The House that Jack Built

by Malcolm James

  “Yes, sometimes I do.” I nodded and instantly regretted my stupidity.

  “But that’s all I do.” Inwardly, I crashed. Dammit. There was no recovering from this one. I had become just like every other man to her, and that probably signed my death warrant for Elizabeth. My attempt at recovery was ham-handed and clumsy.

  “That’s all I would expect. I just thought, it’s crowded in here, and I’m really enjoying this conversation. I was hoping we could pick it up somewhere else. Like my place.” She nodded and pondered my words.

  “How much?” Dammit! It had become a business transaction. I thought about backing off, but all good sense went out the door around the sixth or seventh double Scotch.

  “How about five hundred? Just to dance.” She nodded again, smiling all along and probably feeling incredibly dejected that this man who had caught her attention was now offering her money to come and dance naked for him.

  “I don’t know if I can.” My heart sunk, and its beating ceased. “I mean, I work until three, and I have an early shift tomorrow.” She pondered, momentarily.

  “What about tomorrow night? I only work until ten.” I shook my head in frustration.

  “I can’t. I have to fly to Detroit tomorrow morning and I won’t be back until Tuesday.”

  “Too bad.” I nodded. Too bad indeed. Too bad I was such a fucking dummy. I decided it was time to leave, before I said anything else that might make me for the moron that I am. Besides, the Scotch was getting to me and I still needed to drive home. I managed to reclaim a little bit of dignity as I stood up and put my jacket on.

  “Look, I really enjoyed talking to you tonight. I was hoping that maybe we could continue it somewhere else. If you’re interested in dropping by later, I live at 203 Rue Montaigne. It would be really nice.” Lame words from a lame duck.

  But she looked like she was still considering it, so I asked her to wait and went to the bathroom to get rid of the Scotch. When I returned, I had regained some composure, and I took her hand and gently kissed it.

  “Elizabeth, it was a pleasure.” I don’t know why, but it totally escaped me to ask for a number, an email address. Anything. She smiled.

  “For me too.” Her glistening eyes looked into me as if they were trying to figure me out. Perhaps she wanted to accept my invitation. But there was nothing left for me to do but leave, so I reaffirmed my offer and turned and walked toward the door.

  She caught up with me and put her hand on my shoulder.

  “What did you say the address was?” My heart jumped. One beat. Maybe half a beat. I wrote it down for her and told her that I’d love to see her again. She kissed me on the cheek, and the touch of her lips was far more sublime than groping her tits and ass.

  Chapter 27

  I wasn’t surprised when she didn’t show up that night, and as I left for the airport the next day I wondered how I could get a message to her. I decided to call the bar when I reached Detroit, but my entire weekend was fraught with non-stop business. By the time I came up for air, it was Tuesday and I was flying back to Montreal.

  I thought about her during the entire flight. I needed to talk to her, to tell her that my intentions the night I met her were not to screw her. Or even have her strip for me in private. But how? I supposed I could call the bar, but I doubt they would give me her contact information.

  They might, however, give me the name of the club that she performed at in Niagara Falls. It was worth a try.

  I called Angie’s the minute I got back, and Shelley answered. Thank God. I explained to her who I was, but I didn’t have to. She remembered me.

  “Sure, hon, I think Lexi would like to hear from you. She couldn’t stop talking about you after you left.” My heart skipped a beat when she said that. Shelley told me that Lexi worked at a place called the Golden Cougar in Niagara Falls. Eagerly, I called directory assistance and got the number.

  Then I put the phone down. This was the moment of truth. If I called and she blew me off, then I looked like a fool. But if I called and she did want to continue from where we left off…then she was in Niagara Falls and I was in Montreal. I let the phone sit for several hours while I deliberated and debated. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. I called the Golden Cougar. A man answered, drowned out by thumping music and jeering men.

  “Golden Cougar.”

  “Is Elizabeth there?”

  “Sorry pal, we don’t have any dancers named Elizabeth.” Fool. I spoke up before he had a chance to hang up on me.

  “Sorry, I meant Lexi. Is Lexi there?” There was a short pause where the man spoke to someone who asked him something.

  “Lexi? She’s not here until Friday. You can get her then.”

  “Wait! Can you take a message for me?” Even though the music blared from his phone to mine, I heard him sigh and mutter some profanity.

  “Okay. What is it?”

  “Could you tell her that Malcolm from Montreal called, and give her my number?” He cursed again while he looked for something to write on. I gave it to him and hung up the phone.

  Sighing, I sunk into the couch. The wait began. She was back on the 30th. I bit my lip as I did the math and tried to figure out if I could spare enough time to fly down there. I shook my head as if trying to get a thought out. A thought that stuck to the roof of my skull like peanut butter. One thing at a time. Wait for her call.

  ***

  New Year’s came and passed, but she didn’t call. I wondered if he had given her the message. I thought about calling again, but trying to find the nerve proved difficult.

  As if Elizabeth’s blizzard – the one that suffocated me under mountainous snow banks – wasn’t enough, the setback with Lexi froze my soul. But days faded into weeks and months, and I recommenced the exorcism of Elizabeth. Elizabeth squared.

  I didn’t need a priest, though. Women, alcohol and plentiful doses of Jack did the trick.

  Eventually, the memory of both Elizabeths skulked back into the dungeon of my soul. Life in Montreal became tolerable again. My career advanced at a steady pace. Jack and I recommenced the defiling which defined our lives. When we weren’t filling women, we filled our evenings with earnest dialogues about art, literature, philosophy and legends. Enough to fill a lifetime.

  But one day, maybe three months after and many mental years spent trying to forget Lexi, a phone call announced an ill wind that would pound away at me for the rest of my life. I didn’t know its full meaning then, but I wish that I’d seen it.

  I was rushing out the door, late for a presentation that I was supposed to give to a Taiwanese firm that was most interested in introducing its product to North America. Some new form of condom or energy-saving car. I don’t know. I didn’t bury myself in my work.

  The phone rang. Cursing, I dropped everything. Including my laptop, which landed with prejudice on my toes. I yelled and hobbled to the phone. Unknown Caller. I answered, irritated that someone would interrupt my need to get away from the pain of my home.

  “Hello!” Impatience only made the pain in my foot worse. As I listened to silence, I was ready to hurl the phone at the wall. God! I winced, about to slam the phone down.

  “Hello? Is Malcolm there?” The voice sounded familiar. A female voice. But I accessed my mental archive and nothing was coming up. I guess I knew a lot of women.

  “This is Malcolm.” Again, a pause.

  “Hi, yes. You don’t know me, but my name is Abbey. I’m a friend of Elizabeth’s.” Confusion set in. Abbey?

  Elizabeth? Which one? I’d met three so far.

  “Elizabeth?”

  “Yeah, you know. Lexi. You probably know her as Lexi.” Now my heart leapt, but only for a brief, fleeting moment.

  “Lexi…Elizabeth! Of course I knew her…” Why is her friend calling me?

  “Is something wrong? Where is she?”

  “Sir, you see, that’s the problem. No-one knows where she is. She disappeared.” I froze in my laptop-ridden tracks.

  “W
hat do you mean she disappeared? When…how?”

  “No-one knows. She was in Montreal and then she was supposed to come home for Christmas. She called her parents before she left and that’s the last time anyone has heard from her.” My mouth was wracked with disbelief. I had convinced myself that she chose not to call me. It never occurred to me that she never got my message.

  “I don’t know what to say. Have you contacted the Police? Is there somewhere she might have gone? Just to get away for awhile?” I was speechless. Angelic eyes and amazing breasts strutted in front of me, while sickness formed in the deepest pit of my stomach.

  “The Police have issued a missing persons alert. We’ve tried everyone she knows. That’s why I’m calling you. You left a message for her at her place of work.” Her place of work. Abbey sounded just as well-educated as Lexi. But it sounded like she held distaste for her friend’s choice of work.

  My mind swam and sharks circled menacingly. Where was she? Ohmigod.

  The first thing that always comes to your mind when a pretty young girl disappears is the absolutely worst thing that could happen to her. I remembered her gentle words.

  I’m not doing this as a career, like most of the girls here. I’m going to do it for a year or two and then go to Japan to teach English.

  Christ, I should have asked her to stay. I sighed.

  “Look, Abbey. I’m so sorry, but I have to go. But I’m really concerned. Is there a number that I can reach you at when I get back?” She gave it to me and without exchanging any more uncomfortable words, we hung up.

  I departed with a black storm cloud over my head.

  ***

  I was determined to find out what happened to her. Over the next few months, I replayed our entire conversation, envisioned her glorious body and her warming smile. I longed, every time that I called her friend Abbey, for good news.

  There wasn’t. Months passed and I spoke to her on a frequent basis. But no-one had heard anything about the beautiful young woman who wanted nothing more than to teach English in Japan.

  Eventually, I caved in. Caved in to the conclusion which the Police had arrived at months before. I tried to move on. But I cursed myself frequently; and frequently I replayed the moment, when I could have asked her to stay with me.

  There were so many ways that I could have asked her. Ways that might have given her a reason to assent. But all I could do was offer her five hundred dollars to dance naked for me.

  I imagined that I flew back from Detroit on Saturday instead of Tuesday. I imagined walking into the bar with two dozen roses with an appeal to her. Be with me, never leave my side.

  In reality, I was fantasizing about unlikely things. Even if I had chosen a different path for my words that night, my hindsight fantasies were based on unrealistic expectations. But it was easier to dream about that Elizabeth. Lexi.

  She wasn’t firmly-entrenched in my soul with claws that ripped my insides. She hadn’t had the chance to inflict serious pain. Unlike the grief I felt over my Elizabeth, wondering and wishing about Lexi was sort of like watching a horror movie. It may scare the Hell out of you, but you know it’s not real.

  It went through my mind over and over again, and sadness was the cruel opera that sang me to sleep every night. I learned to live with it, but I learned to live with it the way one learns to live with cancer.

  Chapter 28

  Years pass. And one day, you wake up realizing that your life has been quite sad, repetitive, and unremarkable.

  So it was, when my thirtieth birthday approached. I was contemplating my sad, repetitive, unremarkable life, when Jack called in the middle of the day. He insisted that I drop everything and meet him at his house.

  At first I protested, because I was in the middle of an important negotiation which required my undivided attention. But he protested louder, and I grudgingly agreed to meet him.

  When I arrived, he greeted me at the door and rushed me into the main study. It was located on the west side of the house, adjoined by the arboretum. I still remember it: a beautiful spring day – the first warm one. The birds sang and lawnmowers churned, providing a subtle yet compelling mood for our conversation.

  I sat in one of the lounge chairs that resided by the bay windows and overlooked the St. Lawrence River. Jack poured two Single Malts. I had become particularly fond of Scotch, and Jack always had the finest. He had it imported from London by the crate, and its delicate smoky flavor was underscored by forty-two years of cautious maturation in white oak casks.

  I pretended to be irritated that he’d bogarted my day, but when he placed the crystal highball in front of me, my façade caved. His impromptu rescue had saved me, temporarily, from the drudgery that I had come to despise.

  I picked up the heavy crystal and held it under my nose. Swirling the liquor around, I let the nectar’s scent permeate my olfactory senses. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply. Then slowly, I took a tiny sip and pursed my lips.

  As the strong liquor reacted against my tongue, I let the tip of it dart against the small amount of liquid. I smiled and released it into the rest of my mouth. The warmth and smoky flavor spread. Breathing a deep sigh, I placed the glass back on the table. Its heavy base collided loudly with the glass top of Jack’s Tiffany coffee table.

  “Jack, what the Hell do you want?” I attempted irritation, but I barely pulled it off. I was delighted to have been pulled away from work, and the Scotch was almost enough to make me forget about everything that mattered.

  My feigned anger was more ritual than reality. I was the prim and proper, anal retentive school marm to Jack’s boisterous headmaster. I couldn’t just openly admit to him that I was relieved for the diversion. Even though he knew that already.

  Jack’s smile was infuriatingly sarcastic, but he didn’t respond. Rather, he walked to a pre-Victorian armoire adjacent to the entrance of the study. Slowly, dramatically and almost ritualistically, he swung the doors open and reached in to procure an object. About the size of a toaster, it was covered with fine silk cloth. And judging from the way he lifted it, I concluded that it was heavy.

  He looked like a mongoose at a cobra convention. There was something in his eyes that was different from any other day, as he ceremoniously carried the object from the armoire and toward me. For a fleeting moment, I’d have believed him if he told me that he had found the Holy Grail.

  I bent over and poured a little spring water into my Scotch. For some reason, I didn’t want to look at him. Something made me uncomfortable, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. I placed the bottle of water back on the table and grasped the glass of Scotch. Strange curiosity forced my eyes to wander up slowly and deliberately. To look at Jack, who hovered over me.

  Gingerly, he placed the object on the table. It made a dull thud as it landed on the heavy glass. He beamed at me and sat down. There was silence, and I listened to the drone of a lawnmower outside. Somewhere in the distance, one of Jack’s landscapers was mowing his expansive lawn. Grasshoppers buzzed and birds chirped with purpose. They were crisp clear sounds, because Jack had opened several windows in the arboretum, and I wondered if the long cold winter was finally over.

  He looked like he was dying to tell me something. But instead of blurting it out, he leaned back and pressed his hands together, fingertips touching in a display of ridiculous pomp. I didn’t know exactly what to do, so I took another sip of Scotch and let it waft around my taste buds and olfactory senses.

  I leaned back too, and held the glass up with one hand. Normally, I would have waited to hear what he had to say, but today was different. He just sat there with fingertips joined.

  “Is there something you want to tell me?” I swished the liquor back and forth and up and down. Like a ship at high tide, surfing the waves. It was an affectation that bespoke casual indifference. I had a great deal of success using it in conversations, whether it was with women or in business. But Jack was neither business, nor a woman.

  He shrugged and smiled as he
reached for the object. Carefully, he tugged at the silk flaps, one at a time. As he peeled them back, the object in question began to undress. I watched it strip with great interest. I could neither describe nor comprehend it until all the flaps fell away.

  Naked, it sat on the table quietly and unassumingly. As I stared at it, the drone of grasshoppers seared through my head, and somewhere, a robin chirped happily.

  I took another sip of Scotch. Sip is probably a poor choice of words. I think I gulped. But I never took my eyes off of the object. The object that had been ceremoniously presented to me filled my senses with a most curious and passionate response.

  It was as black as pitch. But it shone, reflecting the glorified rays of sun which poured through the window. Fascinated, I leaned in closer. My movement must have been construed as a desire to touch it, for Jack sprang to life and stuck the outstretched palm of his hand between me and the object.

  “Easy, mate. This can only be touched by me.”

  For some reason, his emphasis on the word me sent chills down my spine. My eyebrows must have furrowed as I sat back in the chair and took another sip, because Jack reacted to my gesture. He looked at me like a Judge looked upon the accused.

  I peered down at the statue, and then back at him again. I wondered if there was something that I was missing.

  “Do you have a cigarette?” He nodded and offered a pack of smokes to me. I thanked him and took one, placed it between my lips and lit it. After taking a deep puff and exhaling, I sighed and pondered asking him what the Hell was going on.

  “No offense, but it's supposed to bring me good luck, but only as long as no-one else touches it." He grinned and poured a minute amount of spring water into his Scotch. I looked at him suspiciously, pursed my lips around the cigarette and puffed deeply. I slowly exhaled and watched the smoke swirl around the room like lonely ghosts.

  His words sank like a body sinks into quicksand. It’s supposed to bring me good luck, but only as long as no-one else touches it.