Red House Blues

by sallie tierney

  During the minute or so Suzan stood arguing with herself the rain eased to a misty drizzle. Whether from the chill or nerves, her teeth were chattering so hard she was afraid she was going to crack a tooth. Where was the guy with the tarp? He had vanished once he reached the house.

  Pushing her dripping hair out of her eyes, she climbed cement stairs from the street to what must have once been a garden, now an overgrown tangle of hydrangeas and neglected roses bushes. A stone path swept to the side of the house following the curved front porch. It was slippery and moss clotted. Suzan followed it thinking that had to be the direction the man had taken.

  Her eye caught a flash of blue from the far corner of the building. There he was, struggling unsuccessfully to cover something with the tarp. Rather like locking the barn door after the horse fled, thought Suzan. Whatever he was trying to protect was already as wet as it was likely to get this side of the next Great Flood.

  He didn’t see her at first as he wrangled the flapping tarp.

  “Hi there,” she chirped at the back of his head.

  “Holy crap!” he yelled, jumping back. “You scared the shit out of me. What do you think you’re ... oh, it’s you. What do you want?”

  “You left me sitting in the street, pal,” said Suzan. “What do you think I want? How about, ‘Are you hurt? Can I help? Sorry.’ Or any of the above.”

  “You seem to be moving okay. And I’m too busy right now to be social. So, go away.”

  Having dismissed her, he turned back to trying to thread a bungee cord through two corner eyelets of the tarp, attempting to secure one end over the object, whatever it was. He was clearly a nasty, inconsiderate creep but he was all Suzan had at the moment.

  “Let me help,” she said, grabbing the loose end and holding it tight against what she now saw was a motor scooter of some kind.

  “Here, hold this,” he said, thrusting the hook end of the bungee at her from under the fender. “Now, hook your corner of the tarp on it.”

  She did as directed.

  “It’s too little too late, though,” she said as they covered the scooter.

  “What do you mean?” he said, straightening up.

  “It’s dripping wet. Isn’t it going to rust under there?”

  “Doesn’t matter. It’s a trashed Vespa some guy gave me but kids around here will steal anything, even garbage. The tarp only slows them down.”

  “If it’s trash why does it matter if it gets stolen?”

  “You’re just full of questions, aren’t you? It’s my trash and it works and I want to keep it.”

  “Can’t we go up to the porch out of the rain? There’s something I want to ask you.”

  “Forget it. I’m not interested in being saved or whatever else you’re selling.”

  “I’m not selling anything. And I did help you with the tarp, don’t forget that. You owe me.”

  “Thanks, but you don’t get a medal and I’m kind of pressed for time,” he said, pushing a dripping lock of hair out of his eyes, looking her up and down. “Maybe under other circumstances but as it is . . . why don’t you shove off.”

  With that he started for the back door leaving Suzan standing flat-footed in the rain, her face flaming. The insufferable creep! But this is the best shot I have.

  “Hey wait, I’m looking for a friend.”

  “Well, I’m not him.”

  “No, I mean he used to live here and I’m trying to find him.”

  “Does he have a name?”

  “Can we get out of the rain?”

  He turned toward her and hesitated as if considering how much of an investment to make in the encounter. “Okay, but no guarantees. Come inside,” he said.

  He led Suzan in the back door to a room that must have started life as a kitchen. It contained an old round-top refrigerator, some cabinets, a tiny gas range and washtub-sized sink. Every inch of the narrow countertop and the wooden table in the center of the room was piled high with greasy car parts. No one could have actually cooked a meal in that kitchen.

  Suzan recognized a head gasket and some pistons, having helped her brothers rebuild cars in their garage at home. Truth be told, her help didn’t go beyond putting nuts and bolts into old muffin tins as her brothers handed them to her from under their beaters. Still at least from that experience, she knew what she was looking at.

  “Want some coffee?” he asked, as if offering a cyanide cocktail.

  “How?” She scanned the room. The smell of gasoline and motor oil was so strong she wondered what kept the place from exploding from the range’s pilot light. How did he intend to make coffee without blowing them both into particles smaller than cotter pins?

  “In here,” he said, sliding open a pocket door and motioning her into the next room. “Sorry about the kitchen. One of my housemates was working on a project in the back when the storm came up. There’s a hot plate in here we use to make coffee. Cups and things are in the buffet.”

  Did that mean he wanted her to do the honors? If so, he was going to be disappointed.

  The room, once a dining room, was now a painter’s studio. Four wooden easels lined the perimeter of the room, and art supplies were set out in neat rows across a large oval table. As an artist herself, Suzan envied whoever was fortunate enough to be working here. The light through the wide bay window was as perfect for painting as she could imagine. It was a beautiful space in which to work.

  The paintings that filled the room were something else again. The technique was clearly professional, mature and confident. This person was no mere dabbler. It was the subject matter that set her on edge.

  The artist was creating ornate patterns - almost Moorish in feel - using body parts as motif. One painting taking up almost an entire wall was a sunburst pattern that on closer inspection proved to be composed entirely of hundreds of human eyes in disturbing detail. Clearly a person with issues. Suzan prayed the guy with the tarp wasn’t the artist.

  The buffet he had referred to was a mammoth Victorian sideboard, displaying on its white marble top the promised hot plate next to a terrarium housing what appeared to be stick insects. There were no chairs in the room. Was anything in this house used for its original purpose? Where did these people eat? Certainly not here. Who could eat with those disembodied eyes staring from the wall? Not to mention the bugs under glass.

  “I’ll pass on the coffee,” she said. “But do you have a towel or something? I’m dripping on the floor.”

  “Yeah, I’ll get you something,” he said, and went back into the kitchen.

  Suzan was left alone with the eyes until she noted a small triptych featuring internal organs. If the guy didn’t hurry back, wet or not, she had to get out of that room before she threw up.

  “Here, catch,” he said, throwing her a roll of paper towels from the doorway. She caught it neatly.

  “So, do you like art? I saw you looking at the paintings,” he continued, while Suzan blotted her dripping hair.

  “I’m an artist myself. A little photography but mainly watercolors,” she said. “Did you do these?”

  “God, no. I don’t know anything about art. Alexis painted these. She shows down in one of the galleries in Pioneer Square.”

  She was relieved to know she didn’t have to fake admiration or pretend to understand the “message”.

  “Is there somewhere we could sit down?”

  “Sure, come on into the living room. It can’t be long though. The others will be coming home soon and then it gets crazy around here.”

  The living room wasn’t any more hospitable than the first two rooms except that it had seating of a sort, an eccentric collection of ancient overstuffed chairs and sofas that left almost no room to walk around. In the dim light it seemed as if the room was filled with multicolored mountain ranges and valleys. To reach some of the furniture a person would have had to climb over other furniture. The housemates couldn’t be burdened with a lot of vacuuming. The carpets, if there were any, were inaccessible. Suz
an claimed a mustard colored armchair. Her host flung himself onto a brown sofa, wet jacket and all.

  “So, who is this guy you’re looking for?” he said.

  “His name is Stephan. We went to college together. Somebody said he lived here and I was hoping I could catch up with him while I’m in town.”

  “This guy an old boyfriend?”

  “No, just a friend. You haven’t said if you know him. Does he live here or not?”

  “Hell, he doesn’t live anywhere. He’s dead,” he said, letting the words hang in the air. “And by the look on your face I see you already knew he was dead so what are you really asking?”

  Suzan vowed to never play poker.

  “I should have been honest with you from the beginning,” she said, trying a little laugh. “I pretty much grew up with him, only his name wasn’t Stephan it was Sean. I heard about what happened. Wanted to find out what was going on with him while he was down here.”

  She felt squirmy. This wasn’t going well. His dark eyes bore through her. He was nailing her to the wall without actually saying much of anything. She hadn’t asked any of the questions she had planned to ask and suspected he wouldn’t have answered anyway.

  “I never met the dude,” he said. “I moved into his old room not long ago so there isn’t much I can tell you.”

  He studied her as if trying to decide which way she was going to jump. From the set of his jaw Suzan suspected he was more than capable of waiting her out no matter how long it took. His attitude - how he reclined against the cushion, his slight smile - had something of the coyote about it.

  He looked about twenty-five but she suspected that, like her, he was older than he looked. He was short, well under six feet, and wiry. Everything about him spoke of an inner toughness that didn’t cave in easily. He knew something; she was sure of it but suspected she couldn’t fool him with some lame story. There was only one inevitable end. She would be pouring her guts out to him eventually, so she capitulated.

  “Sean was more than my friend, he was my husband.” I shouldn’t have told him that! “We were separated. You might not have known him but I’d be grateful for anything you might have heard about him.”

  “Supposing I’ve heard something.”

  “Yes, supposing. Anything is better than what I have.”

  “You do know he was killed by a hit and run driver. I’m assuming that’s what you want to know more about, not what he ate for breakfast or what kind of house mate he was. You’re looking for smoking guns but smoking guns can still be loaded guns. Give some thought to that, is my advice.”

  “Is that some kind of threat?”

  “Not from me,” he said. “It’s the threat of the situation, the threat of your actions. Me, I’d leave well enough alone and go back where I came from. It’s not worth getting yourself hurt. The only thing I know about your husband is comments I picked up. From what I’ve heard no one around here much liked the dude. He paid his rent on time but he was a useless junkie. And personally it took weeks for me to get the stink out of my room. I was finding needles and bloodstains all over the place. You know what surprises me? That he’d have any friends at all. I can understand why you were separated. What I can’t imagine is why you married a dude like him but that’s your business. That’s the full extent of what I know. You need to get yourself someone better than that guy. He was a total loser by all accounts.”

  Then having baited the trap he waited to see if she would jump right in, either bursting into tears or simpering a “thank you for all your help”. Suzan got up and retrieved her purse from the floor beside the chair.

  “I appreciate your time,” she said. “And your honesty. I’ll think about what you said. If you remember anything else that might help, I work up at the Apple Market. Stop by. Maybe we can have coffee after all.”

  Her mind screamed no, no don’t let him off the hook - he won’t let you have another chance but she let the exit line stand.

  He didn’t bother to get off the couch as she walked to the foyer, determined to leave out the front door this time with a scrap of dignity intact, not slink out through that awful gaseous kitchen like a shamed puppy.

  The foyer looked more like a furniture graveyard or the back room of a junk shop. This was obviously the last resting place for the missing dining room chairs and who knew what else - a massive tumulus under an outsized spiral staircase. Three old bicycles leaned against the chairs as if to keep the whole pile from falling into the cramped path to the door. Suzan carefully squeezed around the pile on the way to the entry, hoping nothing fell on her.

  Just as she reached the door she felt someone watching her. Maybe he had followed her after all. She wasn’t about to turn and give him the satisfaction of seeing her hesitate. Suzan grappled with the stubborn old-fashioned door latch until it finally burst open, releasing her onto the wooden porch.

  It wasn’t raining anymore. The walk back to Linda’s was relatively dry except for cars splashing past her up the street. As she walked she rehashed the strange encounter in her mind. Maybe she should have waited until someone else came home. It had been a disaster. She hadn’t even asked his name. On the plus side, he didn’t know her name either. She had been careful not to offer it and he hadn’t asked. Why hadn’t he asked? Could he have already known who I was? How?

  Chapter 16

  Nick lied about it but Ferlin knew he’d let the woman into the house. The one in the green jacket with the camera. The one who’d been watching the house. She’d come back and Nick had let her in. It was too late now to stop it. Ferlin would have to tell Alexis. Then whatever happened, happened.

  Stupid kids, thought Ferlin. Alexis should boot the whole bunch of them out of here. Haven’t the sense of strangled chickens, most of them.

  Get rid of them, he’d told her one day when he’d had enough of their noise and bullshit. Why have them here anyway? We don’t need them. He and Alexis got along just fine but why did they have to have the others here? Always coming and going.

  He knew what they really thought of him too. Burned out acidhead. Crazy old hippie. Belongs in a home. But who do they run to as soon as something breaks or they need a loan? Like that little punk Stephan. Money down a rat hole on that one.

  And Alexis saying, “Ferlin, man, this is too big a house. It needs more than just you and me. A house like this one needs lots of people.” Wait ‘til she finds out Nick let that nosey bitch into the house.

  Nick isn’t the worst of the lot but he doesn’t know a lot of things. He doesn’t know what can happen when people start digging around where they shouldn’t be. Alexis will have to talk to him. Find out how bad it is. Then we’ll have to minimize the damage.

  Ferlin made sure the front and back doors were locked and the porch lights were on before he went to his room off the kitchen. The others - all except the guitar player who had a late gig - had gone up to bed. The Red House settled itself, like a sleeper trying unsuccessfully to find a comfortable position, its dry timbers shifting imperceptibly as the air within it cooled.

  Ferlin listened to the familiar night noises of the house - wheezing refrigerator, ticking hall clock - and something else he hadn’t heard in a while. Something unpleasant like from a dream he only half remembered, like how an acid image comes back on you for a second, then snuffs itself out before it registers in you mind.

  He made one more circuit of the downstairs rooms, checking for smoldering cigarettes or who knows what else. When he was fairly satisfied nothing was wrong he went off to bed. But there had been something, he was almost sure.

  * * *

  Where am I? Suzan struggles to focus her eyes. Then she realizes where she is. She has returned to the red house for some reason. Has she left her coat? As she climbs the steps to the porch she is surprised the house is no longer dark. It is all lit up as if it was Christmas but the holidays are long since over. Strings of red and gold lights rope every window and the front door is wide open. It must be a party. Maybe th
at was why the tarp man was in such a hurry to be rid of her. Now she will meet the housemates. She will find the tarp man again. There are so many things she wanted to ask him. Such a fool she was just leaving like that. The house is pulsing with music. Yes, a party. Guitar music so much like Sean’s. It couldn’t be Sean’s could it? But it could be. Maybe it’s his band. Where are the people? The foyer is empty, completely empty like a cave. Where are the chairs and bicycles she saw earlier? She wishes she could remember the name of the music that’s playing – she is sure she has heard it before. Could it be by Santana? Sean played him such a lot but she never remembered the names of the songs. The music threads through the air, rising like smoke up the stairs. There is smoke in the air. Incense. Patchouli, thick as syrup flowing around her, pulling her toward the staircase. There are voices at the top, somewhere above the upper landing. That’s were the party is. She’ll find the tarp man up there. Incense lifts her up the turning stairs. The hall is empty, stretching out into darkness, the only light coming from a candle sconce midway. Could she have imagined the voices? No, they’re coming from the end of the hall where light streams out into the hall from an open door. It must be the man’s room, Sean’s old bedroom. Can’t get the image of needles and blood out of her mind. The notebooks would be there too. The tarp man must have found them when he moved in. Why hadn’t she asked? It’s what she came for but she walked away and didn’t ask. She will make him tell her now. The hall goes for miles and she is so tired. Why is it so cold all of a sudden? Curls of incense freeze in the air, peeling away from the walls. Her breath is blue in the candlelight as she walks barefooted toward the door. She has left her shoes somewhere. Did she take them off in the foyer? She can’t remember. The voices again. Angry, but she can’t make out the words. Shouldn’t intrude. Need to go before they know I’m here. But I’m at the door now, my hand on the jam. Where are they? I’m alone. The room is filled with ice, like a walk-in freezer, icicle daggers hanging from the low ceiling and I’m frozen to the floor as the air solidifies around me.