* * *
By the time Hannah came back, Peter had taken the Vocable program out for a spin, assured himself that all was in working order, loaded the bulk of the books to his tablet and shut down the system. All ready to attack the thirteen-week contract with gusto.
“If that’s okay with you, Michael?” he said. When he received no answer, he closed up the booth, latched it tight, shut off the lights and headed upstairs.
Hannah was loaded down with Bourne Farm Outfitter bags.
“Why haven’t you told me about this place until now?” Hannah asked, holding up her purchases. “I’ve died and gone to honky heaven.”
For the next hour, she proceeded to treat him to a private runway show, parading a slew of low-rise jeans and variations on Daisy Duke tops, all the while lubing up her lips with a shiny, fruity gloss. Peter could smell it from where he sat.
“This flannel, I can tie up around my midriff,” she said, demonstrating by doing just that. “I got some tanner. My belly is as white as a sheet.”
She was a knockout in every outfit. She combined work shirts, flannel and denim like an artist, thwarting their utilitarian purpose and bending them to her will. The light that had sparked when they first stepped foot in the house was on full floodlight display now. She was alive and electric. And she was sexy as hell.
“I’m not going to lose you to some bubba in a cowboy hat, am I?” he asked.
She responded by pulling a straw cowboy hat of her own out from her stash of bags. “I hope not. Guess you’ll have to brand me.”
Such brazen talk was rare from his wife, but when she got into it, he knew better than ignore her. He rose from the chair where he’d watched her redneck fashion show and went to her. He tipped her hat back on her head. “Can I have this dance?”
“You can have more than that,” she said and pressed her lips to his. Her kiss was warm and wild and strawberry.
* * *
That night he dreamed of the bird.
He was in Manhattan, riding his bike past Union Square on his way downtown. There was no traffic on the streets—no taxis to dodge, no pedestrians to avoid. It was smooth sailing as far as the eye could see.
The bird walked out of the ground floor of a building to his left and stopped to watch him as he rode by, scratching and pecking at the sidewalk in search of food. It was the bird…but it wasn’t the bird—such was the world of dreams. It looked more like a man in a bird suit. Oversized wings, jutting beak.
As he whizzed past, eager to be rid of the thing, the bird/not bird spoke but a single word.
Messy.
Hannah woke with a singular purpose. Buoyed by Peter’s response to her new wardrobe—and to the other things he had offered that night—she arose with a hope the likes of which she hadn’t felt since her husband had told her they were giving up the apartment and heading west.
She tiptoed to the bathroom, hoping to allow Peter a few more minutes of sleep—he’d tossed and turned all night. The floor creaked with each step. Peter was usually the first one up. He preferred doing his work before the sun rose. There was always a certain smug ‘I did it’ look on his face when they sat for their morning coffee, and he told her that he had already reached his daily recording goal. Those were good days. And they had been few and far between lately.
Not that she understood her husband's business—not really. He would disappear into his booth for days at a time and come out only for hot tea and plain bread—very Dickensian fare. When finished with a book, he'd plop in front of the TV, channel surf until he found some old movie he'd seen a billion times and proceed to down half a six-pack. He was the artist of their little duo. The sensitive one, the performer, the thinker. She was the pragmatist, the doer. Between the two of them, they had all the bases covered. That was until Michael got sick—then, none of their skills seemed to be worth a damn.
Still, what Peter did in that booth of his remained a mystery to her. It paid the bills, afforded them insurance through his union. But she could tell that the hours alone took their toll on him. At times, he likened it to solitary confinement.
During the weeks before Michael's death, Peter had practically lived in his booth. He took on every project they offered. It gave the minutes she saw him a frantic quality.
Michael had sensed it too. Once, he had pulled her close and said, “Do you know why Daddy’s so busy? It’s because he doesn’t want to see me.”
Hannah had assured him that was not the case. “He just wants to make sure we have the money to pay the bills, sweetie,” she had said, knowing it to be but a half-truth. For Peter had avoided Michael at the end. And as much as she hated to admit it, she resented him for it. She'd had nowhere to hide, no tiny room to duck inside when things got bad—when the first of the diapers appeared, when the nurse gave her IV lesson, when the morphine shots began.
But hadn’t she found him many nights curled up beside the boy in his hospital bed, a stack of books strewn about them both? Hadn’t it been Peter who held Michael as he wretched and gasped in reaction to a new medication? And hadn’t it been Peter who was with him at the end? The night of Michael’s goodbye?
The bathroom was a rustic affair, to say the least. A giant clawfoot tub, orange-streaked with rust sat next to the window. A hand-held showerhead, a recent addition, lay in its cradle. She adjusted the water to her liking—scalding hot—and slipped out of her t-shirt and undies.
As she showered, she recalled the previous night. Peter’s primal urgency. The squeak and groan of the inflatable bed. It was a welcome tussle, welcome after such a long dry season. But something about it also worried her. Peter had brought something else to the table other than his love and lust—he had brought a nervous energy she couldn’t quite place. And she could have sworn at times that he was using her to hide from the world. Hide inside of her.
She let the water play across her belly and examined the stretch marks. Would they ever go away? They had faded over the years, but she had a feeling she would wear them until her dying day. Hopefully, the tanning lotion she’d bought would help to cover them.
Hannah toweled off and dressed. The air was cool and raised gooseflesh on her arms and legs as she walked past Peter asleep in the bed and picked her way down the stairs to the kitchen.
As she started the coffee, she thought, It’s like we’re camping. And it was. The fridge was partially filled with hotdogs and hamburger patties. The only thing missing were marshmallows. And bears.
Today, she’d jump back into the fray, and that was comforting. Pouring beers, mixing drinks—it was probably as old hat as Peter’s recording was for him. They both had routines to fall back on, to get them through the newness of this all. And maybe that was enough right now. Tomorrow was tomorrow’s problem.
The coffee maker spat, letting her know that the pot was full.
I’m never going to end up like them, she thought. Like Peter’s parents. I’ll throw myself in front of a train first. The idea caught her unaware, but she knew it to be true. Why such morbid musings on such a lovely morning?
She walked down the hall and called up the stairs to the second floor.
“Coffee’s on!”
After a moment, she heard him stirring, and a moment after that, they were sharing their coffee on the front porch.
* * *
The red cowboy boots she’d pulled from the moving box had won out over all she’d seen at Bourne Farm Outfitters. Granted, if she’d bought them new, she’d have to break them in. But her reliable old red boots gave her an extra boost when she put them on. Like she was ready to do battle.
Hannah prepped her outfit as Peter prepped his text. She thought about donning her new skinny jeans but, as it was still unseasonably warm, opted for the cutoffs she’d found on the half-price rack.
Once dressed, coiffed, primped and primed, she took a look at herself in the full-length mirror that had once adorned the hallway closet
in their apartment.
What she saw made her wince.
I’m trying too damn hard.
She ditched the shorts for the jeans, made sense of her teased hair and buttoned an extra button on her Wrangler shirt.
Better.
It felt nice to get dolled up, but she had veered into Halloween costume territory. Sexy Bartender Costume - $14.99! Better to play it cool and suss out the atmosphere at her new gig before going whole hog.
As she applied the final touches to her makeup, she remembered something Peter had said.
“I think you’re amazing.”
Yeah, she thought as she finished lining her eyes, I am.
* * *
“Why do you have to go in so early?” Peter asked.
The truth of the matter was that she didn’t have to go in early, but she figured she’d give Peter a few extra hours alone to record.
Besides, she could use some time alone to call back Lillian Dann. The woman had left her two messages about purchase options for the house—financing and such. And what the hell? Peter had his work; she had hers. Why not at least hear the woman out?
“I told Riggs I’d help him do inventory,” she lied.
“Well, make sure you flip him the bird for me,” Peter said.
“Will do.”
He waved her over for a kiss. She grabbed the keys and her coffee and headed for the Prius.
The day was cool and threatening rain. The wind was picking up.
She checked herself in the mirror. She’d have to reapply before she got to work. His kiss had smeared her lipstick.
“Oof,” she said and started the car. “Messy.”
* * *
The Blind Rock was locked up tight when Hannah arrived. She tried both front and back doors to no avail. She was about to call the number Riggs had given her when the man himself appeared around the corner, dressed in a bowling shirt and cargo shorts.
“Damn! I thought it was supposed to be warmer today,” he said, dancing in place. “Open up, quick.”
“I don’t have a key,” Hannah said.
Riggs nodded. "A thing to be rectified posthaste. Where'd you get that outfit? You are going to rake in the tips, sister."
Hannah went red. “Too much?”
“Too much is never enough at the ole’ Rock. Scoot over, honeypie. Lemme at that door.”
Once they were inside, Riggs worked his magic with the lights. Soon, neon signs flickered to life, turning the place from a dark shithole to garishly lit shithole. The bar smelled like sour beer and fried food. Hannah was smitten immediately.
“The Rock is in business!” Riggs crowed. The row of video poker machines warbled their approval.
“Where do I…do I have to clock in?” Hannah asked.
"Hell no. But what you can do is get me a bunch of ice from downstairs. I always lay in extra down in the freezer for Saturday nights. That is unless you wanna wait for Devon, he's our bar back today. Dumb as a nub, but the girlies like him. Used to be on the wrestling team over at the college until they figured out how dumb he was. Poor kid couldn't put two thoughts together if he tried. But I got a soft spot for hard-luck stories."
Hannah raised her eyebrow. “Like mine?”
Riggs threw up his hands. “Honeypie, hiring you was one of my more mercenary decisions. Between your hips and my hops, we’re gonna clean up!”
“Oh, really?”
“Guaranteed!”
“You’ve got a lot of energy for nine-thirty in the morning,” Hannah said.
“That’s because I’m still a wee bit drunk from last night. Nothing a Bloody Mary won’t cure.”
Hannah nodded. “Extra ice is downstairs?”
“Downstairs.”
* * *
By the time Hannah returned with the ice, Riggs had his first two customers of the day—two portly, old fellows had plopped down in the middle of the bar.
“Yo, Hannah!” Riggs said. “This is Killer and T-Bone. Boys, this is Hannah.”
Hannah set down her buckets of ice and offered her hand. “Fellas.”
The men grunted their hellos, but neither took her hand.
“Set you up with the regular?” Riggs asked. The men nodded and grunted again. “Two 7 and 7’s, comin’ up,” Riggs said, leaping into action. He deftly poured the old men’s drinks and set them in front of them. “What do you wanna hear?”
“Waylon,” drawled the chubbier of the two, the man Riggs had called Killer.
“Waylon it is,” Riggs answered. He flipped on the sound system and tapped a song list on his phone. “I've Always Been Crazy” blared from the speakers. “Loud enough for you?”
Killer nodded, and the two proceeded to drink in unison.
Riggs pulled Hannah aside.
“Whatever the old boys want, it’s on the house.”
“Seriously?”
“For reals. Killer there does my taxes for free, and T-Bone got me out of a DWI. Twice.” He leaned in, lowering his voice. “They’re a couple, you know.”
Hannah balked. “No. Really?”
“For the past twenty years. Ever since their wives went belly up,” Riggs said with a smile. “But so much as mention it, and they’ll punch your lights out.”
Hannah looked back at the two old fellows sipping their drinks and shrugged. Not quite the Saturday crowd she had expected.
That would change as soon as the first of the college students started trickling in through the door.
For most of the morning, Peter avoided the basement, opting instead to prep Iggy Ostrich on his tablet in the bedroom.
He lounged in his Hell’s Kitchen t-shirt and pajama bottoms, flipping through the book and assigning voices to Iggy and his menagerie of friends.
“I’m Iggy Ostrich!”
“I’m Terrence Snake.”
“I’m Rowdy Rac-ac-ac-ac-coon!”
Once he finished, he moved on to Jennifer Hornblum’s magnum opus, Max’s Attic.
“Wow, sis! This attic goes on and on and on.”
“I want to go back downstairs, Max!”
Good for you, little girl. I sure don’t.
Peter tapped his email and dawdled, sending junk mail to the trash and ignoring messages from friends. There was a friendly reminder from Flatiron Audio to update his hours every Friday, a nudging reminder that he was on the clock.
He pulled the cord from the tablet, its battery filled to the brim. He should get to work, hit the books. Instead, he opened the photo library, and the last picture views appeared on the screen.
It was a shot of Hannah and Michael on the top deck of the ferry to Weehawken, where Hannah’s parents lived. Mother and son both laughed at some secret joke, heads thrown back and eyes shut. It was his favorite photo of all time.
He flipped to the next, and Hannah’s parents appeared. Merv with his silver hair and cigar, Alice with her hand out, trying to stop him from taking her picture. Good people. And how they loved Michael.
Swiping forward, he came to the point when the archived photos no longer contained pictures of people, only snapshots of scribbled grocery lists and prescription labels. Then, one final photo taken by accident—his own face staring blankly into the lens, washed out by the unexpected flash. The ceiling behind him was ornate metal tile. The funeral home.
He was about to shut the tablet off and head downstairs for some more coffee when three more photos appeared in the queue—uploaded from his phone, no doubt.
Peter opened the first.
A crayon drawing lying on a cement floor appeared on the screen. He recognized it instantly—one of the drawings he’d found downstairs. Same hand, same subject.
The picture was a scribbled man, his arms raised in anger over a scribbled woman.
Was this another accidental photo?
The tablet vibrated in his hands, and the photo changed. Another drawing popped up. This time, the crayon man was holding the wom
an aloft. A torrent of red crayon poured from her mouth. Like the previous photo, Peter could see the surface on which the drawing lay.
That’s the main staircase.
A waft of rancid meat filled the room. His gorge rose, and he coughed sour coffee spittle. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing his stomach to calm down.
In his self-imposed darkness, he struggled to breathe through his mouth, but he could feel the stench in the air all around him. Like a dead animal unearthed. Like rot.
He breathed in and out. In. Out.
A massive thump rocked the house.
He threw open his eyes. The room was dark.
He looked to the window. Outside the sky was grey.
What the—?
He checked his tablet for the time and found that the battery was down to twelve percent.
It was 8:09 pm.
He’d lost nine hours.
Jesus…
A third image illuminated the screen. The crayon man was laughing, hands thrown up to the sky, his crayon woman sinking into the frantic blackness of a scribbled pond.
The drawing was lying on a wooden floor, the corner of a patterned sheet just in view. The same patterned sheet that now covered his feet.
The rot hung in the air like a mist.
Peter slowly crawled to the foot of the bed, working up the courage to peer over the edge.
Don’t be there.
He looked down at the floor. No drawing.
He breathed a sigh of relief.
Peter was about to rise when a man walked past the open door.
He froze.
“This sucks,” shouted a girl at the bar as she devoured the free pretzels Hannah had set out.
“I know,” replied her date, a thin kid with a buzz cut. “We should have gone to Wild Ed’s. They’ve got fifty beers on tap.”
The girl checked her phone. “Shit, it’s already eight.”
Hannah watched as Devon the bar back hovered next to the rack of potato chips, straightening the bags. Drink orders had gone from scant to zip.
She spied Riggs hiding over by the pool tables and walked on over. She hitched her thumb back at the pitiful number of patrons at the bar. “What’s going on? I’ve had half a dozen kids leave. Even your buddies, Killer and…”
The Nightmare Room Page 8
