by Wade Lake
"Yeah."
"Hand it to me."
Without asking why, Chase reaches into the pocket of his overalls and hands it over.
Mack unlocks it, taps the backup drive icon, reenters the passcode, scrolls to the folder with the picture of Chase and The Smiling Girl standing on the sidewalk right outside this house. He pulls up the image. Hands the phone back to Chase. "Let's talk about this."
"The hell, Mack?" He stares at the picture for a couple seconds as if trying to remember when it was taken. He looks up. "You been snooping my phone? How the hell did you even find this? I didn't even know this picture was in here. I didn't even have this phone when I took this."
"It's on your cloud archive. You should learn to delete shit you don't want me to find."
"I don't care that you found it," He says. He sounds calm. Maybe he's just trying to sound calm. "I'm … actually glad you found it. I'd forgotten about this picture."
"Stop it, Chase."
"Stop what?"
"The lies. The endless lies."
Chase screws up his face as if he doesn't understand the accusation.
"Just be honest with me," Mack says. "Who is she?"
"Angela. I called her Angel. We went out a few times."
Mack frowns. "I think you went out more than a few times."
"A few months," Chase agrees.
"She still live around here?" Mack asks. "You still fucking her?"
"No!" Chase says. He looks offended. "Fuck no."
"I think she still lives in the neighborhood. I think that’s where you disappear to."
Chase shakes his head. "No. She doesn't live in the neighborhood.” In a softer tone, he adds, "Not anymore.” His eyes go back to the photo. The look on his face is softer now, too.
“But she used to, right?” Mack asks, still digging.
“She used to.” Chase nods. “She used to live … close."
Mack has to ask. "Where?"
Chase looks up from his phone. "Here."
"In this house?" Mack's voice catches in his throat. "Our house?"
"Yeah," Chase says with a shrug. He closes the photo and drops his phone back into the front pocket of his overalls.
Mack’s stare is frozen. After a second, he manages to squeak out, “When? Why—”
“Years ago. It was even more of a dump back then, but cheap rent."
"How dare you," Mack says, but his voice is failing him. His words come out as whispers: "You're the one who found the listing for this house—you pointed it out to me. You said it might be what I was looking for."
"True,” Chase concedes. “But that was just a text listing with no picture. What happened once I saw the address? Once I saw the street? As soon as the agent pulled up to the curb? Remember? I didn't want to get out of the car. I said, 'Let's keep looking.' I sure as hell didn't want to buy it. I tried to talk you out of it."
"But you let me buy it," Mack says. "You should have told me! You should have told me you fucking dated a girl who used to live here."
Chase rolls his eyes. "Why does it matter? I don't ask you the address of every person you ever slept with."
It's all starting to make sense to Mack now. "She broke your heart, didn't she?"
Chase doesn't answer. Instead, he glances out the window as if longing to be somewhere else, anywhere else. He forces a grin, but it looks clumsy and out of place.
"Answer me."
"Yes," Chase says, eyes squinting as if attempting to hold back tears. He stares through the window as if staring into the past. "She broke my heart,” he agrees. He turns his head to face Mack. "Is that what you wanted to know? You satisfied now?” His voice trembles. He doesn’t sound like a grown man talking about a relationship he can barely remember. Sounds more like a teenager talking about someone he broke up with just last week. "She absolutely broke my heart … yes, she did." He draws a long breath. It’s clear that he really doesn't want to say more, but he does: "She cheated on me."
Mack looks away for a second. He doesn't know whether to punch Chase or hug him. Honestly, he wants to do both. He settles for some flat words: "No wonder you hate this house."
Chase shakes his head. He tries to recover with a smile, but it slips away quickly. His features tighten. "That's not why I hate this house."
Mack raises his shoulders. "Why, then?"
"Because she died here."
"Fuck!" Mack steps backward involuntarily—bumps the refrigerator, causing it to slide into the wall and rattle. "You're joking. Fuck, you're not joking. Fuck. How?"
"I don't know details. It was a really bad neighborhood back then. There was a break-in. The intruder killed her. That's all I know—what I read in the newspaper. She and I had already broken it off months before it happened. She was no longer talking to me. We hadn't spoken in like three months."
"Is that why we haven't made love since we moved in?"
"Yes."
22
Chase carries his tools outside and begins washing his paintbrushes and rollers with the garden hose.
Mack watches him through the kitchen window. Chase's body language looks … close to normal. His wide stance and slow, purposeful movements are intended to make him appear relaxed, steady, unmoved, unconcerned. But Mack can read him like a book. He's none of those things. And he shouldn't be.
It feels like watching a stranger—someone you see every day but never speak to; or someone you speak to every day, but you don't know their name, and don't care to; or someone you live with, and sleep with, and used to fuck, but you haven't fucked in a long time now, and you no longer believe a word he says.
Chase's death grip on the hose means he's angry as hell. He glances up at the window to confirm that Mack is watching. Smiles.
Yeah, he's definitely simmering inside.
Mack is simmering as well.
Why the hell are we going through with this dinner party? Mack wonders. And why the hell did I buy a whole chicken? It's going to take forever to cook. The oven will be on for at least a couple hours, and the house is already hot and swampy. The oven isn't even on yet, and he's already sweating.
He preps the salad: Tears apart a head of lettuce. Adds a handful of cherry tomatoes. That's good enough.
He preps the chicken—salt, pepper, good enough—throws it in a glass dish and turns on the oven to preheat.
He should move the box fan to the kitchen window to pull out some of the heat; once the oven gets going, it'll be unbearable in here without it.
Although, if the house is too hot, maybe the neighbors won't linger too long after dinner.
Good idea, Mack thinks to himself, but he’ll have to file that one away for future reference. He’s already about to spontaneously combust, so anything he can do to get the air moving is for his own self-preservation.
He walks to the bedroom to fetch the box fan.
The air in here smells rubbery, noxious, and sweet.
Mint Fire.
Ugly as fuck.
It literally hurts his eyes.
Bare sheetrock would be more attractive. Mack would prefer that: a room with no color, no history, no ghosts.
The footprints take on new meaning now—the footprints in Mack’s dream, the ones showing through the polyurethane on the floorboards. They’re not an illusion. They’re real. They’re here. Spread out in a dance across the wide-plank heart-of-pine floorboards in front of him. Obvious to anyone who’s not willingly blind.
Mack suspects The Smiling Girl is here, too. Her big curves, big hair, big earrings. He imagines her moving about the room, day and night, footprint-to-footprint, balancing herself between each step, as if crossing a stream on raised stones.
He can’t help but assume this is where she died. The horror of it puts a lump in his throat. He imagines she's staring at him right now. Judging him, no doubt. Probably wondering why he's still here. Good question.
The box fan is in the bedroom window behind the headboard. It's running on high, attempting to suck
out the paint fumes. It's not doing a very good job.
Mack kicks off his shoes and steps up onto the bed. It's the only way to get to the window properly. His footsteps sink into the foam mattress. He reaches over and behind the headboard and yanks the plug from its socket. He uses one hand to lift the window sash, the other to pull the fan forward. As the fan falls towards him, the window slips from his grip. He catches the fan, but the window slides down its jamb rails—bangs to a stop against the wooden sill. The thin glass rattles hard but doesn't break. Mack shakes his head and carries the fan back to the kitchen.
He hoists the fan up, over the sink, and quickly wedges it into the kitchen window. He turns it on High and stares through the spinning blades. Chase is still outside, still cleaning his paintbrushes. He's taking his sweet time. The whirling blur makes his movements look jerky, like a stop-motion movie. He's crouched over a bucket, and the back of his shirt is soaked with sweat. It's nice to watch him sweat.
Grabbing a glass from the cabinet, Mack turns on the water and leans on the sink. As the glass fills, he speaks to the crooked faucet: "So … you used to sleep with my husband, huh?"
No response.
He sees his reflection pinched and mirrored on the faucet's chrome neck and notices that he's still wearing his work outfit. There's probably sewage under his fingernails. Did he even wash his hands before he handled the chicken? He can't remember. All he can think about is that somebody died in this house. His house. Violently.
He pushes himself away from the sink. He should start getting himself ready for the evening. By the time he's showered and dressed—and scrubbed his nails—it will be time to throw the chicken in the oven.
He heads for the bathroom. Of course, that means passing through the bedroom once again. And he hates the bedroom now. As he steps through, he tries to ignore the footprints on the floor, but a heaviness fills his heart. He can’t shake the thought that this room is a room of horrors. This is the room where someone was murdered. Someone with a name. Her name was Angela. Chase called her 'Angel.' Mack has no real way of knowing that this is where it happened ... but this is where it happened. He's certain of it. He hurries through to the bathroom. Undresses quickly and steps into the tub-shower combo.
Water pummels the back of his head. He closes his eyes. His chin touches his chest. After a short moment, without turning to face the spray, without opening his eyes, he whispers, "I'm sorry whatever happened to you … happened."
No response.
He’s okay with that.
He’s okay with a moment of privacy.
Mack could hold this pose for the rest of his life. Hot water massaging the back of his neck, spilling down his shoulders, down his back.
He imagines a never-ending tongue moving between his buttocks, forking, continuing down the backs of his thighs. This is his favorite fantasy. He imagines hundreds of never-ending tongues. He widens his stance to give them access to his scrotum. He bends forward a little and begins massaging his cock, gripping the base and pulling away. It's already hard. Really hard. Probably has been since he stepped into the shower. Seems like it's been hard all month. And harder every day. He grips it with both hands now, but doesn't tug. Just holds it … admiring the circumference. Slowly now, he tightens his grip, and the pulse moves up the length of his shaft, through his palms, into his hands and wrists. Just a couple pulls, and he could fill the tub ankle-deep with semen. But then he would go soft again. And he doesn't want that. Doesn't want to go soft ever again. He likes being hard. Hard and hollow and built of steel.
In his heart, he knows he's just procrastinating. Avoiding the evening he doesn't want to happen. In his head, he keeps opening to the ending and skipping backward. Putting off the last page as long as he possibly can. He loses track of time. A minute passes. Maybe an hour.
Mack isn't sure what, but something prompts him to open his eyes: Somehow, he's now facing the showerhead. He glances down. Coming up through the tub's drain: A finger … now a whole hand … now an arm—
The shower curtain pulls open. It's Chase. "You want me to put the chicken in? Neighbors'll be here in half an hour."
“What?”
“Half an hour,” Chase repeats. “And I still need to grab a shower before they get here. Hurry up, babe.”
Mack glances back down at the drain.
The hand is no longer there.
The water coming from the shower is cold.
Colder than it's ever been.
Mack touches his cock without looking at it. Good. At least he's still hard.
23
Towel draped around his waist, barefooted, leaving footprints on the floor behind him, Mack hurries to the kitchen. It's twice as hot in here as the rest of the house! A light on the stove tells him the oven is preheated. The clock tells him it's been preheated for two hours! How did he lose so much time? Fuck! The chicken is sitting in a glass dish in the refrigerator. He sets the dish on the counter beside the sink, jerks open the oven door, throws in the chicken. Finds a small pot. Returns to the fridge for milk and butter. Begins prepping the instant potatoes. Grabs a small pan for the beans. Where's the can opener? "Chase!" he shouts loud enough for Chase to hear him in the dining room. Chase is in there playing, wasting time setting up his speakers and record player when he should be taking his shower and getting dressed. "Where's the can opener?!" Mack shouts. A second later, he finds it in the utensil drawer. It's not supposed to be in the utensil drawer. It's supposed to be with the whisks and the spatulas. "Found it! Never mind!"
"I can't hear you!"
"Never mind!" He attaches the can opener to the bean can; grips the handle as if trying to squeeze it in half; turns the hand crank clockwise. Twist, twist, twist—the metal lid pops up, still attached at one end. He dumps the beans into the pan. Shakes the can to get them all out. The lid falls into the pan. He reaches into the beans to grab it out—
The sharp edge slits the end of his index finger.
"Shit!"
He's bleeding on the beans now.
He carries the pan to the sink. Dumps the bloody beans into the sink. Turns on the crooked faucet and uses both hands to sweep the beans down the garbage disposal.
"Mmmmm," The drain says.
Mack ignores it.
He searches the cabinets for a clean pan. Opens a can of green beans. Dumps them into the new pan. Sets it on the stove to begin warming. Shakes some salt on top. Good 'nough.
He suddenly realizes he's wearing nothing but a towel. He still needs to dry off properly and find something appropriate to wear.
An unfortunate fact hits him: It's a whole chicken. It's going to take ninety minutes to cook.
Neighbors will be here in twenty.
And an even more unfortunate fact: Now I'm going to have to sit and talk with them for an hour while we wait on dinner. Shit!
He should set the table before he gets dressed.
Clean plates are in the dishwasher.
Do they even have enough matching glasses?
He finds three matching wineglasses and carries them to the dining room table. Mack will be fine drinking wine from a coffee mug. He doesn't need to match. Doesn't want to match.
Where are the nice napkins? He knows they have some. They've never been used, but he knows they have some. They were a wedding gift. Did they give them away before the move? Mack and Chase always just use paper towels. They can't do that tonight. Proper gays don't use paper towels. He begins digging through the lower drawers.
When he gets to the bottom drawer, he yanks it all the way open—an immediate sense of déjà vu stops him in his tracks: the wind chime has found its way back into the drawer. Chase must have seen it on the couch and stuffed it back in there this morning.
Slowly, now, carefully, as if lifting a baby from its crib, Mack lifts the wind chime out of the drawer.
Gently sets it on the counter.
He glances over his shoulder toward the dining room. In a voice that seems to rise from the h
ollow in his stomach, he whispers, "Fuck you, Chase."
He cinches the towel tighter round his tight waist and walks out to his truck to retrieve his toolbox.
24
The dining room floorboards look like wide planks of silky chocolate.
The dining room walls are the color and texture of fine writing parchment. The formal oak dining table—round, a hundred years old and swirling with knots—is polished so well, the surface looks liquid. Mack grips the cascading damask-weave curtains and, tugging opposite directions, pulls them wide open. A velvety band of fading sunlight spills across his eyes. Feels like a warm mask.
Squinting, he raises the window sash. Fits the box fan into the opening. Plugs the cord into the old-fashioned outlet in the floor. The fan begins pulling in cooler air from the living room where the A/C unit is running on high. The aroma of baked chicken drifts in from the kitchen. From the bedroom, the pungent odor of wet paint. Smells from throughout the house begin to move a slow circle around the square dining room.
The table is set.
A sharply folded floral-print paper towel lies beneath each mismatched plate.
The spoons are on the wrong side.
Sunset passing through the whirling blades of the box fan bends and ripples and moves across the table like a creeping puddle of bright orange.
Fingerprints on the wineglasses appear to glow.
Directly above the table, rotating clockwise with the slow current created by the fan, a home-made wind chime hangs from a heavy-duty plant hook. The percussion tubes are crafted from metal pipes—copper, brass, bronze, aluminum, and galvanized steel—and held together by fishing line.
It looks like a trashy chandelier.
Chase is sitting on the couch in the living room. Legs wide apart. Sulking. He's wearing a linen two-button blazer. Light blue with a tight, white, dry-cleaned shirt. He bought the outfit just for this dinner. It looks good on him. Damn good. Would look better if he wasn't pouting. He hasn't said a word since he came out of the shower complaining about all the hot water being gone and caught Mack screwing a plant hook into the center of the dining room ceiling. Without asking, Chase knew exactly what Mack was doing. Maybe Chase really is an empath. A month ago, he would have told Mack, "Take it down," and Mack would have complied. Somehow, Chase knew that wouldn't work today. He didn’t even try. The wind chime was going up no matter what. Chase simply shook his head and retreated to the couch to wait for his friends.
