by Amy Cross
I shake my head.
“Sure?”
“I'm sure,” I reply, annoyed by the mere suggestion. “If I didn't have so many interruptions, I'd have finished by now.”
I take another dip of wine.
“Then I'm very sorry for having intruded,” he says with a smile. “Why don't I stay up here a little while longer, and you can go get those precious five hundred words done, huh?”
With that, he disappears into Lucy's bedroom and lets the door swing shut.
“Hey!” I hiss, pushing the door open and hurrying after him, only to see that he's standing at the edge of my daughter's bed, staring down at her as she sleeps. “Bartleby, seriously, get out of here!”
“She's a heavy sleeper, isn't she?” he continues, his gaze fixed on her. “I guess she gets that from her mother.”
“Bartleby, you're going too far!” I wait for him to understand and come back over to the door, but after a moment I see that he's reaching into his coat pocket. “Bartleby, get out of here!” I continue. “Now!”
“Oh buddy,” he says with a grin, as he uses both hands to hold something that seems to be moving, almost fluttering between his fingers. “Relax.”
Taking a step forward, I see to my horror that he's holding a little baby bird.
“Where did you get that from?” I ask, unable to believe that he could have had it in his pocket the whole time. There's no way, it's just not possible.
“Stop worrying,” he replies, smiling down at the bird as it tries in vain to get free from his hands. “Do I have to spell every single part out for you? Can't you just accept that at some point I acquired this little sweetheart, and now I'm holding her for you? I mean, there aren't many places I could have got it from, are there?” He holds the bird closer to his face, as if to get a better look. “Use you imagination, Jack.”
“Fine,” I mutter, “I don't care where you got it from, but what the...”
Sighing, I realize that this is just another of Bartleby's dumb games. Some nights I'm in the mood, but other nights I really just want him to leave. After what he did to Rachel tonight, I'm in no mood to entertain his stupidity. Granted, I checked on her after Bartleby was done with her and I saw that she was sleeping soundly, but that still doesn't make it right.
Slowly, taking care not to make too much noise, Bartleby sits on the edge of the bed, next to Lucy. The bird is still furiously flapping in his hands.
“Bartleby!” I hiss. “Stop being an asshole and get the hell out of here!”
“Hey!” he replies. “Careful with that language! What if little Lucy takes it in subconsciously and develops a potty-mouth?” He looks down at her for a moment, before slowly moving the bird closer to her sleeping face. “Do you think she can hear its little wings flapping?” he continues. “In her dreams, I mean. You should ask her in the morning if she dreamed of a bird. Seriously, I'd like to know.”
“Is that what's bugging you?” I ask. “Bartleby, there's no -”
Suddenly the bird lets out a much louder squeak, almost a cry, and a moment later I realize I can hear the faintest of crunching sounds.
“What are you doing?” I hiss, as I see an expression of intense concentration on Bartleby's eyes.
The bird seems to be in pain, as Bartleby's hands tremble slightly and he slowly squeezes the creature's body tighter and tighter.
I take a step toward him, but Lucy still looks to be asleep.
“Stop!” I whisper. “For the love of God, Bartleby, what are you doing?”
“I've always thought Lucy seems like a very innocent child,” he replies, watching the bird as it desperately tries to wriggle free. Already, the sound of crunching bones is becoming a little louder. “But when does innocence become naivety? Don't you think she's old enough now to start being introduced to life's dark edges? I mean, Jesus Christ, no-one can stay a kid forever, can they?”
“Bartleby,” I continue, trying not to panic as I see a frown on Lucy's sleeping face, “I am telling you to stop!”
“Or what?”
I open my mouth to reply, but at that moment I hear an even louder crunch from the bird's body. The only part I can see is its head, twitching desperately with its beak open.
“I wonder what Lucy's dreaming about right now,” Bartleby whispers, holding the dying bird closer to her ear. Lucy's frown becomes deeper, and suddenly she rolls onto her back, mumbling something in her sleep. Bartleby immediately moves the bird so that it's close to her ear again.
“I'm begging you,” I stammer, as the bird's anguished cheeps become both louder and more garbled, “please, Bartleby, I don't know why you're doing this, but just let her sleep! She's five years old, for fuck's sake, you need to -”
“Language!” he says with a smile, grinning as he watches the bird's final moments. “You shouldn't swear around your kid, dude, even when she's asleep. I'm not a prude, but gratuitous cussing never sits well with me.” He pauses, his hands still trembling, and finally there's one final crack before the bird falls still. After a few seconds, Bartleby opens his hands to reveal the bird's mangled corpse.
Still sleeping, Lucy mumbles something that I can't quite make out.
Silently, Bartleby gets to his feet, still holding the bird. Behind him, the shadows of tree branches are swaying wildly across the window, but there's no sound of a storm or even a strong wind. The whole room is absolutely quiet for a moment, before finally Bartleby leans down and gently kisses Lucy's forehead, causing her to mumble again and then roll away from us, onto her side.
Without saying a word, Bartleby comes over to the doorway. He smiles at me and carries the dead bird out onto the landing, leaving me watching my daughter alone for a moment. I wait, in case she wakes, but finally I realize that she's still fast asleep. Heading over, I reach down and brush the hair from across her face, and then I kiss her cheek.
“It's okay,” I whisper. “You'll be okay, just... Sweet dreams, honey.”
As I step back and pull the door shut, I can't help feeling grateful that at least she slept through that whole thing, even if the sound must have entered her dreams.
Once the door is shut, I turn to Bartleby, only to find that he's nowhere to be seen. A moment later, as I realize that my wine glass is empty, I hear a faint bumping sound from my office downstairs.
Five
“So what exactly is the problem?” he asks, having pulled the armchair away from my desk and over to the other side of the room, so that he can look out at the dark street. “Why are these five hundred words so difficult for you?”
“I'm just not...” Staring at the screen, I watch as the cursor continues to blink. “I don't know,” I admit finally. “I was on a roll when the scene started, but now I'm stuck. It needs something, some new idea, but I'm not coming up with anything. I need to think of something really cruel and nasty that happens to the main character. I guess the problem must be further back in the book, maybe in an earlier chapter.”
“Maybe,” he replies.
“I just need to figure it out.”
“I can leave, if you prefer,” he continues. “Just say the word and I'll toddle off. I don't want to be intrusive.”
“It's fine,” I mutter, getting to my feet and heading to the cabinet, where I pour the remainder of the wine bottle into my glass. Damn, that's two bottles gone tonight, and it's almost 4am. Glancing at Bartleby, I see that his glass is still on the table by the window, and still untouched. I honestly don't think he's drunk a drop.
Opening the cabinet, I take out another bottle and start to get the cork out. I won't drink it all, but one more glass will help me focus while I write those five hundred words.
Suddenly I hear footsteps, and I look up as I realize that Rachel is out of bed. I turn and look at the bottom of the stairs, but a moment later I hear her heading along the landing and into the bathroom, and then the door gently bumps shut.
“Close call,” Bartleby says with a smile, watching me intently. “You wouldn't wan
t her coming down and finding you in this state, would you?”
“What state?” I mutter, finishing the half-glass of the old wine and then pouring a full glass of the new. “I'm fine, I'm just...” I take a deep breath as I realize that maybe I am a little drunk. “This is the way I work,” I continue. “Rachel knows that, she's used to me staying up, she's used to...” I glance at him and see a smile in his eyes. “She understands,” I tell him. “She's fine, so long as you don't go into the bedroom and start... doing things!”
“I'm down here now, aren't I?”
The toilet flushes upstairs, and then I hear Rachel heading back to bed. As the door to our room swings shut, I can't help feeling a sliver of sadness that she didn't come down to see how I'm doing. She used to do that, back in the day, but now she just lets me get on with things. It's like I have my own world down here in the house after she and Lucy have gone to bed, my own separate world away from her.
“Are you still thinking about Daniel these days?” Bartleby asks suddenly.
I turn to him. “Why the hell would you bring that up?”
“Just a casual question,” he continues. “It was the night he died...” He pauses. “Yeah, the night he died, that was the first night I came over, wasn't it? The very first night?”
I pause, before nodding.
“How time flies, huh?” he adds with a grin. “Whoever would've thought that we'd turn this into a regular thing. I still remember your face the first time you saw me.”
“I don't think about Daniel much,” I tell him.
“You don't imagine him with you in the house?” He watches me carefully, as if somehow he already knows the answer. “I don't mean a ghost, 'cause we both know those don't exist, but a kind of... companion.”
“No,” I reply, even though I can almost see Daniel now, over in the corner of the room. If I look into the shadows, he'll be there, so I don't look.
“You're still not writing those five hundred words,” Bartleby points out mockingly. “Are you sure you don't wanna talk about it? Maybe throw some ideas at me and I can help you find some inspiration.”
“I don't need your help,” I tell him, as I turn and make my way back to the desk. To be honest, I'm feeling a little light-headed now, and the whole room seems to be spinning slightly. Focusing on walking normally, so that I don't appear drunk, I pull my chair out so I can sit down, but a moment later I hear a bump from nearby. Turning, I look over at the door that leads into the hallway. “Did you hear that?”
“Sit down and right.”
“But there was a -”
“A bump in the night?” He laughs. “So what, Jack? Sit down and write the goddamn five hundred words.”
I hesitate for a moment, before realizing that he's right. I just need to focus. I'll write the words while I drink this one final glass of wine, and then I'll make a cup of tea, just something to sober me up, then I'll drink plenty of water, and then I'll go up to bed. It'd feel good to get up there and put an arm around Rachel, and get some sleep. And then tomorrow I'll get up bright and early, and I'll work really, really hard all day, and I'll take Lucy to the park after school and I won't need to stay up like this again. No wine, no visit from Bartleby, just a respectable family evening. Hell, I might even go to bed with my wife for the first time in weeks.
Months...
“I don't hear typing,” Bartleby says.
“I'm getting to it.”
“You've been getting to it for a while now, buddy. How long since Rachel went to bed? Four hours? Five hours?”
“I'm getting to it,” I say again, more firmly this time. Setting my fingers on the keyboard, I wait for an idea, any idea, to pop into my head.
Something'll come, I know it will.
It always does.
Suddenly I hear another bump, and this time I'm certain it's coming from the kitchen.
“Write!” Bartleby says, as if he heard it too.
“I should go and check,” I tell him.
“You should write your five hundred words.”
“But -”
“You've got an alarm system, right?”
“Sure, but -”
“And it's on?”
“Yes, but -”
“So there's no burglar, dumbass,” he continues. “You can go look around the kitchen all you want, but then you'll just have to come back here and face that screen again. Stop inventing distractions and just write!”
Taking a sip of wine, I find that it's almost empty again. Damn, I must have been sipping while I was talking to Bartleby. Despite feeling a little unsteady, I get to my feet and stumble over to the cabinet.
“More?” he asks.
“Just one glass,” I mumble, struggling to hold the bottle still while I pour. “It helps me write.”
He laughs.
“It does!” I hiss, turning to him but, in the process, knocking the glass and sending it spilling over the side of the cabinet. I reach my foot out, and at the very last moment the glass hits my ankle and then rolls onto the rug. There's no breakage, but an entire glass of red wine is now soaking into the rug's fabric. “Damn it!” I mutter, reaching down and picking up the glass. I quickly refill it, before setting the bottle down and turning to the doorway as I hear another bump.
“I don't hear typing,” Bartleby says again.
I turn to him, and for a moment I want to punch that grin right off his face.
“Don't you have somewhere to be?” I ask.
“I do,” he replies. “Right here.”
“You've done enough already tonight.”
“How are those five hundred words going, old buddy? I'd feel awfully negligent if I left before you'd got them done.”
“I'm on the verge,” I reply, stumbling back toward the desk, taking great care to not spill any more wine. “Once I actually get going, I'll have them done in no time at all.”
“Good to hear,” he replies, “because it's 5am. If you don't get to bed soon, Rachel and Lucy'll be up and about.” He sighs. “I'm gonna shut up now. For your benefit, not mine. I'm not gonna say another word until you've got those words done.”
“Promise?”
I wait, but he doesn't reply.
“I'm gonna do them right now,” I mutter. “Right this very instant. You'll see.”
I slump down in the chair and take a big gulp of wine as I stare at the laptop screen. After a moment, I peer past the laptop and see the back of Bartleby's head as he sits in the armchair and looks out at the dark street. Returning my focus to the screen, I re-read the most recent paragraphs, which cover the section where the guy heads down into his basement. I feel like he needs to see something down there, something new, something that shouldn't exist. I need a shock that'll shake up his routine and make the reader believe that some other force is at work. As I continue to stare at the screen, however, I can't quite figure out what to write.
“A new character,” I say out loud finally. “That's what this scene needs. A sharp left turn into fresh territory.”
When Bartleby doesn't reply, I look over at him again. He's still sitting in the armchair, and I guess he's sticking to his word about not disturbing me.
“Okay,” I continue, taking another sip of wine and then placing my fingers on the keyboard. “There's a -”
Suddenly I hear another bump from the kitchen. I look over at the doorway, while telling myself not to let myself get distracted, but then I realize I can hear another sound, too. It's almost as if somewhere nearby, fabric is slowly being ripped. I look over toward the window. Bartleby hasn't reacted at all, but the sound continues for a few more seconds until I'm left sitting in silence again. And then, slowly, I hear something brushing against the wall out in the hallway.
“Did you hear that?” I whisper, with my heart already pounding in my chest. “That wasn't my imagination!”
I watch the door for a moment, before turning to Bartleby.
“Hey!” I hiss. “Did you hear it?”
I wait,
but he doesn't reply. He doesn't even move.
“I swear I heard a noise,” I continue. “Bartleby, come on, this isn't the time to be stubborn. You heard it too, didn't you?”
Again I wait, half watching the doorway and half watching Bartleby as he continues to sit with his back to me.
“Bartleby!” I whisper, getting to my feet. I take another sip of wine, before setting the glass down and making my way around the desk. A moment later I hear another bumping sound from out in the hall, or maybe the kitchen. Either way, there's no doubt in my mind that something's out there. “I'm not just saying this to get out of writing,” I continue, edging across the room as the sound continues. “Be serious for a moment, Bartleby, I know you can hear it too. I'll do the five hundred words, but first I have to go check it out. Are you coming with me or not?”
Stopping next to the armchair, I stop for a moment and listen to the sound of something shuffling around in the kitchen. I know Rachel and Lucy haven't come downstairs so there shouldn't be anyone else in the house. The alarm hasn't gone off, so no-one has broken in, but...
“Bartleby,” I whisper, nudging his shoulder. “I'm dead serious right now. There's something or someone in the kitchen.”
I wait, but still he refuses to respond.
“Bartleby!”
Stepping around the chair so I can see him properly, I suddenly realize that his head seems to be drooping slightly to one side, while his eyes are wide open, staring at the window. I instantly feel a sense of recognition, as if I've seen him in a similar state before, and then I notice that on his right cheek, there seems to be some kind of rip that runs all the way down his face and onto his chest. I don't see any blood, but as I lean closer I realize that the torn edges of flesh are thin, less like skin and more like cotton paper.
“Bartleby?” I hiss, stepping around the chair until I see that the inside of his head appears to be hollow. I reach toward him, hesitating slightly before letting my fingertips brush against the frayed edges of his flesh. Sure enough, I find that his skin is dry and thin, and the empty space inside his head suggests that something somehow emerged, as if from a cocoon. I reach my trembling hand through the rip in his face and into his empty head. The way the fleshy edges have been peeled out, it's almost as if something burst through from inside his body.
