The Grave House

by David Garaby

  "Busy little bee," he said.

  "Quite," she nodded. "I was just stepping out to town, though, I'm getting things ready for my party in two days. You feel free to meet with Adam, and feel free to come by to the party as well."

  "Well thank you, but I'm afraid I won't be here that long. I'm heading back tonight."

  "Pity. It would have been lovely to catch up."

  "Yes. That would have been nice."

  After an awkward silence she said, "Well, I really must get going, but ask Bertha for anything you need. Adam is in my studio now. Up the stairs, to the right," she pointed.

  "I remember the way," he said marched up.

  Bertha, who had been hovering in the doorway leading to the kitchen. She took her hand out of her pocket, released the grip she had on a syringe. Margo walked towards her.

  "What the hell is he doing here?" she whispered.

  "I don't know. When I saw the truck pull up, I thought it was the Agent, I notice he's been coming more and more while I'm away. It looks like his truck. Same color and everything."

  Margo shook her head. "Shit," she spat.

  "What do you want me to do?"

  "Nothing. Don't do anything. Just watch him," she looked at her watch, "I'm meeting with The Agent in fifteen minutes. Christ! This is all I needed. Where is Nina?"

  "Library. She left a few hours ago."

  "Good. Keep her away from my studio. I don't want her talking to Adam anymore. Make sure you up the dosage. Lord knows what that little shit, Hudd, is going to tell him."

  "Do you think Hudd would say anything? Why would he do—"

  "—I don't know, Bertha. Consciences are liabilities. That’s why he’s down here." She huffed. “Why can’t people just move on.”

  "He'll go down, too. He’s got more to lose than anyone."

  She tapped her feet.

  Bertha lowered her head, “I told you not to stir that por.”

  “I don’t need to hear that now! I know! I know!” she barked. “I don’t know why I looked him up after all these years. I could have asked anyone to send me a painter.”

  “Consciences are liabilities,” said Bertha under her breath. “Self-sabotage, Margo. That’s the name of the game.”

  Margo’s eyes widened, she wanted to bash her fists into Bertha’s smug face. “I can't wait any longer,” she scoffed. “The Agent doesn't like to wait, you know how he gets. I don't need this right now!"

  "Go," she whispered. "Don't worry. Go meet with him. Calm him down and make sure you pay him his portion. I'll watch them. I’ll clean this up. I always do."

  There was a look on Margo's face, one which Bertha had never seen before, a strange, enticing look. She wet her lips and wanted to touch Margo's face. That look, it was fear, and it was very becoming on her.

  Let Misery Sleep

  ADAM PAINTED FRANTICALLY, meticulously adding texture and life to the canvas. He did not hear the knock or the heavy squeaking of the old hacienda door. It was the sound of Hudd's nasally voice which broke the artist’s trance.

  "Dr. Hudd!" said Adam, "What are you doing here?"

  Hudd's eyes were wide as he hovered in the doorway. "I wanted to check up on you," he looked up at the ceiling, scanning the room for something. "See how things were going for you down here."

  Adam set his brush and pallet down, turned the painting away from Hudd, wiped his hands on his apron and shook hands with his professor. He wanted to give him a hug, but the thought shot right out when Hudd began extending his right hand towards him.

  "How’s the piece coming along?" asked Hudd.

  Adam gave a nervous chuckle. "I started sketching."

  Hudd cleared his throat: "It's going to be Oil."

  "Acrylic," Adam replied.

  Hudd's nose immediately cringed.

  Adam smiled, "It’s a 'Rush Job.' She wants it by Thursday."

  "That's three days away. Rush Job?" he scratched his chin and chuckled. "There’s no such thing."

  "There is to Margo."

  He scoffed and picked up pictures of Daniel from workbench next to Adam's easel .

  "She wants me to paint her son."

  Hudd looked up at the ceiling, and closed to the door behind him. "You know you should never meet your idols, boy," he said coldly. "They always disappoint you."

  "I'm glad I met Margo. She's the best."

  "The best," he scoffed. "How fortunate it must be to have such low standards. To slip and slide on the surface of things, never really getting too deep to see the truth."

  Adam looked down to the floor, "I haven't been able to find that drawing you asked me to look for."

  Hudd raised his hands and threw them down, "That was a stupid, sentimental request." He looked him dead in his eyes, "There are more important things to be discussed here. You have no idea what you're doing here, do you?"

  "Why don't you just tell me what you have to say, I know that's why you came here. It's obvious you don't like me. It's obvious you don't like her, either. You never have. Tell me what you're here to tell me but do it quick, Hudd, I have work to do."

  The professor remained frozen for a moment, staring coldly at Adam. His eyes darted back and forth, growing red. "You little shit. You deserve everything that's coming your way. I never should have come here, I don't know what the hell I was thinking."

  "Why did you come?"

  "To see."

  "See what?"

  "To SEE, you sniveling little shit!" Louder, stronger.

  "My god, Hudd," he said. "What the fuck ARE you doing here?"

  "I came to see...I came to see if I could save you."

  "Save me? Save me from what?"

  "From her. From Margo."

  He was quiet for a moment, "You're kidding, right?"

  "I wish I were, Adam." Hudd leaned in close, "That woman is dangerous. She'll tell you everything you want to hear and then she'll take the thing you love most."

  "Let me guess. She'll steal your heart."

  "No, you pompous little shit. No-no-no-no! She'll take much more than that."

  "She stole something from me, Adam, and I don't want her to do the same to you or to anyone else ever again." He stepped in front a closet door, reaching for its surface. "Never," he said, touching the door. It was as if he was speaking directing at the door, to someone Adam could not see, a face visible only to Hudd. Adam felt uneasy, he thought he heard his name whispered from every corner of the room. There were strange vibrations.

  "I don't understand," he said, shaking his head, trying to drown out the hissing sound he thought he heard, "Were you in love with her? Is that what this is all about?"

  "No. No, I never loved her. That's not what this is about at all. I'll tell you. I'll tell you everything you need to know about Margo Sullivan."

  He looked at his watch. "Tell that woman she keeps with her that we are going to have some coffee in the city. We can't talk here, that damned bulldog of hers will come up any minute to check up on us. Tell her. We need to leave."

  "I can't just leave. I have to finish my work!"

  "Come outside with me, then. Away from the house. Give me ten minutes. Just ten. Please."

  Adam found Bertha in the kitchen, he told her he was going outside for a tour of the courtyard and the river. Bertha nodded, the bulldog had been overhearing their conversation through the intercom system.

  — 2 —

  2:16 PM

  BEYOND THE WALLS of the Castilian, overlooking the river, Hudd felt more at ease. He lit a cigarette: "I met her over thirty years ago. Back then the university was called South Texas Regional College, it's grown so much since then. We were both art students, she wasn't what she is now. She was shy then, reserved, always with her hair covering her face. Mousy. She was friends with my cousin, Claire Felton, they were big shits around Diller. When Claire found out her husband had abandoned her for a Mexican woman, Claire fled to Houston. Her son drowned in the river earlier that year, there was really no reason to stay. I rem
ember the day of Claire's going-away party. That's the day she changed, that's the day Margo became MARGO. She had an accident, she and my other friend, Esmeralda and Palomin. They were driving home after Claire's party. Apparently Palomin couldn't hold his liquor very well, and they drove into a tree. Something happened to her that night. Something changed her.

  "Her real name's Magdalena, but you probably already know that, right? She started referring herself as 'Margo' a few days after the accident. Everything blossomed for her that night. She started smiling more, and her clothes improved, too. Started to get curvier, closer to the body. With her hair pulled back and nose in the air, people started to take notice. It's funny, people never notice you when your head is turned to the ground, but when you sneer down at them they can't help but fall in love. People are engineered to respect those who revere themselves. Margo changed, she was now a woman to be worshipped.

  "And things became even better for her after that, she started getting museums to showcase her work and the clients started coming in. I'll never forget the haughty grin on her face when she told us she sold a painting to that old movie star, Evelyn Forte, the one who made that movie in Laredo with Marlon Brando. She met and married Rutherford Sullivan on a trip she made to Houston a few months later."

  Adam shook his head: "Seems like she got a lucky break there. She had a bad accident and something good came out of it."

  "Nothing good came out of it. Art is not art unless the right people say it is. She knew this. She knew her work was nothing until someone else said it was. There were rumors. There always are, about how she would pay curators to start showcasing her paintings. Her work is good, but it's by no means great. It's the luck of the draw, you see. But it doesn't help knowing, or paying off, the right people."

  "And you think she did this? You think she paid people off so she could be recognized?"

  "I know she did."

  "How would she do something like that? She wasn't rich before she became famous. And she married after she made a name for herself."

  Hudd’s eyes glazed over, his eyes scanned his mind. "I haven't been in this house for over twenty three years."

  "That's a long time."

  "Not long enough. I swore I'd never come back here."

  "What happened here, Dr. Hudd?" he asked.

  Hudd turned. "There is an undeniable and incurable sadness that resides in this house," he said. "How can any home not carry the pain, the love, the unimaginable horror of its tenants? If we have souls our shelter does, too. It permeates through us onto drywall and paint and carries the weight of our dreams, and in her case, nightmares. There has been death in this house, Adam, there is darkness lurking around every corner." Hudd stared into Adam' eyes. "There are voices in this house. I've heard them. You've probably heard them too?"

  Adam looked away.

  You will hear more,” Hudd sighed. "There is something in this house. It's the same thing that gave her wealth. She keeps it near her, but I don't know where." He looked around to see if anyone was listening then leaned in. "I did something a long time ago. Margo and I did something a long time ago."

  "What did you do?"

  He shook his head frantically. "I was young, so was she. She didn't tell me how she was going to do it, only that I would be paid for it. I was so young. So, so young."

  "What did you give her, Dr. Hudd? What does she keep here? What is that voice I hear?"

  His eyes widened. "The voice? It is alright to listen to the voice, but it is a terrible—terrible thing to answer back. Don't invite the voices, Adam, let the whispers fade and let misery sleep."

  Hudd could see Bertha staring down at them from her studio intensely, menacingly.

  "Don't listen to the voice. Don't give her what she wants." Hudd turned away and walked back towards the Castilian.

  — 3 —

  11:15 PM

  LATER THAT NIGHT, Adam searched for a stronger signal and found it near the window of his room. He dialed up his friend Ashley.

  "Well look who decided to call me?" she said.

  "Hey Ash."

  "I thought you died or something. It's been like three years. Been real busy?"

  "It's only been a week. Service here sucks."

  "Right-right-right, I'm used to you getting lost. Remember that time a few years ago, when you spent that week in that hotel with that thug you met in Dallas," she erupted in laughter.

  "Oh my God, that was one time! How the hell do you even remember that?"

  "Whatever you whore. Who're you banging down there, huh? Don't think I don't know my girl," she cackled.

  "Who has time for that? Like I said, I've been busy this whole time."

  "Mmhmmm. I know what that means. My girls' got her legs up in the air, smack smack smack."

  "Oh my god, I'm not you!" he said.

  "Whatever! You are exactly like me—that's why I worry. So how's it going over there? You finished your painting yet?"

  "Not really, but it's been interesting so far."

  "Interesting? I know what that means. You're probably bored out of your mind, aren't you?"

  "No, I can honestly say that this trip has been a real eye opener."

  "In what way?"

  "You know how you have this idea in your head about what a person is going to be, and then all of a sudden you get a little deeper and the thing that attracted you to them just gets cloudy and muddy. That lackluster really leaves you feeling a bit embarrassed. It's really quiet here. I thought it was going to be like leaving into this whole new world. It's the same everywhere. Bleak."

  Ashley gave an exaggerated sigh. "Oohhh, Jesus, I told you not to go. What are you going to be doing there with an old woman on the damn border? And her work isn't even all that. I've seen those stupid paintings of hers. I bet I could throw up on a canvas and it would turn out better than some of her crap. My pad produces better artwork."

  "Gross, dude! Have a little respect."

  "Whatever, I'm just saying I don't know why you have her on this pedestal. It's only going to disappoint you. It already is. I can hear it in your voice."

  "No, it's not disappointment. It's just—I don't know the word. I guess, I did idolize her. And the vibe I'm getting is that she's not who she appears to be. I guess the bubble just got popped a bit."

  "That's life, babycakes. But don't worry, you'll be back here in a couple of days, right? Just get what you need to get and say goodbye to that old bag. I've already got someone you need to be under."

  "Yes, but I can't think about that right now."

  "You NEED to think about that! Get your mind off of that granny you're obsessed over and that loser you fell for. But this one's a good one, though. He works with me, he's a good guy."

  He laughed lightly. "I can hardly wait," he said sarcastically.

  "I'm in the middle of nowhere. Bad reception. But I do get your texts."

  "All right, just text me then. I'll try to call you soon though."

  Adam was smiling and scratched his head. He threw his cell phone on the bed, talking to Ashley always put things into perspective.

  As he looked down into the garden, he saw two shadows lurking by the side of the house inching towards the grave house. Adam turned off the lights to his room and followed them with his eyes. It was a man's silhouette, a tall, bulky man at least six feet tall, the other silhouette was much smaller. They stopped in front of the dimly lit grave house, he could see it was Margo, he did not recognize the man. Margo turned back towards the house and crouched down in front of the mausoleum entrance. She reached inside her pocket and removed a set of keys. The door opened and the shadows made their way inside.

  — 4 —

  2:11 A.M.

  IT MUST HAVE BEEN some time in April, because that's when the bedrooms were full of birthday balloons, gold and white, inspired by a Champagne advertisement Adam had seen in Vogue. It was after his party now, a little after midnight, there was the blue glow of a mystery film lighting up the bedroom. />
  Adam was in bed, the muted television and bathroom light was enough to keep his eyes focused. He was fascinated by the life of Remedios Varo, a Spanish Surrealist. If he could be anyone else, it would be her.

  He heard the shower turn off. Instantly, Justin was in the room next to him, the body was still wet. He had a different smell to him, not that spicy scent he carried, but a sweeter fragrance. Adam scanned Justin's body and raised his left eyebrow. This was something different, indeed, there was definition now, in the chest and arms. He was fuller than before, not as bony. There was a healthy aura about him, as if he were happy from the inside, the pleasure seeped through every pore. Something was definitely off, but definitely right as well. Where had the weak body of his boyfriend gone? Adam was never one of those superficial gay men, the ones who gawk at the younger species and hunt down gym rats with cat-like precision. He didn't care about the body, it was the mind he craved, but as he stared at his lover of three years, wet and moist with a fresh scent, he couldn't help but understand what made all those superficial pricks rise.

  He looked back into his book, "Margo finally got around to telling me what she wanted. Cat's out of the bag."

  Justin sat next to him, a towel wrapped around his waist. "Oh yeah, what's that?"

  Adam wriggled up next to Justin, placing his head on his lap. "Her dead son. She wants me to paint the one that died."

  "No shit, baby," Justin caressed his fingers through Adams' hair. This was a pleasure beyond measure, the sensation of his strong skin, Adam tilted his head up and met Justin's eyes. They were vivid and bright, a smile ensued. This was a strange scene, indeed. Such an ardent and unwarranted display of affection. Justin reached for a lit cigarette from the nightstand. Justin, the consummate health enthusiast, the one who frowned every time Adam took a puff, the one who refused to kiss him after a drag, why was he playing with fire all of a sudden? "She's just as fucked up as you. No wonder you look up to her." Justin didn't cough, he looked ravishing.