioned that Norrah is a sheer delight. Sounds kind of fuddy-duddy, sheer delight, but he hit the nail on the head there. ‘Who’s that wonderful girl over there?’ ‘Who, her? She’s my girlfriend.’ ‘No kidding? Lucky dog, your girlfriend is a sheer delight.’
