Come As You Are

by Steven Ramirez

  It was no use. I had to stop. I couldn’t even see out of my good eye anymore. Tasting vomit, I slowed the car down to sixty and started looking for a place to hide out until morning. Sleeping in the car was out. What if somebody from that bar was looking for me? My classes! I would have to cancel them. Right now, I needed to find a motel.

  Okay, a light.

  I veered off the road into a sandy driveway and coasted toward the weak neon red beacon. It read Maria’s, that was it. The path curved around way off the main highway and led me down toward a two-story house set among cactus and Joshua trees. It was old and quaint, a Midwestern kind of house. One of those places where toothless old ma and pa would invite you in for a piece of pie, where you could set a spell.

  I stopped the car and got out. An old black hunting dog with arthritis hobbled toward me, peering through weak eyes and making a faint woofing noise way in the back of his throat like he didn’t care one way or the other. I waited to see if he would charge. He just sniffed me, turned, and wandered back to where he had been sleeping.

  The house had a porch. On it stood large potted cactuses of all kinds as well as an ancient porch swing. I approached the front door. A sign read Rooms for Rent by the Week or Month. I could see the light on in the parlor, so I knocked.

  Some weird kid answered the door. Only I wasn’t sure if he was a child at all. He was short and dark and had long straight black hair that fell into his eyes. He was dressed in a brown robe and was barefoot. I got the feeling he was slow.

  “I need a place to sleep,” I said.

  He left me standing in the foyer. The house looked plain. I could see lamps with chintz shades, classic American furniture, and Oriental carpets. The wallpaper was old and dark.

  I had a strong urge to get out, but someone was coming, and my head felt like it was in a vise.

  “Close the door, please.”

  The voice came from somewhere, I couldn’t tell where. It sounded French—a woman’s voice. I did as I was told and waited. Then, I saw her.

  She was young and not very tall, maybe four eleven or five feet. Dressed in a simple yellow kimono. She had long straight black hair like the boy and large dark eyes. Her lips were full. She had the look of an early painting, possibly from the Middle Ages. She smiled.

  “I need a room.” My voice was louder than I had intended.

  “Shh. The other guests,” she said. “Come into the parlor.” I peered through the stained glass in the front door. “What are you looking at?”

  “Some cretin might be following me.”

  It was starting to get cold. I saw a fireplace. But instead of a warm fire, a huge brass pot with a fern sat in front of it on the hearth.

  “What happened to your face?” she said. “Were you in a fight?”

  “I need a room. Can I have one or not?”

  “The room is already yours. Would you like some coffee?”

  “What I’d like is bottle of aspirin and a drink. Ms...”

  “You may call me Maria. Take a seat, and I’ll have the boy bring you something.”

  I sat on a red settee. There were white doilies all over the place. She sat in a stiff, heavy wooden chair and, folding her arms, looked right through me. I thought she would send for the boy when suddenly he appeared with a wooden tray, which held three or four bottles and two glasses.

  “What would you like to drink?” my hostess said, still staring at me through coal-black eyes.

  “Just straight whiskey.”

  “Whiskey makes men fight. You should try something more soothing. Like wine.”

  “I’ll stick with the whiskey, thanks. Is this going on my bill?”

  She nodded to the boy who set the tray down on a cocktail table and prepared the drinks. He gave me a tumbler with a healthy portion of bourbon. I don’t think he knew the difference. He handed a delicate crystal glass of dark wine to Maria.

  “Well, here’s to hospitality,” I said. “And, by the way, it wasn’t whiskey that started this fight. It was some stupid—”

  My blood turned cold. She was staring at the ceiling—Joan of Arc burned at the stake, the veins in her neck swollen like bloated crabgrass. Her back was arched. The temperature in the room dropped. It must’ve been about forty, but she was sweating. Her breathing was shallow, and her skin seemed to be on fire.

  “Hey, what’s wrong! Should I call a doctor?”

  The boy looked on disinterestedly. Eventually, the seizure subsided. Finally, she relaxed her body and finished the wine greedily. Licking her lips delicately and rubbing her arms, she smiled faintly.

  “Forgive me. I have psoriasis. Sometimes it is too much for me.”

  “You just about gave me a heart attack.” I finished my drink and signaled to the boy to get me another. “Have you seen a doctor about it?”

  “I am under the Church’s care. This is the best they can do. I will take you to your room. Then we’ll fix up your face.”

  I had forgotten my own pain. Now, as I struggled to get up, it came rushing back like a vicious red tide. The boy helped steady me. I felt something rolling around in my mouth and spat it out.

  “My tooth,” I said. The boy picked it up and handed it back to me.

  Maria gave me a room overlooking the front yard. I could see my car and the lights of the highway in the distance. As I waited on the bed, she brought a white metal bowl with warm water, some gauze, an unfamiliar salve, and generic aspirin. Pulling up a chair, she proceeded to treat me.

  “What is it you do?” she said.

  “I teach French at the university.”

  “A college professor. And you favor out-of-the-way places to drink?”

  “It’s a guilty pleasure.”

  “Was it about a girl?”

  “What, the fight? No. It was over nothing. Some drunk just decided he didn’t like my type and started shoving me.”

  “Your ‘type’? Do men fight so easily?”

  “I guess. Look, I’d really rather not talk about it. Ow!”

  “Hold still, or I can’t clean you up properly. It sounds to me as if it wasn’t your fault.”

  “That’s right. I just came in for a drink. The next thing I know, this cretin starts pushing me around.”

  “That’s the second time you’ve used that word. It’s French, I believe. Why didn’t you just leave?”

  “I wanted to. But then he starts in on my family.”

  “Does he know your family?”

  “No, he— Somehow he knew that my family is French. You know, way back when.”

  “Perhaps you look French to him. What is your family’s name?”

  “Gui.”

  “That sounds French to me.”

  “Anyway, he starts in about me being a lousy garbage-eating frog. You know what I’m talking about. And I’ve heard this kind of crap before. Not where I teach, of course—”

  “But in the places you like to frequent.”

  “Whatever. And here’s the strange part. He mentions some distant relative I never even heard of. Bernard Gui.”

  “An inquisitor.”

  “How did you know that?”

  “I am rather fond of history. Gui was famous a long time ago.”

  “Well, he’s just a name to me,” I said. “I don’t know why this genetic experiment was going on about him. Eventually, I’d had enough, and I hit him.”

  “And then he hit you. I take it he was large.”

  “At first, everybody just kind of cleared out. I could see the bartender looking around in the back for a baseball bat. Generally, I’m not a fighter. But I learned a long time ago some people don’t understand anything else. So now we’re really going at it, and there are all these new people cheering us on.”

  Maybe it was the whiskey, but I wanted to tell it all now. I wanted to show Maria that I didn’t start this thing, that it wasn’t my fault what happened. It’s never my fault. It just sort of finds me.

  “You’re right about his size,” I said. “H
e probably had a good forty pounds on me. And he was strong as hell. For a while it looked like I’d had it. Especially after my head hit the bar. But something took over. I don’t know, I went into automatic, and the rest happened pretty much on its own.”

  Though she continued to listen, I could tell she was still in a lot of pain. Every once in awhile she would flinch, as if being stroked with a hot poker.

  “He was winning, but that wasn’t enough. He had to pull a knife. I’m not sure what happened next. All I remember is sliding off the bar and hitting a stool. I could hear the blade ripping the leather right next to my ear. Somebody said, ‘Look out!’ I must’ve grabbed his arm and dislodged the knife. We both hit the ground.

  “When I got up, the knife was in my hand and he was lying on the floor staring at me. I knew if I waited another second, he’d get up again. So I brought the blade down once across his throat and got up. He grabbed his neck and held it tight, grimacing and kind of yelping. The place got quiet as we all just stood there and watched. Blood was squirting out from between his fingers. Somebody yelled at me to get out of there. So I did.”

  “What happened to the knife?”

  “I left it behind. It’s got my fingerprints on it. Cops are probably looking all over the desert for me by now.”

  “Do you think you killed him?”

  “I can’t see how he could’ve made it. His throat was sliced from one end to the other.”

  She finished cleaning me up and stood painfully. As she opened the door to leave, a hulking figure emerged from the darkness. It was the man from the bar who I killed. He grinned at me and tilted his head back. The gash in his neck smiled as hundreds of squirming maggots dropped to the floor.

  I screamed and passed out.

  I found myself in the basement, tied to the wooden chair. I looked around frantically for my attacker but only saw Maria standing across the room. She looked pale and remained motionless as if waiting for something. The boy entered and went to her. She was having another attack. I wanted to scream but thought about who would even hear me.

  “Why are you doing this?” She didn’t seem to notice me. “Hey! Is this some kind of setup? Tell me, dammit!”

  “No time,” she said and started to fade into the shadows.

  As I stared in disbelief, the back wall of the basement became alive with faces. Strange, dark faces from another time. Maria now seemed to be much higher up on a pile of wood. Her hands were bound behind her, and the medieval faces in the crowd leered as flames licked their way up her small, frail body. One man was standing there silent, his arms around three crying children.

  “Mama!”

  Maria screamed with the mouth of fire itself. “Bernard Gui! I have gotten my revenge! I have killed the last of your family!”

  I saw a man step forward from the crowd. He was an official-looking person with a long black robe with white fur sleeves, a monk’s haircut, and a trim beard. He watched with the rest of us as Maria’s tunic caught fire and engulfed her. Her skin turned bright red, then black. But she seemed to be laughing.

  “He was the last! And I have killed him, seven hundred years in the future!”

  Now the searing of the fire silenced her, and her body became a single ember swirling delicately upward in the heat. The crowd was jeering, but the man named Bernard Gui had a look of terror in his eyes. I now saw the burning through his eyes. I now knew why I had been lured to the house.

  As the crowd began to disperse, the images faded until there was only the cold gray wall of the basement. The boy came toward me and gently undid my ropes. I stood shakily and faced the door. The man I had killed was waiting, the bloody knife gleaming in one hand.

  He whispered my last name, then he was on me.

  Something to Hold

  There are cops everywhere, Brooke reminded herself as the intruder tried again to force open the front door. Jeffrey had gone out to pick up the wine he wanted with dinner. Dinner! She hadn’t even started. It was dark out. Their house sat at the end of a cul-de-sac in Coto de Caza, and it was dark. She had wanted a streetlight installed, but Jeffrey had never contacted the association, she was sure of it. It was so dark.

  What to do? They didn’t keep guns in the house. That left the kitchen knives and—

  Brooke heard a crash and saw a metal trash can hurtling through the large living room windows, spraying glass everywhere. Not looking back, she raced to the kitchen to see what she could find. Knives, knives… But which one? This!

  As she reached for the Henckels 10-inch chef’s knife, someone grabbed her from behind and turned her around. She saw him clearly—a man who looked to be in his sixties with salt-and-pepper hair, wearing blue jeans, a black turtleneck sweater, and running shoes. He looked as if he could have come from dinner at Basilic. She remembered the knife and struck, slicing off half his ear. He let go, and, covered in his blood, Brooke scrambled past him toward the narrow door leading to the garage.

  As she reached the bottom step, the lunatic grabbed her by her blonde hair. Screaming, she swung the knife crazily behind her, hoping to catch his throat. But with her firmly in his grip now, he easily tore the knife from her hand and threw it aside, where it skittered under Jeffrey’s mobile workbench.

  Now the intruder was standing in the garage, facing the kitchen and pointing a gun at Brooke’s back. He had spun her around and, using the gun, pushed her toward the door. Frantic, she craned her neck, trying to see what she could do.

  Quickly scanning the garage, she noticed the pegboard. Jeffrey had just put it up and hadn’t yet mounted his tools. Brooke knew she would only get one chance. As her attacker urged her forward, she dug in her heels. Then, in spite of her fear of being shot in the back, she accelerated backward, driving the surprised assailant toward the pegboard.

  He grunted hard as he tried stopping her. But her legs were strong, and he was old. With all her strength, she charged at the wall full speed. She felt the man shudder once. His arms suddenly went limp, and, dropping the weapon, he let her go.

  Pulling away, Brooke picked up the gun and turned to face her attacker. He stood against the pegboard, looking serene. She was sure one of the naked peg hooks had gone through the base of his skull and was holding him there. How else could she explain it? She could hear him breathing erratically. Every so often, he would tremble as if from an involuntary muscle spasm.

  Brooke didn’t have her cell phone. She wanted to call 911 but was afraid to leave the man out here. Where was Jeffrey? Gritting her teeth, she felt around his front pockets and extracted his phone. When she pressed the Home button, she saw a photo of a lovely, well-dressed woman who might have been in her early forties. She looks lost, Brooke thought.

  She was about to call 911 when a hand touched hers. She looked up and saw the man’s face. He seemed ancient. His sad eyes gazed at her steadily while he unlocked the phone with his thumbprint and pressed on an app. A video began playing immediately.

  Carefully taking the phone from him, Brooke watched. The intruder, looking tired, was seated in what looked like a well-appointed library, dressed exactly the same. He was speaking directly to the camera.

  “This is the story of a collector—a tyrant—who was married to a beautiful woman. They never had children, and he treated her as just another of his possessions. His most prized possession was an eighteen-inch vase made by the famous nineteenth-century Venetian glassblower Di Piazza.

  “Over the years, many fakes were sold to gullible collectors. Ironically, the only way you would know the glass was authentic was to break it. For, it wouldn’t shatter into dangerous shards like ordinary glass but instead would disintegrate into a pile of smooth pebbles you could hold in your hands. No one ever discovered Di Piazza’s secret; he took it to the grave.

  “All these years, the collector had treasured this vase, convinced of its authenticity. He was a jealous man who was never sure of his wife’s love, so he would always test her by being mean to her—nothing physical, though. What
he engaged in could be called emotional violence.

  “One night, he invited an acquaintance—another collector—for dinner. Over an extravagant meal, they talked about art and life, and the acquaintance noticed immediately how the wife acted in her husband’s presence. After dinner, the collector could not resist showing off his treasure. Carefully examining it, the dinner guest declared it a fake.

  “The collector was incensed and insisted the vase was real. But his guest confidently stated he knew what he was talking about. He claimed to have lived in Venice for some years, and during that time, he had acquired many rare glass objects. He had even apprenticed with a famous glassblower. He studied every important work there—including everything Di Piazza ever made—and he was certain this vase was a fake.

  “‘But the only way to actually know,’ the collector said, “‘is to break the glass.’

  “‘Then why not do it?’

  “‘Get out!’ the collector said.

  “‘Why? What are you afraid of?’

  “The dinner guest spoke of the power of faith in things authentic. He used love as an example, then mentioned religion. Holding the vase in his arms like a child, the collector became sullen and started drinking.

  “After dinner when the guest had left, the collector sat dejectedly in front of his vase. It was then his wife, wearing her coat and carrying a bag, announced she was leaving him forever. She told him he was incapable of true love, and after all these years, he even doubted the vase he was so protective of. Then, with angry tears, she laughed in his face and called him a fool.

  “In a drunken rage, the collector threw the vase to the floor, where it disintegrated into a pile of sparkling glass pebbles he could easily hold in his hand.

  “‘I don’t understand,’ he said, gazing at the destruction. ‘That man was a liar—he couldn’t even tell a genuine Di Piazza from a fake!’

  “‘That’s because he’s not an art collector,’ she said. ‘He’s my friend and knows nothing about Venetian glass. I tricked you into inviting him here tonight. I wanted to make sure you were left with nothing—not even the vase. I wanted you to feel what I’ve felt for twelve years.’