The Open Curtain

by Brian Evenson

  And suddenly he began to recognize the buildings, was again in a part of Manhattan that he knew. And what he had thought was an ingeniously wheeled suitcase was not a suitcase at all but a trunk, and the boy who had abandoned him was with him again.

  “Well?” he asked the boy. “Where have you been?”

  The boy shrugged.

  They kept on. Up ahead, Hooper caught a glimpse of the train station. Soon the trunk would be safely on a train somewhere. Where? Who knew, anywhere, the first train out. And then he would be home again, and safe as well.

  3

  He bought a copy of the Times on the way home, from a boy that struck him as somehow familiar, and sat on a bench to read it. He discovered that yes, they had found the body. The canal had been tidal, the water rushing out at low tide. He and Elling had made a mistake. The article spoke too of the hitching weight they had tied to her waist and described it as being “of peculiar make.” What did that mean exactly? Could it be traced? Had Elling rented the wagon under another name?

  He folded the paper under his arm and continued home. A few blocks away, he ran into the elders from across the hall, each carrying the Book of Mormon, walking together. He stopped and lifted his hat to them.

  “Just going home, William?” one asked as they both stopped.

  He nodded. “Hooper,” he said. “I go by Hooper.”

  The other smiled. “Of course you do,” he said.

  They stayed looking at each other for a long moment. At a loss, he felt the paper tucked under his arm. Holding it out, he said, “Would one of you like to take it? I’ve finished with it.”

  “Thank you,” said one of the elders. He reached out and took the paper, then looked at his companion. “Shall we tell him, Elder?”

  The other elder hesitated, shook his head.

  “Tell me what?”

  “The police,” said the first elder. “They came asking after you.”

  The other elder looked at the first sternly.

  “The police?”

  “He gave us a newspaper, didn’t he?” said the first to the second. He turned to Hooper, patted him on the arm. “Watch out for yourself, Hooper.”

  He spent nearly an hour outside the building, across the street, watching. It seemed safe. If someone was watching the building, they were discreet enough that he couldn’t identify them.

  When it began to grow dim outside, he ducked his head and crossed over the street. He darted in the door.

  He made his way quickly to his apartment, fumbled the door unlocked, closing and locking it behind him once he was in.

  For a moment the room seemed wavery, as if underwater. He took a deep breath and rubbed his eyes and again it was just an ordinary room.

  He left the entrance hall and went into the kitchen. He was tempted to look under the skirt of the sink, but resisted the temptation, instead making his way through and into the bedroom.

  The room was empty, the closet door slightly ajar. Had the police been in the apartment? He opened the door of the closet, immediately saw the blood staining the closet floor. He began to pace the room. Undoubtedly they had not been inside, he thought, or they would have stayed waiting for him. But how had they known to come looking for him in the first place? And how much time would he have now? Perhaps they were already on their way back to look for him again. No, he must leave, as quickly as possible.

  But where? he wondered. Where shall I go?

  He let his hands stray through the clothes in the closet, finally choosing both a shirt and coat that looked well-worn, on the verge of shabbiness. He took off his own shirt and put the shirt and coat on, found them oddly too big. They were his, weren’t they? Whose else could they be? Was he himself growing smaller somehow? In any case there was an advantage in them being too large; it would make him seem more of a tramp. He would be incognito.

  Going back into the kitchen, he searched through the drawers and cabinets. In one he found a boning knife, meant to be held with one’s thumb pressed to a smooth spot dimpled on the guard. He made a few passes through the air with it, stowed it in his pocket. The other pocket he filled with cayenne pepper, loose handfuls for use as a defense.

  There was a sound, like a bell striking, though not a bell exactly. He stopped moving, one hand still in his jacket pocket, and listened. The police?

  But no, surely not, just a horse bell or the bell of a dray or a clock striking. There was no bell attached to the door of his house, only the ringer, and no one had knocked on the door.

  The bell that was not exactly a bell struck again, then struck a third time.

  He took his hand out of his pocket, out of the cayenne, and brushed it off on his coat. It was a doorbell, he had to admit, and now began to see—through the furniture, the wood floor, the fireplace, the simple bed—other shapes, other objects asserting themselves more insistently. A carpet that stretched from one wall to the other without seam. A television set. A less simple and larger bed with a slatted headboard upon which lay a woman, bound hand and foot, just barely moving, her eyes glazed and dull.

  In the hall mirror, he pushed at his hair. But was that him in the glass? He hadn’t shaved or bathed, he realized, in a number of days.

  The doorbell rang again. He moved down the hall, starting down the stairs toward it.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” said a voice behind him.

  He turned and saw there, behind him, his half-brother.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “I can handle it.”

  “Please,” said Lael. “You overestimate yourself. Don’t you want me to come along?”

  He stayed a long moment looking at Lael. The doorbell rang again. “All right,” he said, “come if you want.”

  He turned and without looking behind him to see if Lael followed, he continued to the bottom of the stairs. What had been the name the man on the street had called him? Rudd? Would that work here as well?

  The doorbell rang again before he reached the door. He opened it, looked out.

  On the steps was an older woman, her hair carefully cut and streaked, trying to look younger than she really was. She had a suitcase to either side of her.

  “Well?” she said.

  “Excuse me?” he said.

  “You must be Rudd,” she said. “You’re filthy.”

  “Hooper,” he started to say, then corrected himself, stopped. Behind him he heard his half-brother’s voice. “Tell her you’ve been working on the car,” Lael said.

  “I’ve been working on the car,” he said.

  She looked at him, narrowing her eyes. “But the car’s right here,” she said, pointing to the driveway. “And the hood’s down.”

  “Right,” he said. “Just finished.”

  “I suppose your beard grew while you were fixing the car as well, eh? Cleanliness, not beardliness, is next to Godliness,” she said. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

  “Invite you in?” he asked. “But who are you?”

  “This is bad, Rudd,” said Lael, behind him.

  “I’m Lyndi’s aunt, silly,” she said. “Here to meet the new in-law. You.”

  “Why didn’t you call?” he asked.

  “I did,” said the aunt. “I called and called. Nobody ever answered. So I just came.”

  “Invite her in,” said Lael. “Then kill her.”

  “Are you kidding?” asked Rudd, half-turning to Lael, trying to see him there behind him.

  “No,” said Lael.

  “No,” said Lyndi’s aunt. “Maybe there’s something wrong with your phone? Where’s Lyndi? And what’s that post-it on your shirt? ‘Hopper.’ What does that mean?”

  “Invite her in,” Lael said.

  “Lyndi’s not here,” said Rudd.

  The aunt shrugged. “I can wait,” she said, and took a step toward the door. Rudd quickly closed it further, peered at her through the crack.

  “I don’t think that would be all right,” he said.

  “Where is she?�
�� the aunt asked.

  “Don’t be a fool,” said Lael, hissing now in his ear. “Invite her in. Be cordial. Offer her a glass of water. Slaughter her.”

  “Would you like a drink?” he asked.

  The aunt nodded. “Why can’t I come in?” she asked. And then asked again, “Where’s Lyndi?”

  “Just a moment,” he said. “One drink coming up,” and shut and locked the door.

  “You’re going to ruin everything,” Lael was whispering all the way back down the hall. “Everything.” He sat leaning against the counter, his arms crossed, watching Rudd’s shaky hands pour a glass of water.

  “If it’s so important,” Rudd said, “why don’t you do it?”

  Lael smiled. “It’s not as easy as that,” he said. “Our relationship has changed.”

  “How has it changed?”

  “For one thing, there are four of us.”

  “Four of us? Where are the other two?”

  “It’s not as simple as that.”

  “I don’t understand what’s going on here. I want to be back in New York.”

  “No,” said Lael. “That’s not the problem. Don’t lie to me. You understand all too well.”

  Rudd was already starting back toward the door, hands still shaking, trying to ignore his half-brother’s voice. He managed to get the door unlocked. He passed the glass of water to her, spilling some on her hands.

  “Thank you,” the aunt said, and took it. She took a long drink.

  “Should have poisoned it,” said Lael.

  “Shut up,” hissed Rudd.

  “Excuse me?” said the aunt. “Nothing,” Rudd said.

  The aunt put her knuckles against her hip, her elbow swiveled out. “Young man,” she said, “I want to know what’s going on here. Where’s my niece?”

  “She isn’t here,” said Rudd.

  “Then where is she?”

  Rudd stared. “New York,” he finally said.

  “New York? What business would she have in New York?”

  “Vacation,” whispered Lael.

  “Vacation,” said Rudd.

  “Vacation?” said the aunt. “But why would she go on vacation without you?”

  Rudd shrugged.

  “There’s something funny going on here,” the aunt said.

  “You see?” said Lael. “You should have listened to me.”

  “Would you like to come in?” asked Rudd, and opened the door wide.

  She looked at him warily, took a step back. “I don’t think so,” she said.

  “But you wanted to come in before,” he said.

  She stepped all the way off the porch, began backing slowly away down the drive.

  “You’ve got to catch her,” said Lael.

  “Wait,” said Rudd. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

  “Throw the pepper in her eyes,” said Lael, but by the time he said it she was already out to the sidewalk.

  “What about her bags?” asked Lael.

  “What about your bags?” asked Rudd.

  “I’ll leave them there,” she said. “You can take them inside if you like. Or not. I’ll come back for them.” She set the water glass down on the cement. “Here’s your glass,” she said. And then she was off, down the sidewalk and away.

  “Now you’ve done it,” said Lael. “Now you’ve really done it.”

  They went back into the house, Rudd shutting the door behind him, locking it. He started down the hall and toward the stairs, his half-brother coming close behind him.

  “She’ll be back, you know,” said Lael.

  “I know,” said Rudd.

  “And she won’t be alone.”

  “I know,” said Rudd.

  “Don’t you care?”

  Rudd shrugged. He started up the stairs. Had he been walking that slowly, for them to have such a conversation over ten feet of hallway?

  “Don’t you love me?” asked Lael.

  “Excuse me?” said Rudd.

  “Don’t you love me?” Lael insisted. “Don’t you care for your half-brother?”

  Rudd paused on the stairs and turned. There was his half-brother behind him, hesitating, pale as a ghost.

  “I think I hate you,” said Rudd.

  Lael smiled. “Close enough,” he said. “Same difference.”

  They were standing on either side of the bed, Lyndi lying bound and gagged between them. Her eyes were closed. She looked pale. How had she gotten out of the trunk and back on the bed? He did not remember carrying her, or tying her up for that matter.

  “Which one of us tied her up?” he asked Lael.

  “Whichever,” Lael said. “What difference does it make?”

  But it does make a difference, Rudd thought. It must.

  “Well,” said Lael, sighing, “are you ready?”

  “Ready? Ready for what?”

  “To get back to it,” said Lael. “To get on with it. To finish.” He cracked the knuckles on one hand, then cracked those on the other. “But we should do something about Lyndi first.”

  “I thought we already did something about her,” said Rudd.

  “We did,” said Lael. “Or rather Hooper and Elling did. But that was a different girl. Anna.”

  “We should bring it to a stop,” said Rudd. “Whatever we’re doing, it’s time to stop.”

  Lael laughed. “It’s too late, Rudd. You couldn’t stop now even if you wanted to.”

  Rudd turned and made for the door. He passed through it and went down the stairs and out the front door, which somehow opened again into the same room, Lyndi on the bed, Lael standing beside. He went out the door and down the stairs again and this time into the kitchen, only it was not the kitchen but again the same bedroom.

  “Change of heart, Rudd?” asked Lael. “Little late for that now, isn’t it?”

  “I’m not the person you think I am,” said Rudd.

  Lael chuckled. “Who is?” he asked. “But you’re not who you think you are either.”

  “Want to bet?”

  “No time for a fight, Rudd,” Lael said. “In fact, time’s running out altogether.” He gestured toward Lyndi, whose eyes were open now. She was dully struggling. “You’ve got to kill her,” said Lael. “Kill her and we’ll get on with it.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “You want me to do it?”

  “I don’t want anyone to do it.”

  Lael shrugged. “Whatever, what do I care? After all, brother, it’s your life.”

  Lael turned around and faced the closet, took a wool jacket and a fedora out of it.

  “Put these on,” he said to Rudd.

  Rudd took them. “What’s this for?”

  “It’s time to leave,” said Lael.

  “Where are we going?”

  “New York.”

  Rudd slipped the hat on. New York? he thought. He put the hat on his head, held the jacket in front of him, looked at it.

  “Come on, Hooper,” said Lael. “We’re in a hurry.”

  The jacket seemed too big for him until he had it on, but then seemed to fit just right. How odd, he thought.

  The room was changing around him, the carpet pulling away from the walls and becoming a rug of oriental design. The girl on the bed, he saw, had gone pale, all the color draining out of her, as if she were becoming a ghost. He looked up at Lael, saw him the same way, devoid of color and substance as if one could reach through him. His own hand, he saw, was still fleshy and solid.

  “Aren’t you coming with me, Lael?” he asked.

  “I’m Elling now,” the man said. And indeed as Hooper looked at him he could not understand how he could have mistaken Elling for anyone else. Who had it been now? “You’re on your own, Hooper,” the voice said, “at least for a while.” And then Elling and everyone around him seemed to fade, and his own mind went dark as well.

  4

  It was time to leave. It would not be long before the police would be back; he had already spent too much time in his father’s
apartment as it was. He slipped out of the door of the apartment and down the stairs, changing his walk to crouch a little, ambling like a tramp, swaying a little on his way down the street.

  A block away from the apartment he passed a brace of policemen moving the opposite direction. He ducked his head and gave them a wide berth. Both of them, somehow, looked vaguely familiar. Neither one paid him any heed. After they had passed, he slid into a doorway and watched them covertly to see where they were going. Did they turn into his doorway? He shielded his eyes from the sun with one hand. Yes, perhaps. He couldn’t see clearly for the sun and crowds, but they were, in any case, now gone.

  He kept on down the street to the corner and then turned, went down a block, cut up again to less busy streets. Four or five blocks away from his father’s house he straightened up, straightened his cap, and headed for the railroad tracks.

  He had gone a few more blocks when he heard a voice behind him calling his name. It sounded vaguely familiar. He kept on walking, hunching his shoulders slightly and picking up his pace.

  “Mr. Young!” the voice called behind him. “Mr. Hooper! Wait!”

  He cast a quick glance back over his shoulder, saw only a young boy. He slowed down a little, never quite stopping but still letting the boy catch up.

  “What is it?” he asked once the boy was beside him, panting. It was the same boy, he saw now, who had helped him with the trunk. “Speak up,” he said.

  “It’s just,” the boy said, and then looked shrewdly at Hooper. “I know what you did, sir. I read it in the paper.”

  “What have I done?” asked Hooper.

  “And,” said the boy, “it seems to me it might be worth something to you to stop me from calling attention to you.”

  Hooper swerved toward the boy and struck him hard in the temple. The boy stumbled and cursed, went down.

  “Don’t threaten me,” Hooper said, and kicked the boy in the throat with the tip of his shoe.