by Thomas Kies
I stared at the carving closest to me, my eyes studying hard at the odd design. It was like there was something in the carved grooves and grain that I was supposed to see.
It slowly came to me. I saw an eye, then two eyes, shadows under the cheekbones, lips, a receding hairline. It was a man’s face.
Suddenly I stood up, my hand clasped over my mouth.
It was Kevin’s face.
I was certain. Kevin’s face was carved into that wood, the wood grain and odd coloring fleshing out his features. It was as if I was looking at him through a film of viscous liquid, but Kevin nonetheless.
Who was this woman?
“Are you looking at my work?”
Hearing her words, I turned with a slight gasp. I cleared my throat. “Yes. It’s very striking.”
Isadora smiled. “Thank you.” She held out my glass.
I took it and she sipped at hers. “They’re how I support myself. I’m always surprised at how well they sell.”
“I’d like to talk to you about them.” I was still a little unnerved.
She cocked her head. “If we have time,” she replied. “You came over to talk to me about the burglar?”
I glanced back at the carving that had spooked me so much. Now that I was standing away from it, I couldn’t see Kevin’s face at all.
Had I imagined it?
“Um, the police say a man broke into your apartment last night.”
“Idiot,” she snapped. “The curtains were wide open and there were no lights on so the moron must have thought was no one home. Since I’m on the first floor, he thought this would be easy.”
“Were you in bed?”
“It was only around nine. I was working. Obviously I don’t need any light, so the place was dark. I heard something in my kitchen, a scratching at the window. At first I thought it was my cat.”
I scribbled in my notebook.
“So I stayed very still. Sometimes I have on the radio to keep me company. But last night I was enjoying the silence. It was easy to hear how clumsy the robber was.”
I walked over to the doorway and peered into the kitchen. The usual appliances were on the counters, a microwave, a toaster, and a blender. All neat and tidy. Not like my kitchen where there were dishes in the sink, a coffeepot still half full, or a loaf of bread left out to go moldy.
The only window was right over the sink. “Is that where he came in?” I pointed.
Then I felt like an idiot. She couldn’t see me.
She sipped at her vodka and smiled at me. “The window in the kitchen, yes. The window was open but he had to come in past the screen. The police tell me that he used a knife to pry it open.”
“So he actually got into in your apartment?”
Isadora nodded. “I could hear him climbing in. Once the screen was off, he was very fast. I could hear his feet on the tile in there.”
“You must have been terrified.”
“Terrified, yes,” she answered. “I sat very still, not wanting to make a sound. But I knew that when he came into the living room, he’d see me.”
“And did he?”
She shrugged. “I guess it was very dark. Must be some light coming in through the windows, even at night, but he didn’t know I was here. I heard him come in and bump into the cabinet over there.” She gestured in the direction of an entertainment unit that held the stereo system.
“I was so scared that he would hurt me, maybe kill or rape me. I just reacted, at first in fear and then in anger. How dare this man break into my home? I grabbed one of my chisels and screamed like a crazy person.”
Even though I was grinning at her story, I could feel my heart beating a little faster as she told it. I know what that kind of fear is like. It’s like being an animal trapped in a corner.
“What happened?”
She took a quick drink. “I must have scared the shit out him. I heard him try to run, but I think he tripped over his own feet because I heard a big thump when his ass hit the floor.”
“No.” I laughed.
“I kept screaming and slashing the air with my chisel. I heard that bastard crawl like a baby across the kitchen floor going fifty miles an hour until he got to the sink. Then I heard him shout, ‘crazy bitch.’ And then he was gone.”
“You’re very brave.”
She shook her head. “He was right, I’m a crazy bitch.”
“Any precautions so it doesn’t happen again?”
“My daughter wants to install bars on the windows. I think it will ruin my view.”
She had quick sense of humor. Quotable.
“That answers most of my questions about the burglar. I’m very taken with your art. How long have you been doing it?”
She walked deliberately over to the easel in the center of the room. Running her fingers gently over the face of the wood, she responded, “Since I was a small child. My grandmother taught me. I grew up near Mount Athos in Greece. You know it?”
Shaking my head, I answered, “No.”
“There are many monasteries there. Inside these monasteries are special rooms where icons from the Byzantine period are kept. These icons are paintings or carvings on wooden panels of holy figures, the Virgin Mary, Christ, the apostles, saints. Some of these icons were said to have been created by St. Luke and have miraculous healing powers.”
She sipped at her drink for a moment while I waited for her to continue.
“I was born without sight. I’ve never seen sunlight. I’ve never seen a tree. I never saw the face of my mother or grandmother or my own daughter. When I was very, very small, my grandmother took me to one of these rooms and the monks let me touch one of the icons. They told me that I was touching the face of Christ and if it was His will, He would let me see.”
I stayed silent.
She smiled. “As you already know, I’m still blind, but that doesn’t mean I can’t see.”
She lovingly ran her fingers over the wooden panel on the easel. “My grandmother taught me to carve flowing designs onto wood. And she taught me that the wood would tell its own story, unique to each person who sees it.”
Isadora stopped speaking and her long, callused fingers lightly stroked the carving, slowly, as one would touch a lover. Her face was relaxed, her eyes half closed, in a self-induced state of bliss.
I walked slowly over to the panel that I’d seen earlier. I squatted down and took another look. There were ripples and currents where Isadora had carved them into the face of the wood. A finish, thickly applied, added to the impression that you were peering at a scene locked in amber.
But through it, I could see a conscious design.
And once again, I saw Kevin’s face.
“What do you see?” Isadora asked.
“I see a friend.”
“Your friend is very important to you?”
“Yes. I don’t understand how you do this. His name is Kevin Bell. Do you know him?”
With another smile, she shook her head. “Everyone sees something in my work. The carving in the face of the panels I do by touch. The designs that the wood grain makes with the stain, well, I’m afraid that’s completely random.”
I looked back at the icon. It was Kevin. I was certain.
“I understand that people see things when they look at clouds.”
I stood up, still looking at the wooden carving at my feet. “Yes.”
“Same thing here. People see what they want to see. Their senses demand it. They need to see the design. A monk once told me that people need order. No one can live thinking that there isn’t a plan for all of us.”
“So do you believe in fate? That there’s a grand design?”
She shrugged. “What I create, there’s no plan. It’s all chance.”
I thanked her for her time and started for the door. Then I turned. “Orleans
. That doesn’t sound Greek.”
“It’s not. It was my husband’s name, Michael Orleans. He died seven years ago. He was a jazz pianist. One night after a gig in the city, he was driving back through Westchester County at around two in the morning and was hit head-on by a drunk driver.”
To punctuate her statement, she held up her drink and then took a healthy sip.
I took a deep breath and looked at my own glass. There was still vodka in it. “I’m so sorry, um… I’m going to put my glass in the kitchen.”
I poured the rest of my vodka into the sink, rinsed it out with water from the tap and closed my eyes for a moment.
“Miss Chase?”
I opened my eyes and found myself looking directly at the woman standing in the doorway. “Yes?”
“Don’t feel bad. It was a long time ago and it happens to all of us sooner or later, doesn’t it?”
“It does,” I replied.
“Then enjoy each day as it comes, yes?”
She made me smile. “Enjoy your crabcakes and chowder, Isadora Orleans.”
Chapter Twenty
The time I’d spent with Isadora Orleans will make an interesting piece, but it had been a very unsettling experience. Did her art reflect life? Was there really no grand design, only what we want to see? That fate doesn’t exist, that it’s something that our minds conjure up when we need it? That when something bad happens we struggle to find a reason for it? That we can’t stand the thought that we’re alone in the universe and that our lives are dictated by random events?
Or was I reading way too much into it? Knowing that Kevin could be seriously ill, I wanted desperately for the universe to have meaning, that there was a plan, that there was a happy ending.
I still had time to kill before I started my shift so I drove over to Mathews Hill. It’s a neighborhood in the northern part of Sheffield that’s a New England cliché. All residential, it’s a collection of historic homes tucked away on a secluded, wooded two-lane road with easy access to the Merritt Parkway.
While driving, I called a number I’d gotten off a website devoted to swingers. A man answered and I told him that my boyfriend and I were interested in joining his club and I wondered if I might stop by to take a look. Since these types of establishments are notoriously publicity shy, I skipped the part about being a reporter.
The man on the phone sounded friendly enough and asked when I’d like to come by. I told him that I was already in the neighborhood, could I stop in now?
He gave me the address and directions.
The house was a white Victorian with black shutters, set discretely behind a lush wall of landscaping, complete with a widow’s walk on the roof and graced with a large front porch. It wasn’t at all what I would have expected a sex club to look like.
I drove up the driveway and around back of the house, as instructed, to a gravel parking lot large enough to hold about forty cars. Even before I’d gotten out of my car, a man dressed in faded denim shorts, work boots, and a sweat-stained UConn shirt was standing on the landing waiting for me. He was in his late fifties, sported a salt-and-pepper goatee, and had a healthy head of jet-black hair. I strongly suspected the hair color was the result of chemicals rather than his DNA.
As I walked up the steps, he said with a smile, “Welcome to Temptation House.” He held out his hand and announced, “I’m Walt.”
I shook his hand. “I’m Genie.”
I was wearing a pair of black shorts and a sleeveless top. I could feel Walt’s eyes giving my body the once over.
“What’s your boyfriend’s name?”
“Kevin,” I answered without hesitation.
“Have you been together a long time?”
I nodded knowingly, “About three years.”
“How long have you been in the lifestyle?”
“Only recently.”
He nodded back. “Not a problem. Newbies are always welcome. C’mon in.”
An attractive woman waited for us at the end of the hallway. In her early forties, she was wearing designer jeans, sneakers, and a short-sleeved shirt similar to Walt’s, without the perspiration stains. Her long blond hair peeked out from under a New York Giants cap and she was appraising me with mirthful green eyes. Her broad smile exposed perfect teeth that were professionally whitened.
She held out her hand the way Walt had. “I’m Sue, Walt’s better half.”
“Genie.” I shook her hand.
She quickly looked me up and down the same way her husband had.
“Well, Genie, forgive the way we look. Since we’re closed for a couple of weeks, we’re getting some work done around here that needed some attention.”
“You’re closed for a couple of weeks?”
Walt took the opportunity to answer. “We had some of our members pass away unexpectedly in a tragic accident,” he said with proper sobriety. “We’re honoring their memory by staying closed for a little while. Genie, I’ve got to get back to work but it’s very nice to meet you. I hope you and your boyfriend join our group. You’d fit right in here. I’d very much like to see more of you,” he said with a lascivious grin on his face.
He left us standing in the doorway of a large room, quite possibly what used to be the ballroom or dining area of the original house. All of the windows were covered by thick, velvet curtains and the lighting was supplied by a dozen or so faux-Tiffany lamps hanging on golden chains suspended from the twelve-foot high ceiling. Cocktail tables and chairs gave the room a nightclub vibe complete with a dance floor and a small, raised stage with a DJ’s sound equipment and speakers.
In the center of the room was a horseshoe-shaped bar made of polished walnut and surrounded by leather padded bar stools. Hanging above it were shelves of crystal glasses and bottles, dozens of them, filled with various types of alcohol.
That’s when I realized that, tragically, my buzz was wearing off.
“That’s our bar. Those bottles are brought in by our members and tagged. It’s BYOB, so when we serve alcohol, there’s no money that changes hands. That way we steer clear of any pesky Connecticut liquor laws.”
Sue walked out into the middle of the room and spread her arms. “This is where we start the evening.” She pointed toward the small table we’d walked past. “That’s where members check in. We have a bouncer there watching the door the entire evening. We’re very strict about who comes in. No single men and you must be a member.”
“How much is a membership?”
She smiled, “It’s a thousand dollars a year, and fifty dollars a couple per visit, payable at the door.”
I whistled. “It seems a little steep.”
“I inherited this house from my grandmother so Walt and I own it outright, but there are considerable expenses in keeping it up. Plus, we have a very classy clientele here. The membership dues help keep out the riffraff.”
I thought about the intrusion by Jim Brenner last Wednesday night. The “clientele” must have been absolutely apoplectic.
“At the beginning of the evening, we have food set out—it might be designer pizza or it might be heavy hors d’oeuvres. Most nights we have a DJ and this is the place we all chill out, dance a little, have a few drinks, and meet and greet. Then at eleven-thirty we open the rooms.”
“The rooms?”
“Playrooms. Come on, I’ll show you.” She took me by the arm and led me to a staircase. At the top was a landing and along its walls were sets of polished, wooden clothes lockers. “This is where everyone gets naked. We also have another locker room and a couple of playrooms downstairs.”
She then pulled me toward a doorway and we peeked inside. She flipped on a light switch and soft pink illumination came from tiny lights around the perimeter of the ceiling. It was supplemented by a small, mirrored disco ball throwing shards of light around the room. The room seemed almost infinitely
large by virtue of the ceiling-to-floor mirrors covering the walls.
The only furnishing in the room was a king-sized bed.
I felt myself blushing when I murmured, “Party.”
We took a look at two more rooms that were similar except one also had a leather-and-rope swing apparatus hanging from the ceiling. Another had something that looked a little like a workout machine, complete with a movable seat, stirrups, and hand grips. It reminded me of my last visit to the gynecologist. I pointed to it and asked, “What’s that for?”
She smiled enigmatically. “For just about anything you can imagine,” she purred. “I hope you get a chance to try it out, Genie. I’d love to show you how it works.”
Then she led me to one last room. It was twice the size of the other rooms, filled with a wall-to-wall mattress. She leaned in close so that her shoulder touched mine and whispered, “This is the orgy room.”
“Wow,” I said, barely under my breath. “How many people will this accommodate?”
She shrugged. “I’ve seen as many as fifty people in here. Of course, it was pretty tight, but then again, isn’t that what it’s all about?”
She was staring at me and smiling.
I tried to visualize what fifty naked bodies in one room might look like.
As if reading my mind, Sue said in a husky voice, “Seeing all that flesh is delicious, but even better are the sounds, the pure animal moans and groans of pleasure, the low grunting from the physical exertion, the yelps and cries of release.” She turned to me. “Yum.”
As we walked back down the stairs, Walt was standing on a step ladder at an emergency exit, struggling with some wires.
“So are you and your boyfriend going to join our club?” Sue asked.
“I’m going to try to talk Kevin into it,” I lied. “I think he’ll want to take a look himself. I hope you don’t mind?”
Sue smiled again. “I don’t mind at all. I love checking out potential new members, if you know what I mean.”
Reaching the ground floor, I asked, “What’s Walt working on?”
“Oh, we’re installing alarms on the two emergency exits,” she answered. “Some of our members like to go outside to smoke and they’ve been sneaking out those doors. Once in a while when they come back in they’ll accidentally leave the door unlocked. We had someone who wasn’t a member sneak through one of those doors and crash our party the other night. It caused a bit of a scene.”
