“Todd?”
The dark here was nearly complete, only an indistinct glow that barely touched her from below. But she didn’t need the light; she knew her way around, and she felt somewhat better when she made it to the bedroom without crashing into the wall or stumbling over the carpet’s loose edge.
The door opened before she touched it.
Cold air closed her eyes, made her sigh and shiver, and she stepped hesitantly over the threshold and said, “Todd,” before she saw him.
He sat cross-legged on her bed, naked, an open book cradled in one hand.
“Do you have any idea,” he said, flipping over a page, “what it’s like to stand in front of a class every day and try to teach them about the history of the world?”
His skin was tinged faintly blue, his nails were dark, his hair crusted with frost, his eyelashes white, his breath more like smoke when he spoke again and said, “Every day — can you believe it? — while my father sits on his ass and makes money without lifting a finger because he has all those flunkies to do it for him and you make a call and read the papers and stick out your damned chest so the men will fall over themselves trying to kiss the hem of your goddamn skirt except that the last time I saw you wearing a skirt was last spring, when we went to that inane party for my sister who spends more time on her back than a goddamn mechanic.”
She wept without a sound.
The air conditioner was off.
She looked to the ceiling and swallowed.
Todd turned another page and rose to his knees, held the book out and nodded and smiled wider when the frozen skin on his cheeks began to crack, began to split, began to whiten along the edges where the blood should have been.
Todd jabbed a finger at the page; the finger snapped at the first joint.
“Can you believe that in the year of Our Lord seventeen and twenty-two, Easter Island was discovered?”
He stabbed again after turning several more pages, a different finger that splintered at the knuckle.
“How about this one, my darling — did you know that Ivan the Terrible died in 1584, and the son of a bitch was only fifty-three?”
He laughed and turned to the end of the book. “And in 1951, Todd John Haverford Zaber is born. God! I mean . . . God!”
Lois clamped her hands to her ears.
“I mean, my love, who the fuck gives a shit! Who in this entire, everloving, blue-eyed world gives a damn about Easter Island or Ivan the Terrible or Todd John Haverford Zaber, when all this other shit is coming down around our heads and we’re all going to be dead in twenty years anyway, so why bother except that some fathers demand that their children be educated and other fathers demand that their children do the educating, and while I’m at it why the hell what the hell who gives a damn I sure as hell don’t give a damn anymore.”
And he stood and swayed slightly and batted a forearm at the smoke of his breath, both smoke and arm shattering to glittering crystals that fell in slow motion to the blanket and bounced and fell and bounced again and fell and caught the firelight and turned to fire while he raised his face toward the ceiling and laughed harder and louder and beat his chest and cracked the bone and beat his temple and cracked the bone and ran his fingers through his hair and watched with louder laughter as it snapped away from his scalp and slid off his shoulders and sliced grooves along his stomach and split open his knees before reaching the blanket; laughing so loudly Lois could no longer hear him, bouncing on his toes until they snapped off, bouncing on his heels until they snapped in half, bouncing on stumps when his feet cracked like ancient marble and fell away in shards and icy dust and rose to his knees in a twinkling cloud and rose to his chin and whirled around him and blew away again when he blew, and fell when he slowed and turned his head toward her ponderously and opened his mouth to lose his teeth and snapped his hips to lose his penis and snapped his tongue to shred his lips and dropped to his knees and lowered his head and showed her the skull that had turned a darker blue, listed it again to show her his eyes still moist and still watching and still mocking the silent laughter the gap that was his mouth tried to give her, until he slumped forward on what was left of his arms, until he closed his eyes and trembled, until the blue began to fade and the crystals began to melt and the flesh that was his flesh began to flow like reddened water and he reached behind him and grabbed her pillow and hugged it to his chest and laid his chin on it and said, “I just don’t give a damn, not even when I want to,” and winked at her and fell back and let the blood begin.
She flushed the toilet four times before the vomiting stopped, washed her face twice to take the heat from her skin, and squeezed toothpaste into her mouth to take the taste away. Once that was done, and once she stopped her shaking, she staggered into the hall and stared at the bedroom door.
Her room. He was in her room.
“Not to cry, Lois,” she said. “Not now.”
Voices outside.
A fading siren.
She moved to the steps and looked down into the foyer, and heard the clock still ticking, gears grinding as the mechanism gathered itself to chime.
She waited unmoving.
One, she counted and took the first step down.
Two, and someone ran onto her porch and began ringing the bell.
Three; another step.
Knocking on the door.
Four. Step. Five. Step.
“Mrs. Outman, are you there?”
Six. Step. Seven. Step.
“Jesus, will you look at this mess? It’s a wonder the house didn’t burn down, for god’s sake.”
Eight. Step. Nine. Step.
“Mrs. Outman?”
Ten. Step.
“Hey, go around and try the back, okay? See if her car’s in the garage.”
Eleven.
Step.
Are you going to let them in?
The house didn’t answer.
Twelve.
The last step.
A flashlight’s beam poked into the foyer, darted along the floor, caught the edge of the clock, would have caught her if she hadn’t pressed against the wall.
“Mrs. Outman?”
And he left, whoever it was, calling out to someone else not to bother, she wasn’t home, but she sure was going to raise hell when she got back and saw the mess.
She started for the kitchen, and stopped; thought about going into the living room, and changed her mind; sat instead on the bottom step and looked around her, and wondered if she could make it until dawn.
I’m okay now.
She put her hands over her face and smelled the soap and fresh water; she brought them down to cover her eyes and saw the spots on her jeans. She smiled. That bit of paint there was the guest bedroom she’d turned into her office; that one was the trim around the bathroom door; that one was the garage; those were what was left of the gray in the basement. She picked at a tiny lump on her inner thigh and figured it was something left from the last papering she had done. Her hand turned over; the scar that could only been seen in daylight at the edge of her thumb, a nail that had snagged her while she was fixing cupboards in the pantry. A touch of dirt seemingly embedded in some of the smaller lines of her palm, from anyone of a thousand jobs with a thousand yet to come.
Honest to god, I’m okay.
Her knees popped when she rose, when it was quiet outside and she saw only one engine left, two firemen watching the ruins. They didn’t see her. She didn’t try the door. She walked into the empty kitchen and ran the cold water, filled a glass, and carried it with her into the living room.
The lights flickered and stayed on.
She shut them off again.
Then she stood in front of the photograph — Lois and House, she thought, side by side.
She giggled.
She drank.
This, she decided, was exactly the kind of protection an old-fashioned husband was supposed to provide.
She giggled, and drank again, closing her eyes at the cool
that eased her throat.
But what can you expect from an old-fashioned house?
A bead of perspiration crawled down the side of her nose.
God, she thought, it’s hot.
And when she took a slow deep breath she realized it was too hard, there was too much heat inside, it was stifling, it was close.
She emptied the glass and set it on the mantel, wiped her lips with the back of her hand, and decided that what she needed was fresh air, a breeze, perhaps a long solitary walk while she did some thinking. It was kind of flattering, in a way, she decided as she left the room; and she grinned when she realized that any future boyfriends were going to have to watch their step in more ways than one.
She laughed.
She hiccuped.
She stopped at the clock and reached up to the ledge hidden behind the ornate top. Her fingers found the key, and she opened the glass door. A pull on the chains brought the weights up. The clock ticked on and she closed and locked the door again, and as she laid the key in its place, she saw the man in the moon, frozen above the frozen trees.
“Oh,” she said, neither frightened nor concerned.
The man in the moon was Montgomery Zaber. His eyes were closed. He wasn’t smiling.
“Justice,” she said with an admiring nod.
And stood at the door and watched the two firemen share a match, saw spirals of smoke in what was left of April’s house, and felt more than heard a rumble of thunder. The breeze snapped a gust at her and rattled the panes. One of the firemen turned his head, and shook his head when his hat spun into the gutter.
Rain, she thought, absently wiping at the dampness around her neck. Thank god. It’s about time.
But the doorknob wouldn’t turn, and the glass wouldn’t break, and when she screamed, “But I’ll be back!” the furnace grumbled on.
Part IV: The Chariot Dark and Low
The house is burning.
His nostrils twitched, upper lip pulling away from his teeth, head snapping across the down pillow as if escaping a stench someone had shoved under his nose. A soft moan muffled by sleep. His left hand scrabbled at the blanket, caught it, pulled it up toward his chin and away from his feet. One eye opened partway, and closed. He stiffened sharply. Relaxed. And in the dream he was losing he sprinted across a snowfield under a sky of lowering slate, shivering violently at the cold that penetrated his soles, crawled up his legs.
Both eyes now, fluttering open just wide enough to show the whites, closing again, opening fully so he could stare at the ceiling and wonder, in that brief moment before he thought he smelled the smoke, why his feet were so cold.
The house
He sat up so quickly he had to bow at the waist until dizziness passed, his hands sliding down his legs to grip his shins tightly. That his fingers embraced flesh made him blink in the dark, and he cursed at the dream that had pulled the blanket from his feet.
Then he remembered the smoke — a pungent, unmistakable wood smell that struck him again as he wondered if it had been dreamfire. He sniffed twice to be sure, and was out of the bed and struggling into his bathrobe while he hurried across the floor.
Jesus, Jesus, the house . . .
Cautiously he opened the bedroom door. He stepped into the square hall and lifted his head to test the air. And smelled nothing at all but the old wood and the old paint and the dust that sifted down from the ceiling no matter how many times he’d replastered and repainted.
“Nice,” he complained to the empty house. A yawn made his jaw pop.
He shook one foot, then the other, until the ice vanished.
“Nice.”
Outside was a soft wind; inside, the furnace.
His left hand reached out to take hold of the wood railing that blocked off the wide stairwell, and his palm brushed absently along it, back and forth, polishing, while he tried to wash the sleep from his mind, to think straight again.
Not four feet away in the right-hand wall was the white door to the bathroom; across the hall to his left two more doors — one matching his that led to the other front bedroom seldom used and not by him, one facing the bathroom that led to his study. The back wall was broken only by a tall unshaded window that let in the moonlight, falling onto the window seat, slipping to the brown carpet, spilling down the stairs.
He looked down.
It was dark; no hint of flames, no suggestion of fire. He considered using the bathroom and shook his head; he considered his study and groaned, turned around, and fell back onto his bed.
The burning smell was gone.
Someone’s fireplace, he thought not very clearly; god knows how long after midnight and someone still had something burning in a fireplace, and you’d think that after all these years he’d learn to know it by now.
Something’s wrong, I should be up.
He stirred.
He fell asleep on his back, right hand holding the robe closed, left hand clutching the blanket, trying to pull it toward his chin.
A clock in another dream. Hands jerking backward from before midnight, to seven. A gong. A chime. An echo of a voice that scolded with a laugh.
“Damn,” he said, snapping awake a second time. “Oh damn, I’m dead.”
Nevertheless he moved in a slow curl, bringing his knees to his chest and lowering them again, arms stretched over his head and down until his shoulders cracked, curling, straightening, sitting up and looking down at the robe as if he’d never seen it before. It was red plaid. He hated plaid. But it was a gift from Livy, one he deliberately left draped over the wood valet by his closet so she could see it readily and believe he used it when she was gone.
He smiled at the little deception. He was sure it didn’t fool her, but it had grown into a private game that he hadn’t lost yet, no matter how many times she’d connived to head upstairs without him. It was one of the things he loved about her — even if she’d found it hanging in his closet behind the suit he never wore, she wouldn’t say a word. And on his next birthday, she’d probably give him two.
Seven o’clock, the dream warned; he was supposed to meet Livy at the Mariner at seven, for a quick dinner and a drink before walking over to the Regency and a film the title of which he couldn’t remember.
“Late” was a word she did not recognize.
With a loud groan to let the house know he was finally up and about, he stretched one last time and shoved himself off the bed to his feet. Cool air hovered above the floor, curling his toes, tightening his ankles. The clock radio on the nightstand winked 5 at him, and he scowled, scratched his chest, scratched his stomach when it growled. Light on in the bedroom, light on in the hall. And in the bathroom, he winced at the lights framing the mirror over the basin.
He stared at his reflection.
“You are truly ugly,” he said, and the dark-haired reflection stuck out its tongue.
Toilet, shower, shave, brush; as he dressed in a tweed jacket and black wool trousers, he talked to the mirror about the date he had tonight, about Livy — god Livy! — about loving her so hard there were times when he feared he was going mad with a pain that sometimes paralyzed his breathing, about needing her with him so badly, so goddamned badly, it sometimes sent him to bed with more than one tear in his eye. He didn’t stop until he realized he was treating it like a pet. A cat. An old cat that had been through all his ablutions before and tolerated them because it knew food was coming.
He leaned over the green-and-white marble sink, nearly nose to nose with the glass; he crossed his eyes; he lowered his head and looked up, raised his head and looked down; he leaned back and told himself he’d been alone too long, it was time to force Livy off the mark and get the hell married and bring some noise to this place.
This time, however, he would do it right.
This time he wouldn’t organize an engagement party before the engagement was fact.
She had nearly thrown him through a window, that time; and he had nearly left town for the embarrassment — to him, to he
r, to all those people gathered downstairs, trying not to look at him, at her, trying to be cheerful and friendly while Livy, dear Livy, pretended it was a joke.
She had nearly thrown him through the kitchen window, with only a look, and only his “I’m sorry, god I’m sorry, but I love you” had stopped her from walking out.
Down the carpeted stairs two at a time, left through the small dining room and into the kitchen, where there was, as he fought his tie into a knot, a glass of orange juice just tart enough to warn him the carton wouldn’t last another day.
A glance at the clock over the stove — he had twenty minutes, plenty of time.
There had to be time. Otherwise, he’d have to explain why he’d been undressed and in bed in the middle of the day.
He finished the last of the juice with a swallow and a grimace, and hurried to the vestibule closet, grabbed his topcoat and muffler and, after making sure he had his keys, stepped outside, to the porch.
“Jesus!”
The cold didn’t quite punch him, but it was hard enough to made him gasp; the cold didn’t quite freeze him, but it was several seconds before he was able to jam his hands into his coat pockets and stomp to the stairs, pushing through the steam that escaped from nostrils and mouth; the cold wasn’t unusual for this time of year, but it had surprised him still holding some of the warmth of bed and shower.
Poplar Street was dark.
November dark.
Lamps in living-room windows hid behind shades and drapes and barely reached the night; lights on the porches were shallow and brittle; the streetlamp not ten feet from his front walk was out and had been for days, and the next one up was blocked by a fat twisted branch on an oak that was twisted itself. There were no shadows.
The street was silent.
November silent.
As if snow had fallen to hush tires and cries and whispers and wind.
As if the street had been smothered by a monstrous black pillow.
He shuddered, shook his head vigorously to dispel what sleep there had to be left to produce such morbid thoughts, and hurried to the pavement, deliberately cracking his heels, deliberately stepping on a twig, deliberately kicking a stone into the street and listening to it skitter across the tarmac to the leaves bunched in the opposite gutter.
The Complete Short Fiction of Charles L. Grant Volume 3: Dialing the Wind (Neccon Classic Horror) Page 14
