The Agony House

by Cherie Priest

  “I told you, I was born here.”

  “In St. Roch?”

  “No …” She hesitated. “We were out in St. Bernard, I think. I was real little. But my daddy died in this city.” She played her only ace, wondering if it’d matter. “The Storm took him, and my grandma too. That’s why we couldn’t come back any sooner.”

  “Should I feel sorry for you?” the long-legged girl with two chairs underneath her asked.

  “I didn’t say you should. I was just explaining.” Denise heard mumbling all around her, and behind her. She mumbled too. “I didn’t hardly know them, anyhow.” This was pointless. She swiveled her legs back over the seat, and returned to her food. “Forget it. Y’all don’t want me here, and I don’t want to be here—so there’s something we agree on. But look, I only got a little bit of time before my battery dies. Leave me alone, or keep giving me grief, I don’t care. I’ve got headphones.”

  They were only earbuds, turned gray from being bounced around in her messenger bag for a couple of years, but she pulled them out and plugged them in. She opened the laptop again and pretended to give the screen her full and undivided attention.

  Slowly, the curious onlookers who had started watching turned back to their tables.

  “Come on, Dominique,” the guy said, just loud enough for Denise to hear him around the earbuds. “You and Val don’t have to be like that.”

  “She can take it,” Dominique said. Then she turned and to another girl sitting at the table, she asked, “Why aren’t you eating?”

  “Fries are ninety-nine cents, and all I’ve got’s a dollar.”

  “What’s tax? Anybody got a dime? Something like that?” she asked the room. “Come on, get her a handful of pennies or something. Between us, we’ve got it.” All around the restaurant, hands fished in pockets, scaring up change. “Y’all need one of them jars, where you can take a penny and leave a penny,” she hollered at the front counter. The guy at the register shrugged.

  So Dominique wasn’t always awful to everybody, mostly just gentrifiers. Didn’t Terry say he had a friend with that name? Maybe this was her. Denise sighed down at her computer, and pulled up Google.

  It was much easier to search around on the computer’s big keyboard than on her phone’s tiny one. She found several links she’d missed the first time, two of which were about Joe’s reaction to the CCA. She’d seen mention of it on the Wikipedia page, but didn’t really understand what it was about. An article written by someone at the Comic Book Legal Defense Fund looked like a promising place to start. Besides, she needed to get used to reading things by lawyers—if she ever planned to become one.

  But the article was also really, really long. She might have skimmed, even though she very much wanted to hear what it had to say.

  She felt a little out of her depth, so she kept clicking around and picked up the gist.

  Apparently, the Comics Code Authority happened when the government wanted to start censoring comics for being too obscene. To avoid being squashed by federal regulation, the industry formed the CCA to regulate itself. People who wrote and drew comics agreed to submit them to the CCA, and the CCA would decide if they were clean enough to be published.

  Lots of people had lots of opinions about that. Lots of people thought it was really stupid and bad.

  For one thing, the new code meant that you couldn’t write stories about vampires or werewolves anymore—and for another, there were lots of regulations about how you could tell stories, and who could be in them. Denise got the very distinct impression from some of the code’s wording that stories about kick-ass girl detectives and boyfriends who needed rescuing would have been a no-go. Something about the whole “value of the home and sanctity of marriage” lines, along with all the bits about “honorable behavior” and respect for the order of society.

  Yeah, she could read between the lines.

  A bunch of comic book producers went out of business when the CCA went into effect. People left the industry, or were pushed out of it.

  Denise tried to understand why it’d ever happened in the first place. Supposedly, librarians and teachers and cops were burning comics and banning them, because of all the filthy and gruesome content, so that must’ve been part of it. Maybe the CCA was trying to save the industry from itself, but it sure sounded to Denise like the comics code did more harm than good.

  After an hour, her screen started to flicker. She was never going to make it to ninety minutes, not today. The laptop beast was cranky, so she texted Mike for a rescue.

  Could you come get me? Laptop is dying.

  She packed everything back up, finished her beignets, and refilled her soda. By then, the girls who’d bothered her had left. The guy who had halfway tried to stay out of the fray studiously avoided eye contact.

  And Mike was pulling into the parking lot.

  He was singing along to some weird bro-country song on the radio—she could tell before she was even close enough to hear it. His head was back, and his eyes were closed, and it was like he couldn’t care less that anybody could see him.

  Denise grabbed the door handle and let herself inside to a wave of crooning about barefoot girls and pickup trucks. “Jeez, Mike. You know these windows aren’t tinted, right?”

  “Yes, madam, I do,” he said with all due solemnity. Then he turned down the radio before she had a chance to demand it, or do it herself. “Not that it’s ever stopped me once. And how was your time with proper Internet?”

  She shrugged. “It was cool.”

  “Make any new friends?” he asked, a note of optimism rounding out the question.

  “God, no. I only had time to make a couple of enemies.”

  He hesitated, not sure how serious she might be. “Are you being funny?”

  “Just calling it like I see it.”

  “All right, fine. Today you’re the strong, silent type. But when we get home, I have a surprise for you—and I damn well want to hear a squeal of joy.”

  “Temper your expectations,” she warned. “I’m not much of a joyful squealer.”

  “Not usually, I know. But give me a chance.”

  She gave him a curious side-eye. “Mike? What did you do?”

  “You’ll see!”

  Denise hoped she wouldn’t have to disappoint him. “Okay, I guess I will. So how about your foot? Is it getting better, or should you really go find a doc-in-a-box?”

  “Much better.” He wiggled it around on the gas pedal for emphasis, and the car surged forward.

  She rustled up a weak laugh. “Very nice. I’m glad you’re so improved that you feel comfortable risking our lives.”

  “Oh, there’s nobody out here—and we’re almost home. Hell, kid … you’re almost home when you’re sitting on the restaurant’s stoop. I was serious about that bicycle.”

  “You want me to ride a bike in this heat? Through this neighborhood?”

  “The heat, I’ll give you. But don’t crap on the neighborhood. Don’t be one of those white kids who’s weird about being around black kids.”

  “I’m not. I’m trying not to, and … that’s not what I meant. I’ve … I’ve got black friends in Houston. Kim’s black.” She knew it sounded dumb even before it left her mouth, but there it was. “But that’s not the problem, I don’t think. Well, I don’t know, maybe that’s part of it. The point is, I don’t have any new friends.”

  He glanced back at Crispy’s and continued, “Well, you’ve met Norman, and he seems like an all right guy. You’ve met that Terry kid too. That’s two friends you’ll have at Rudy Lombard, in a couple of months. It’s a start.”

  She sighed and nodded. “I think ‘friends’ is a little premature, but yeah. At least I’ll know somebody.” As Mike pulled into the two ruts that worked for a driveway at the Agony House, Denise changed the subject. “Hey, what’s Mom doing? Did she sort things out with the plumber?”

  “Yeah, but now she’s meeting with an electrician about the knob-and-tube wiring. There�
�s no sense in throwing up drywall and new fixtures if we’re only going to have to yank it all down again. Tomorrow the plumber’s coming by, and then we’ll know how expensive that’s going to be too.”

  “Mike?”

  “Yeah?

  It took her a few seconds to figure out the question she really meant to ask. Then she asked it, like she hoped and prayed he’d tell her the truth. “Mike, are we going to be okay?”

  He put the car in park, set the brake, and turned off the engine. “The loan is supposed to cover repairs because we’re contributing to the community and opening a new business; but I’m not going to lie to you—the money will barely get this house up to code, and that’s if we all pitch in for labor. Sally and me, we knew when we bought it that the house was … you know …”

  “A craphole?”

  “Fine, it’s a craphole. But the sheer scope of the crapholeyness is bigger than we thought, and it’s going to get expensive. Electrical and plumbing … I can repair that stuff in a pinch, but I can’t replace their entire systems. We have to suck it up and hire some professionals.”

  “So you’re saying …”

  “I’m saying, the next few weeks are going to be noisy and they’re going to be tight, but we’ll make it.” It was already getting warm in the car without the engine and AC running, so Mike opened his door and stepped out onto the gravel driveway. “Don’t be surprised if you find some random dudes hanging around when you get home.”

  She followed his lead, and shut the car door behind herself. “In my room?”

  “In every room. But we’ll give you a heads-up so you can hide the bodies, or whatever, before work gets started in your space.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate it. So … where’s this joyful squeal-worthy surprise I’ve been promised?”

  “Inside!” He led the way, meeting Sally at the door. She gave him a kiss, and he asked, “Where’s the electrician?”

  “He’ll be back on Thursday, with people and equipment.”

  “And the estimate was … ?”

  She lowered her voice, like Denise couldn’t hear her anyway. “Don’t worry, we can swing it.” Then, louder, she said, “Get inside, young lady. Mike picked up a surprise for you.”

  “Should I be afraid?” she asked, stepping past her mother and into the foyer. “I don’t see anything … ?”

  “Upstairs,” Mike told her. “Go check out Fort Denise.”

  It probably wasn’t a trick, but it probably wasn’t the grand event that Sally and Mike implied. Or so Denise assumed … until she reached her bedroom and heard the steady hum of something that wasn’t the rickety ceiling fan. She put her hand through the doorway, and a trickle of ice-cold air weaved between her fingers.

  “Shut. Up.” In the window that opened the easiest—maybe the only window that opened at all—an AC unit was mounted and running, chugging away and leaving a faint fog of chill around its vents. “Y’all got me a window unit?”

  Behind her, Sally and Mike reached the top of the stairs. “It’s all yours, baby! It’s secondhand—pulled out of a house that was getting central heat and air installed, but it still works fine and it didn’t hardly cost a thing. Mike saw it beside the road and gave a guy ten bucks for it.”

  “Aw, don’t tell her that.”

  “I don’t care where you found it, or what it cost. I seriously don’t.” Into the room Denise strolled, hands out, eyes closed, doing a little twirlie in the empty space that was now as frosty as a fridge. “This … is the greatest of gifts,” she said dreamily. “I might sleep tonight. I might not wake up with my hair melted to the pillow.”

  Sally joined her in the room, flexing her elbows and airing out the damp patches under her arms. “Now I want to be clear,” she warned. “This thing costs a lot of money to run, so I don’t want to find it cranked up to eleven, day in and day out. This is for evenings—”

  Mike jumped in. “And for daytime breaks, when us manual laborers need some decent climate control.”

  She quit twirling happily, and flashed him an honest smile. “Thanks, Pops. This was a real score.”

  Mike cheesed back, from ear to ear.

  Supper was all right too. Sally had gone grocery shopping after all, and she’d been cooking a big home-style tray of frozen manicotti upstairs in Wasp Central because the oven still didn’t work worth a damn—or that’s how she put it. At Denise’s invitation, everyone took their plates upstairs, and sat on the floor of her room with a chilled two-liter of Coke to pass around, campfire-style. Especially if the food was hot, it helped if the room was cool.

  Sally took a swig of soda, and wiped the mouth off with her sleeve. “I bet dorm life will look something like this,” she advised. “I hope you get lucky, and get good roommates.”

  “Trish will be a great roommate.”

  Her mom ignored that declaration. “Those college applications, honey—you need to fill them out and send them off, sooner rather than later, so I hope you’re doing some research now.” Her mom had paid her way through two years of college before running out of money. There had never been any scholarships or grants. Just loans that piled up until she cried uncle and dropped out.

  “I’ll figure it out later.” Denise sighed, and accepted the Coke when it came her way. “Let me deal with one problem at a time, please.”

  Mike asked, “Have you given any thought to anyplace other than Houston?” Then he scooped a forkful of ricotta into his mouth.

  She knew what they wanted to hear. They wanted her to pick Tulane, even though a school like that would be on the lower end of the offers she might (emphasis on might) get—part of her tuition, and none of the living expenses. The university was right there in the city, though. Close enough to home that she wouldn’t even need to live in the dorm. She could live here, where renovations would be ongoing forever, and ever, and ever. She could spend the next five years studying to the sound of power tools and the smell of dead stuff in the attic.

  Or, she could go back to Texas and become a Cougar on a full ride (hopefully), and share a room with Trish and maybe even Kim.

  “I’m still thinking about it,” she said diplomatically. “Just give me some breathing room. Let’s get this house livable, and then I’ll worry about whether or not I want to live somewhere else. First things first. Right?”

  Sally nodded reluctantly. “First things first.”

  “You trust me?”

  “It’s the world I don’t trust. Or luck, or fate, or what have you.” For a moment, Sally looked like she’d love to have something stronger than a Coke in hand. “We’ve been close to good before, haven’t we? But things fall apart, last minute. Things go to hell.”

  “Mike, you gonna let her talk about you like that?”

  He shrugged, undaunted and unteased. “She’s only saying, she doesn’t want you to struggle.”

  “Not like I did. Not like we did, when you were little. You can do better, that’s all.”

  When supper was finished, they carried all the plates and cutlery back downstairs, and Denise grabbed a tumbler full of ice to finish off the last of the soda. “I’m going back upstairs to the civilized part of the house, okay? I’ve got some messages to reply to.”

  No one argued, and before she took the stairs, Denise saw Sally pull a box of wine out from the fridge. Good for her, she thought. Have at, you crazy kids. You’ve earned it.

  It wasn’t late—it wasn’t even dark—but she turned on the lamp and settled in with her headphones and her cell phone. The phone was blessedly full of text messages … even a couple from Annie, who she hadn’t been super-close with. She responded politely and briefly.

  After exchanging a few tired texts with Trish, she reached into her pocket and pulled out a pizza coupon that had a different phone number written on it. She thought about using it.

  But she was getting sleepy, and she chickened out.

  The next day, Denise spent half the morning poking around links related to Joe Vaughn when she should�
�ve been working on the hallway wallpaper with the scraper. She hadn’t read any further on the comic book, but she couldn’t shake the thought of Joe Vaughn, dead comic writer, lying on the floor just outside her bedroom—so she spent some time combing that all-too-brief web listing for clues that might suggest that somehow, he’d lived or died someplace else.

  After all, there were too many loose ends to call it a done deal. For one thing, all she knew about the house where Joe died … was that it didn’t belong to him. That’s all the Internet had told her so far. It was in New Orleans, and it wasn’t his.

  If the Agony House was really his, then he couldn’t have died here. That said, if he never lived here, why was his old manuscript stashed in the attic? This house could’ve belonged to anybody—a fan, a friend … She considered the perfume and the humming.

  “A lady friend?” she mused.

  At any rate, there were holes in her horrified suspicions, and she clung to them. She had more questions than she had answers, and maybe she wouldn’t like the answers when she got them—but she had to keep looking.

  She settled on the All Hands Literary Agency as a possible source of info. She googled the company eight ways from Sunday, along with the name “Marty Robbins,” and mostly turned up unrelated garbage. Here and there, she caught his name or the agency’s name in reference to an old trade paperback deal. But she found nothing any newer than the mid-1990s.

  Then she idly clicked back four or five pages in the search results, and a related name turned up: Eugenie Robbins, a partner at a firm called the Kessler and Robbins Literary Agency.

  It couldn’t be a coincidence. Could it?

  Another few clicks revealed that Eugenie Robbins was accepting new clients, and was particularly interested in science fiction, fantasy, and romance. She accepted queries by email. She expected to see the first three chapters and a synopsis of any book you wanted to show her.

  She probably didn’t expect a message from someone like Denise Farber, but that didn’t stop Denise from pounding out a quick letter with her thumbs.