House of Skin

by Jonathan Janz

  And now, standing here in front of her accusing stare and open mouth, he couldn’t remember why he’d thought it would be a good idea to touch her tits.

  “I guess it was the song,” was the only thing he could think to say.

  “The song?”

  “Yeah. The song. I heard it when I was in the bathroom. It was very pretty.”

  What the hell was he saying?

  If he left now he’d still have plenty of time at the bars. Linda didn’t expect him home until midnight. He’d told her Carver’s nephew would want to talk about the estate, that he’d have to humor the guy and not seem rude. Share a couple beers with the lucky bastard to celebrate his inheritance.

  “You thought my playing was pretty?” she asked.

  Was she buying it?

  “Sure. That’s why I touched you.”

  And miracle of miracles, she was moved by his line of bullshit. She was actually tilting her head and allowing him to move in to give her a conciliatory hug.

  “I usually don’t play for people,” she explained into his shoulder.

  “I’m glad you played for me.”

  “Me too,” she said, nodding over at a pewter stein on the bookshelf. “Your tea’s over there.”

  Ted thanked her, but he had no intention of letting go of her, of drinking out of that heavy stein. What the hell was she, a Viking?

  Her firm breasts pushed against him. Ted slowly rubbed her back. If he was going to do this, now was the time. He pulled away, leaned in and kissed her. At first she was wooden, unsure of what to do. Soon, though, she was moving her tongue with his and from her trembling he guessed it had been awhile since she’d kissed a man. A shame, he thought. A pretty girl like this, probably in her late twenties. How had she managed to remain single?

  Now he was letting his hands roam over her body, under the rim of her shirt where he felt how curvy and muscular her back was. Over her hard round ass. He pushed his crotch into hers and she was just the right height for him, probably about five-ten or eleven. Her hands were probing also. They felt his neck and ran along his jaw and onto his shoulders, which was good because they were broad and women always liked them. Their kissing grew feverish and wet and now her hands were on his sides over his sports coat pockets and he felt her pause, tensing, and he realized his mistake and by the time he moved to push her hand away she’d already broken from him and retreated.

  “Julia…”

  “What’s in your coat pocket?”

  “It’s just a ring my father gave me.”

  “Then why is it in your pocket?”

  “I don’t know.” He fought the blush that burned at his throat. He knew it would condemn him, but it was already climbing up his neck. “I get tired of wearing it, I guess.”

  “Show it to me,” she said and held out her hand. There was a sharp edge to her voice he didn’t like.

  “Why should I produce it like it’s a piece of fucking evidence?”

  “Why should you worry about showing me the ring if it isn’t a wedding band?” Hand out, she took a step toward him.

  “Because it’s none of your business,” he replied. Where did she get off interrogating him?

  She closed her eyes. “Goodbye, Ted.”

  “Huh?”

  She turned to the piano. “You heard me.”

  “Yeah, I heard you,” he said, approaching. “Bitch.”

  “What did you say to me?”

  “You heard me,” he said, drawing closer. A hateful grin twisted his lips.

  Her eyes glittered with latent tears. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Not a thing, honey. The problem’s on your side.” He bit his lower lip, caressed her shoulders with his fingertips. “Built like you are and a fucking prig. Goddamned tragic.”

  She took a backward step. “I’m a prig because I won’t sleep with a man I just met?”

  He snickered darkly, enjoying himself now. “No, you’re a prig because you invited me here under false pretenses. That makes you a cocktease too.”

  He saw her eyes filling with tears, her mouth working.

  He stepped closer, forcing her back near the bookcase. “Fucking waste of time,” he said, driving it in further. “You’re a shitty piano player, too, but hey, at least you’re hot.”

  “Get away from me,” she said in a low voice.

  He clamped her shoulders, drew her roughly toward him, the bitch. Show her who’s boss. “C’mon, sweetie, let’s be friends.”

  He didn’t see the slap coming. It caught him hard, fuck, right on the ear.

  He belted her with the back of his hand, sent her staggering into the bookcase. An empty candleholder tipped and plummeted to the floor. Her hands were on a shelf about waist high, and at first he thought she was steadying herself, that he’d dizzied her when he gave her that smack.

  Then he saw her reach for the stein of iced tea. She lifted it and for a crazy moment he thought she was going to make a toast, but it continued to rise, a foot above her shoulder now. He noticed there was a face on it, William Shakespeare. Big surprise, he thought.

  He asked, “What are you doing with that?”

  She took a step forward, and he realized she was taller than he’d thought. He was about to comment on this when her hand swept toward him and slammed the bottom of the stein against his face.

  Chapter Two

  10:06, the dashboard clock read.

  Ahead, Paul spotted his exit. He wasn’t sure if it was a good idea to take a state road instead of the interstate, but he craved something to break the monotony of the trip. He’d listened to ROCKIN’ SEVENTIES three times, and by contrast the silence was pleasing. He took the exit ramp and turned onto the state road. The smooth highway appeared deserted, a welcome departure from the constant roar of the interstate. Twisting off the bottle cap, he swigged the rest of the Mountain Dew and tossed it onto the passenger’s side floor with the empty coffee cup.

  As he picked up speed, he noted the thickness of the foliage around him. It reminded him of the pictures his uncle’s executors had sent him of Watermere, his new home.

  Paul drew in a deep breath. It was incredible. The things he’d always wanted—becoming a writer, the chance to get some peace and quiet, a place to spread out instead of being cramped inside a shabby apartment—were only hours away.

  He yawned and wondered how despite the surfeit of coffee and Mountain Dew rushing through his system, he still found himself growing groggy.

  He remembered the caffeine pills. He fished the bottle out of the bag and wrestled with the cap. Managing to stay on the road while he shook out a pair of yellow pills, he popped them into his mouth and waited for them to head off his lethargy.

  For a moment Paul had the weird sensation that his leg was falling asleep. He tapped his thigh to rid himself of the uncomfortable needling and realized it was his cell phone, which he’d left on vibrate. With a rueful grin, he leaned back and lifted his hips so he could extract the phone from his pocket, and as he did, one leg bumped the wheel. The Civic veered over the center lane. Dropping the phone with a gasp, he flailed for the wheel and actually pushed the car farther into the other lane before jerking it too hard to the right.

  “Shit,” he muttered as he fought the fishtailing back end. He turned into the skid, but that meant staying in the middle of the damn road rather than returning to his own lane. There were no headlights racing toward him, but he was approaching a hill, and if a car suddenly appeared from the other side he wouldn’t have to worry about moving into his new house, he’d become a roadside cross instead.

  The Civic overcorrected again, thrusting him so far into the left lane that his tires swished over the soft grass shoulder.

  “Come on,” he growled through clenched teeth.

  A dim glow spilled over the trees flanking the road. A car was coming.

  For one delirious moment the wheels on his side of the Civic descended the grassy shoulder. Then, without allowing himself to think about the vehi
cle barreling toward the hill, Paul hit the gas and arrowed toward the double-yellow center of the road. The Civic hopped agilely off the shoulder and rocketed toward the yellow lines, while from the impending rise Paul watched the glow increase with exponential rapidity.

  The right front bumper of the Civic crossed yellow, the driver’s side momentarily fixed in the lights that splashed over the hill and drowned him in a freezing white sea of panic. A horn blasted deafeningly but Paul hadn’t the energy to jerk the wheel. His car continued an almost leisurely diagonal into the right lane, and just when he had closed his eyes, certain the other vehicle—a dark-colored SUV, he noted distantly—would smash him broadside, he heard the screech of swinging tires and felt a stunning whoosh of air sweep the Civic as the vehicles passed within inches of a terrible crash. In his own lane now, he risked a glance in the rearview mirror and saw how well the other driver had managed it, the SUV hardly shimmying as it resumed a normal path, its receding horn now hammering out a staccato goodbye.

  At least, Paul hoped it was a goodbye. He could only imagine how livid the other driver was, how irate he himself would have been had the situation been reversed, the sort of anger only possible when one has been dealt a mortal scare.

  The cell phone vibrated on the floorboard between his shoes. He’d apparently dropped the damn thing during his near-death experience.

  Paul knew who it would be even before he raised the phone to eye level—no losing sight of the road again, not after what had just happened—and saw the name on the phone’s illuminated exterior window.

  Emily.

  He could ignore it again, but she’d keep calling. Even if he shut the damn thing off she’d find a way to get through. Telepathically, perhaps. With a palsied hand, he opened the cell, put it to his ear. “Hey.”

  “Took you long enough.”

  Christ.

  “I was trying not to have an accident.”

  A pause. “You’re on the road?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So you’re going through with it,” she said.

  “We’re not doing this again.”

  “It’s that easy for you?”

  “I never said it was easy. You’re just saying that to make me feel guilty.”

  “You’re right, Paul. You’re only throwing away three years of time together. Three years of memories and emotional deposits. Why should you feel guilty?”

  He knew he shouldn’t argue with her, knew it would only rip the fresh scab off their relationship, but he couldn’t help himself. “I told you the move isn’t about us, it’s about me hating my life. Doesn’t that matter to you?”

  Her voice grew plaintive. “Won’t you miss Memphis?”

  “I’ll miss certain things, sure. I’ll miss seeing you, some of the guys. I always loved Barbecue Fest.”

  “I’d say you loved it a little too much.”

  Paul restrained an urge to chuck the phone out the window. They’d had half a dozen good experiences at Barbecue Fest, yet all she remembered was the time he’d drunk too much beer and ended up sleeping it off at a friend’s while Emily called every official agency in Shelby County convinced Paul had been killed or abducted. He thought she’d let it go after a while, but here they were two years later still talking about it.

  “Nothing to say?”

  He blew out weary breath. “I’m just ready for a change.”

  “Running away isn’t really a change for you,” she said. When he opened his mouth to respond, she added, “So tell me more about Waterworld.”

  Paul’s jaw clenched. “Watermere,” he said. “The house’s name is Watermere.”

  “Explain to me why it’s called that when it’s not on the water.”

  He opened his mouth to tell her, for the third time, about the creek running through the grounds, that there was indeed water near the house if not exactly beside it, but he decided not to take the bait. She knew the answer, she was just finding another way to mock the place without even seeing it.

  “You’re awfully quiet,” she said.

  “That’s because there’s no point in arguing,” he said, glancing in the rearview mirror to make sure the SUV hadn’t turned around to exact revenge on him. “We’ve said all there is to say about my leaving.” Which is why, he wanted to add, I haven’t returned your calls the last couple days.

  “Everything except the real reason you’re running away.”

  “Please stop saying that.”

  “Or what?” she said, and for a moment he could almost see her on the other end, hand poised on cocked hip, mouth open in a defiant sneer. God, he was glad to be rid of her.

  He heard her sigh tremulously, the fight going out of her. When she spoke again, her voice was almost free of spite and derision. “I don’t understand you.”

  He waited.

  “Don’t you think what you’re doing is a bit weird? Your whole family agrees your uncle was a lunatic.”

  Keeping his eyes on the road, Paul opened his second bottle of Mountain Dew and took a long swig. Replacing the cap, he asked, “What would you do, refuse the inheritance? Say ‘Hell no, I don’t want money or a free house’?”

  “I didn’t say that. Keep the money—of course you should keep the money. But why not sell the house? You said it was falling apart.”

  “I said it needed work.”

  “How would you know, Paul? You’ve never even been there.”

  “I’ll be there in a few hours.”

  Her voice went small. “Do you enjoy hurting me?”

  “Emily,” he began, but then fell quiet. What could he say? That any life was better than the life he had? That his relationship with her had become an emotional undertow that only worsened his drinking problem. That the bank—Jesus, how amazing it felt to tell his father he was quitting—was a maelstrom of ringing phones and coughing workers, his apartment building a sarcophagus of noise. That nothing about city life felt good to him. That he wanted to be alone, without another soul in the world, where he could shout at the top of his lungs and not worry about being heard. Where Emily could no longer make him feel like a failure, even if he was.

  “Paul?”

  “I don’t enjoy hurting you,” he said, “but I’ve gotta go now.”

  Her voice went hard. “You’ll regret it.”

  “Maybe.”

  “You’ll be back by year’s end.”

  Don’t count on it.

  “We’ll see, Emily.”

  “But I won’t be waiting for you.”

  Paul held his tongue.

  She hung up on him.

  “That went well,” he said and shut off the cell. He glanced at the mirror again and saw the road behind was clear. The SUV hadn’t followed him.

  With luck, Emily wouldn’t either.

  Through the heavy stein Julia felt his cheekbone collapse and heard the sound of mashing cartilage. A gout of iced tea splattered over his face, his chest, her shoulder and arm. Even before her hand fell his body crumpled and twisted, his knees buckling. He landed in a sitting position before his head lolled back, his eyes showing white and his tongue resting on his bottom lip like a dog’s. His shoulder blades rushed the floor. The back of his skull bounced on the hard wood.

  She watched him closely. He didn’t move.

  A tide of horror washed over her. My God, she thought. I’m going to get the electric chair.

  He moaned, a faint, pleading sound.

  It startled her. His brow knitted and his hands circled like he was swimming. Then, he was still.

  Julia began to shake in huge, rolling tremors that undulated through her body like waterbed waves, and when she thought she’d lose consciousness, succumb to the nausea and the awful guilt for what she’d just done, she let her knees buckle and plopped down a few feet from where he lay.

  She’d only inflicted violence one other time in her life, and then, just as she’d felt a moment ago, it was as though another person had inhabited her body and controlled her limbs. It couldn
’t have been her arm that brained Ted Brand with a drinking receptacle.

  Yet she knew it was. And she knew if she sat here and did nothing, he’d eventually awaken and then she’d be in jail awaiting an attempted murder charge with a team full of city lawyers pushing for the harshest sentence possible.

  The thought of a relentless cross-examination got her up, got her body working again.

  She had to get him out of the living room.

  Julia set the stein on the bookcase, hooked Brand under the armpits and dragged him to the open basement door. She shot a glance at Shakespeare’s image on the stein, but looked away when she noticed how accusatory the Bard’s stare had become. She nearly slipped on the lake of tea slicking the wood floor. Her feet squelched in it, and the smell of the liquid, normally pleasing to her, now conjured thoughts of some nauseating sugary confection. The feel of Brand’s large, limp body appalled her. It was as though she were dragging a cow carcass through a blood-soaked meat locker. She shivered at the thought, and for a moment she forgot what she was doing and covered her face in her trembling hands and his head, unsupported, crashed to the wood floor again, bouncing heavy as a bowling ball.

  The panic gripped her. She knew there was no stopping it now. All she could do was get him as far away from her as she could. She hurried around to his feet. Lifting his legs so they were at a right angle to the floor, she reared back and shoved, using her right foot to push his lower back as it came up from the floor. Then she caught herself in the doorway to ensure that she too didn’t go toppling end over end down the long stairway the way Ted’s boneless body was. His large form somersaulted a third time, a fourth, and then sprawled in a heap at the bottom of the stairs.

  She slammed the basement door and began to cry.

  She wished she’d never met Ted Brand. Thinking how close she’d come to sleeping with him, to losing her virginity to him, made her feel ill, yet what right did that give her to attack him, to smash his face? What the hell was wrong with her? Yes, it was self-defense, but still…

  She hadn’t meant to hurt him, not as badly as she had, but that didn’t matter now. Intent meant nothing to people like Brand, and now that it was done, she knew her options were few. Let him go, he’d tell on her, lie about what happened. The jury would believe whatever he told them. He was a lawyer, after all.