The Twelve tpt-2

by Justin Cronin

  The woman glanced at him over her shoulder. “Well, it’s about time,” she said. “I’ve been standing here for twenty minutes.”

  “Lady, what are you doing?”

  She turned from the display. “Is this or is this not the paint department?” She was holding out a group of sample chips, fanned like a deck of playing cards. “Now, I’m thinking maybe Garden Gate, but I’m worried it will be too dark.”

  Grey was utterly dumbfounded. She wanted him to help her pick paint?

  “Probably nobody ever asks your opinion, I know,” she continued briskly—a little too briskly, Grey thought. “Just put it in a can and take my money, I’m sure that’s what everybody says. But I value the judgment of someone who knows his business. So, what do you think? In your professional opinion.”

  Grey was standing within just a few feet of her now. Her face was fine-boned and pale, with a subtle fan of crow’s-feet at the corners of her eyes. “I think you’re confused. I don’t work here.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “You don’t?”

  “Lady, no one works here.”

  Confusion swept over her face. But just as quickly it disappeared, her features reorganizing into a look of irritation. “Oh, you hardly need to tell me that,” she said, tossing his words away. “Trying to get a little help around this place is like pulling teeth. Now,” she went on, “as I was saying, I need to know which of these would go best in a nursery.” She gave a bashful smile. “I guess it’s no secret, but I’m expecting.”

  Grey had known some crazy people in his days, but this woman took the cake. “Lady, I don’t think you should be here. It’s not safe.”

  Another little hitch of time passed before she answered; it was as if she was processing his words and then, in the next instant, rewriting their meaning.

  “Honestly, you sound just like David. To tell you the truth, I’ve had just about enough of this kind of talk.” She sighed heavily. “So, Garden Gate it is then. I’ll take two gallons in an eggshell finish, please. If you don’t mind, I’m in kind of a hurry.”

  Grey felt completely flustered. “You want me to sell you paint?”

  “Well, are you or aren’t you the manager?”

  The manager? When had that happened? The fact was dawning on him that the woman wasn’t just pretending.

  “Lady, don’t you know what’s going on around here?”

  She pulled two cans from the shelves and held them out. “I’ll tell you what’s going on. I’m buying some paint, and you’re going to mix it for me, Mr.— Now, I don’t believe I got your name.”

  Grey swallowed. Something about the woman seemed to make him absolutely powerless, as if he were being dragged by a runaway horse. “It’s Grey,” he said. “Lawrence Grey.”

  She pushed the cans toward him, forcing him to take them. Christ, she practically had him filling out an employment application. If this went on much longer, he’d never get a fan belt. “Well, Mr. Grey. I’d like two gallons of Garden Gate, please.”

  “Um, I don’t know how.”

  “Of course you do.” She gestured toward the counter. “Just put it in the whatchamacallit.”

  “Lady, I can’t.”

  “What do you mean, you can’t?”

  “Well, just for starters, the power’s out.”

  This remark seemed to have some beneficial effect. The woman tilted her face toward the ceiling.

  “Now, I think I did notice that,” she said airily. “It does seem a little dim in here.”

  “That’s what I was trying to tell you.”

  “Well, why didn’t you just say so?” she huffed. “So, no Garden Gate. No color at all, from what you’re saying. I have to tell you this comes as a disappointment. I was really hoping to get the nursery done today.”

  “Lady, I don’t think—”

  “The truth is, David should really be the one doing this, but oh no, he has to go off and save the world and leave me stuck in the house like a prisoner. And where the hell is Yolanda? Pardon my French. You know, after everything I’ve done for her, I’d expect a little consideration. Even just a call.”

  David. Yolanda. Who were these people? It was all completely baffling, and not a little weird, but one thing was obvious: this poor woman was completely alone. Unless Grey found a way to get her out of here, she wouldn’t last long.

  “Maybe you could just paint it white,” he offered. “I’m sure they got lots of that.”

  She looked at him skeptically. “Why would I want to paint it white?”

  “They say white goes with anything, right?” For the love of God, listen to him; he sounded like one of those fags on TV. “You can do anything with white. Maybe add something else with color in the room. The curtains and stuff.”

  She hesitated. “I don’t know. White does seem a little plain. On the other hand, I did want to get the painting done today.”

  “Exactly,” Grey said, and did his best to smile. “That’s just what I’m saying. You can paint it white, then figure out the rest when you see how it looks. That’s what I’d recommend.”

  “And white does go with anything. You’re correct about that.”

  “You said it was a nursery, right? So maybe later you could add a border, to jazz it up a little. You know, like bunnies or something.”

  “Bunnies, you say?”

  Grey swallowed. Where had that come from? Bunnies were the glow-sticks’ all-time favorite food. He’d watched Zero gobble them down by the cartload.

  “Sure,” he managed. “Everybody likes bunnies.”

  He could see the idea taking hold of her. Which raised another question. Assuming the woman agreed to leave, what then? He could hardly let her go off on her own. He also wondered just how pregnant she was. Five months? Six? He wasn’t a good judge of these things.

  “Well, I think you really may have something there,” the woman said with a nod from her fine-boned chin. “We really seem to be on the same wavelength, Mr. Grey.”

  “It’s Lawrence,” he said.

  Smiling, she held out her hand. “Call me Lila.”

  * * *

  It wasn’t until he was sitting in the woman’s Volvo—Lila had actually left a wad of cash at one of the registers, with a note promising to return—that Grey realized that somewhere between his carrying the cans to the car and loading them into the cargo area, she had successfully maneuvered him into agreeing to paint the nursery. He didn’t recall actually doing this; it just kind of happened, and the next thing he knew they were driving away, the woman steering the Volvo through the abandoned city, past wrecked cars and bloated bodies, overturned Army trucks and the still-smoking rubble of gutted apartment complexes. “Really,” she remarked, guiding the station wagon around the burned-out hulk of a FedEx delivery truck with barely a glance, “you’d think people would have the sense to call a wrecker and not just leave their cars sitting in the road.” She also chattered on about the nursery (he’d hit pay dirt with the bunnies), tucking in more snide asides about David, who Grey figured was her husband. Grey guessed the man had gone off somewhere, leaving her alone in her house. Based on the things he’d seen, it seemed likely he’d gotten himself killed. Maybe the woman had been crazy before, but Grey didn’t think so. Something bad had happened to her, really bad. There was a name for this, he knew. Post-traumatic something. Basically the woman knew but didn’t know, and her mind, in its terrified state, was protecting her from the truth—a truth that, sooner or later, Grey would have to tell her.

  They arrived at the house, a big brick Tudor that seemed to soar above the street. He’d already guessed the woman was well-off from the way she’d spoken to him, but this was something else. Grey retrieved the supplies from the Volvo’s cargo area—in addition to the paint, she’d selected a package of rollers, a tray, and an assortment of brushes—and mounted the steps. At the front door, Lila fumbled with her keys.

  “Now, this always sticks a little.”

  She shouldered the door ope
n to a wash of stale air. Grey followed her into the foyer. He had expected the interior of the house to be like something in a castle, all heavy drapes and overstuffed furniture and dripping chandeliers, but it was the opposite, more like some kind of office than a place people actually lived. To his left, a wide arch led to the dining room, which was occupied by a long glass table and some uncomfortable-looking chairs; to the right was the living room, a barren expanse interrupted only by a low-slung couch and a large black piano. For a moment Grey just stood there, dumbly holding the cans of paint, trying to put his thoughts together. He smelled something, too—a pungent whiff of old garbage coming from deep within the house.

  As the silence deepened, Grey scrambled for something to say. “Do you play?” he asked.

  Lila was depositing her purse and keys on the little table by the door. “Play what?”

  Grey gestured at the piano. She swiveled her head to look at the instrument, seeming vaguely startled.

  “No,” she answered with a frown. “That was David’s idea. A little pretentious, if you ask me.”

  She led him up the stairs, the air thickening as they made their ascent. Grey followed her to the end of the carpeted hall.

  “Here we are,” she announced.

  The room felt disproportionately snug, considering the dimensions of the house. A ladder stood in one corner, and the floor was covered by a plastic drop cloth taped to the baseboards; a roller sat in a tray of paint, hardening in the heat. Grey moved farther in. The room’s original tone had been a neutral cream, but someone—Lila, he guessed—had rolled broad, haphazard stripes of yellow up and down the walls, following no organized pattern. It would take him three coats just to cover it.

  Lila was standing in the doorway with her hands on her hips. “It’s probably pretty obvious,” she said with a wince, “I’m not much of a painter. Certainly not a professional such as yourself.”

  This again, Grey thought. But as long as he’d decided to play along, he saw no reason to disabuse her of the notion that he knew what he was doing.

  “Do you need anything else before you get started?”

  “I guess not,” Grey managed.

  She yawned into her hand. A sudden weariness seemed to have overcome her, as if she were a slowly deflating balloon. “Then I suppose I’ll leave you to it. I’m going to get off my feet for a bit.”

  With these words, she left him alone. Grey heard the snap of a door closing down the hall. Well, wasn’t this the damnedest thing, he thought. Painting a baby’s room in some rich lady’s house certainly wasn’t anything he’d imagined himself doing when he’d woken up at the Red Roof. He listened for more sounds from her but heard nothing. Maybe the funniest thing of all was that Grey didn’t mind, not really. The woman was as nutty as they came, and not a little bossy. But it wasn’t as if he’d deceived her about who he was, since she’d never even asked. It felt good to be trusted by someone, even if he didn’t deserve it.

  He retrieved his supplies from the foyer and got to work. Painting wasn’t anything he’d ever done much of, but it was hardly rocket science, and he quickly settled into its rhythms, his mind a pleasant blank. He could almost forget about waking up at the Red Roof, and Zero and Richards and the Chalet and all the rest. An hour passed, and then another; he was cutting in the edges along the ceiling when Lila appeared in the doorway, bearing a tray with a sandwich and a glass of water. She had changed into a high-waisted denim maternity dress that, despite its roominess, made her appear even more pregnant.

  “I hope you like tuna.”

  He climbed off the ladder to receive the tray. The bread was covered with furry green mold; there was a smell of rancid mayonnaise. Grey’s stomach flipped.

  “Maybe later,” he stammered. “I want to do a second coat first.”

  Lila said nothing more about this, instead stepping back to look around the room. “I have to say, this really looks better. So much better. I don’t know why I didn’t think of white before.” She pointed her eyes at Grey again. “I hope you don’t think me too forward, Lawrence, and I don’t want to assume anything, but you don’t by chance need a place to stay the night?”

  Grey was caught short; he hadn’t thought that far ahead. He hadn’t thought ahead at all, as if the woman’s delusional state were contagious. But of course she’d want him to stay. After so many days alone, there was no way she was letting him get loose now—keeping him here was the point. And besides, where would he go?

  “Good. It’s settled then.” She gave a nervous laugh. “I have to say, I’m very relieved. I feel so guilty, dragging you into this, never even asking if you have someplace else to be. And after you’ve been so helpful.”

  “It’s okay,” Grey said. “I mean, I’m glad to stay.”

  “Don’t mention it.” The conversation seemed over, but at the doorway Lila turned, wrinkling her nose with distaste. “Sorry about the sandwich. I know it probably isn’t very appetizing. I keep meaning to get out to the market. But I’ll make you a nice dinner.”

  Grey worked through the afternoon, completing the third coat as the sun was setting in the windows. He had to say, the room didn’t look half bad. He deposited his brushes and rollers in the tray, descended the stairs, and followed the central hallway back to the kitchen. Like the rest of the house, the room had a spare, modern appearance, with white cabinets, black granite countertops, and appliances of gleaming chrome, the effect marred only by the garbage bags that were piled everywhere, reeking of old food. Lila was standing at the stove—the gas appeared to be working—and stirring a saucepan by candlelight. The table was set with china, napkins, and silverware, even a tablecloth.

  “I hope you like tomato,” said Lila, smiling at him.

  Lila directed him to a small room behind the kitchen with a utility sink. There was no water to wash the brushes, so Grey left them in the basin and used a rag to clean his hands as best he could. The idea of tomato soup repelled him, but he would have to do a convincing job of trying to eat—there was simply no way to avoid it. By the time he returned, Lila was ladling the steaming soup into a pair of bowls. These she carried to the table with a plate of Ritz crackers.

  “Bon appétit.”

  The first spoonful nearly made him gag. It didn’t even seem like food. Against every instinct, he managed to swallow. Lila appeared to take no notice of his distress, breaking the crackers into her soup and spooning it into her mouth. By sheer force of will, Grey took another spoonful, then a third. He could feel the soup lodging at the base of his gut, an inert mass. As he attempted a fourth, something viselike clamped inside him.

  “Excuse me a second.”

  Trying not to run, he retreated to the utility room, arriving at the sink in the nick of time. Usually he made a racket when he puked, but not now: the soup seemed to fly effortlessly out of his body. Christ, what was the matter with him? He wiped his mouth, took a moment to steady himself, and returned to the table. Lila was looking at him with concern.

  “Is the soup all right?” she asked gingerly.

  He couldn’t even look at the stuff. He wondered if she could smell the puke on his breath. “It’s fine,” he managed. “I’m just… not very hungry, I guess.”

  The answer appeared to satisfy her. She regarded him for a long moment before speaking again. “I hope you don’t mind my asking, Lawrence. But are you looking for work?”

  “More painting, you mean?”

  “Well, certainly there’s that. But other things, too. Because I have the impression, and forgive me if I’m leaping to conclusions, that you may be a little bit… at loose ends. Which is fine. Don’t get me wrong. Things happen to people.” She squinted across the table. “But you don’t really work at Home Depot, do you?”

  Grey shook his head.

  “I thought so! Really, you had me going for a while there. And regardless, you’ve done a beautiful job. A beautiful job. Which only proves my point. If you see what I’m saying. Because I’d like to help you get back
on your feet. You’ve been so helpful, I’d like to return the favor. God knows there’s plenty that needs doing around here. There’s putting up the border, and of course the problems with the AC, and the yard, well you’ve seen the yard …”

  If he didn’t stop her now, Grey knew, he’d never get her out of here. “Lady—”

  “Please.” Holding up a hand, she gave him a warm smile. “It’s Lila.”

  “Lila, okay.” Grey drew a breath. “Have you noticed anything… strange?”

  A puzzled frown. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  Best to back in slowly, Grey thought. “Like, take the electricity, for instance.”

  “Oh that,” she said, and waved a hand dismissively. “You already mentioned that, at the store.”

  “But doesn’t it seem odd that it’s still out? Don’t you think they would have fixed it by now?”

  A vague disturbance moved across her face. “I haven’t the foggiest. Honestly, I don’t see where you’re going with this.”

  “And David, you said he hasn’t called. How long has it been?”

  “Well, he’s a busy man. A very busy man.”

  “I don’t think that’s the reason he hasn’t called.”

  Her voice was absolutely flat. “You don’t.”

  “No.”

  Lila’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Lawrence, do you know something you’re not telling me? Because if you’re a friend of David’s, I hope you would have the decency to tell me.”

  Grey might just as well have tried to snatch a fly out of the air. “No, he’s not a friend of mine. I’m just saying …” There was nothing to do but just come out with it. “Have you noticed there aren’t any people?”

  Lila was staring at him intently, arms crossed above her pregnant belly. Her eyes held a look of barely contained rage. She rose abruptly, snatched her bowl from the table, and carried it to the sink.

  “Lila—”

  She shook her head emphatically, not looking at him. “I won’t have you talk this way.”

  “We have to get out of here.”

  With a clatter she tossed the bowl into the sink and turned on the tap, violently pumping the lever back and forth, to no avail. “Goddamnit, there’s no water. Why is there no fucking water?”