The House that Jack Built

by Malcolm James

  As if I could shake these thoughts loose from my brain, I slapped the side of my head a couple of times. It didn’t work. So I zipped-up my luggage and prepared to go in search of coffee. But I was reminded of the pile of defiled bedding which sat like my death sentence in a heap on the floor.

  I bit my lower lip and looked at the scene with utter panic. This was embarrassing any way you cut it. I knew Goddammed-well that Jack wouldn’t let this one go. I peered frantically around the room. There weren’t any garbage bags, nor anything else made of plastic that would suffice. So I ripped the satin fitted-sheet off the bed.

  A new problem presented itself. There was a large dark spot on the mattress. It was a misshapen, malformed circle. And although it didn’t look that bad and would probably dry with a slight stain that outlined the periphery, to me it looked like a garish black thing that would haunt me for the rest of my days if anyone found out about it.

  So I flipped the mattress over, a clumsy process, and shoved it back into place. Sure I felt guilty, but also moderately content that I’d managed to hide my embarrassment.

  Now back to the sheets and pajamas. I had no idea where Jack’s laundry room was and I didn’t savor the idea of looking for it. Hell, the appliances probably weren’t even hooked up, what with the move and all. So I bundled up the sheets and pajamas into a tight if not awkward ball, and held it at arm’s length as I made my way downstairs. In the main hallway, I left my luggage and exited through the front door. The early morning was beautiful. Although it was chilly and a layer of dew coated everything, the sun shone and birds in the distance sang songs that lamented the onset of winter.

  I wound my way around the perimeter of the house looking for the garbage area. It was near the kitchen and servant’s entrance. There were several garbage cans and I lifted the lids off one or two before I found one that was only half-filled. Furiously I fumbled with the tie on the bag, for what seemed like several minutes. Finally, I undid it and shoved the soiled linens in the bag. Hurriedly, I re-fastened it and replaced the lid on the can. I sighed. I had dispensed with the evidence and my crime was concealed.

  But as I turned to walk back to the front entrance of the house, a voice called out from behind me.

  “Going for a morning walk?” Jack stood in the doorway of the kitchen, looking relaxed and holding a steaming mug of coffee in his hand. His other hand was buried in the pocket of navy slacks while he leaned against the doorjamb.

  Busted. Shit. I nodded dumbly, wondering if he had caught me in the act, or if he had just wandered out to find me lingering around his garbage. Dammit! I couldn’t get a break.

  “Yeah, it’s a nice morning and I thought I’d get some fresh air.” While I lied, I shrugged and cautiously walked toward him. He smiled comically and nodded.

  “Good. Well, I’ve been up for an hour or so. There’s coffee on.” He raised his mug to me as if to establish that he wasn’t lying about the coffee. That wry smile on his face and the gleam in his eyes spoke volumes though.

  Dammit, I thought. He knows. My embarrassment has no boundaries, but this was one I wished I could take to the grave.

  However, without another word, he turned and strolled back into the kitchen. Eager to forget my gaffe, I focused on coffee. It became my new obsession and dictated every thought that dominated my soul as I scurried toward the door.

  When I entered the kitchen I was enthralled with the all-too-familiar scent of frying bacon. Its crackling sizzling frenzy combined with the scent, to remind me just how hungry I was. Indeed, I was famished beyond control.

  Jack handed me a coffee and gestured toward the small kitchenette table, where two place settings sat patiently and expectantly. Each setting was accompanied by a bowl of fresh fruit and a glass of orange juice, and I suddenly forgot about my embarrassing moment. I sat down and ravenously attacked the fruit cup. Jack placed a mug of steaming coffee in front of me. In between bites of grapefruit, I sipped on the delicious coffee. Jack always had the finest. This tasted like Arabica.

  He chattered on about nothing in particular, but I didn’t hear a word he said. When he removed the fruit cup and replaced it with a plate smothered with rashers of bacon, two eggs over easy and two pieces of brown toast, I wanted to jump out of my chair and kiss him. Untouched, he removed his own fruit cup and replaced it with a plate. Identically-adorned as mine, he made no overtures to touch it. Instead, he settled in his chair and watched me devour. Smiling the whole time.

  “So you’re probably wondering about all the boxes.” I looked up at him with a mouthful of bacon that impeded me from replying. But I nodded and used my eyes to indicate the affirmative.

  “I bought a piece of land in Nova Scotia. Eighty-seven acres of prime ocean-front property overlooking the Atlantic Ocean.” I stopped chewing for a moment and watched him. Putting down my fork, I took the mug of coffee and sipped enough to wash down toast slathered with orange marmalade.

  “You’re going to love it.” I blinked several times.

  “Whereabouts?” It was all I could manage through a mouthful of eggs.

  “Somewhere called St. Margaret’s Bay. It’s about thirty minutes from Halifax, the capital city. It was family-owned. And it wasn’t for sale.” he paused and chuckled. “It had been in the family for generations. Just sitting there doing nothing. Can you imagine? But I made the old geezer an offer he couldn’t refuse.”

  I took the last sip of my coffee, and as if reading my mind, Jack got up and went for more. Forlornly, I looked at my plate. It was bare. I cleaned it so thoroughly that he probably could have gotten away with replacing it in the cupboard as clean. But I was still famished and my eyes desired his plate. He hadn’t even touched it. After he refilled my mug, he sat down.

  “What are you going to do with it?” I sipped the fresh hot coffee and eyed his bacon and eggs. I couldn’t take it anymore. “You gonna finish that?” He pushed the plate toward me and I lifted it over the salt and pepper shakers, sat it on top of my plate, and dug in.

  “Build a house.” His simple and unembellished statement caught me off guard. I had no doubt that this was a grandiose Jack plan. It wasn’t like him to oversimplify at times like this.

  “You have a house.” I made this simple statement as I shoveled a hunk of toast adorned with eggs into my mouth. But he shook his head slowly from side to side. A questioning look as if to say, ‘are you even listening to me?’ His response was simple, unembellished and matter-of-fact.

  “Not like this one. This one’s going to be special.” At that point, I knew that I was better off waiting for him to complete the sentiment. I finished my second helping. Satiated, I pushed the vacant plate away from me and gestured for a smoke. He tossed me a pack and I lit one. I puffed carefully while I listened to him. I knew I’d never understand him, so patronization was my only choice.

  “I need somewhere to house the art. All these boxes…everything you see here is just a small fraction of what I have. I need somewhere to put it.” I stopped puffing for a moment. For some reason I thought about the amulet, and I looked at his neck. His Polo shirt was opened a couple of buttons, but the hair on his chest was unadorned with jewelry of any sort. That’s when I thought about my dream. The one from the night before. I thought about the statuette with the unicorn and the maiden. Unsure as to why, I needed to know about that statue.

  “Jack, do you still have the statue of the unicorn?” He ignored my question and looked at his watch.

  “I have a breakfast meeting with Fred. To close on the land in Nova Scotia.”

  “Fred’s in town?” Fred Phillips. Our friend who pissed his pants when Jack held a cap gun to his temple. He was also Jack’s lawyer.

  “Yep. Do you need a drive?” I wondered why he avoided my question about the statue.

  “Sure. When do you want to go?” He slurped a final gulp of black coffee and grabbed the leather jacket that had been slung over the chair.

  “Now.”

  Chapter 33

&
nbsp; Jack was uncharacteristically silent during the drive. I squirmed in my seat feeling like Rommel’s last minutes. My ego was badly bruised, and it would be for a long time.

  I peered out the window and thought about Jack’s news while trees flitted by. I wasn’t sure what to make of it. On its face, it wasn’t that crazy. So he wanted to build a house in Nova Scotia. I’d been told that Nova Scotia was a pretty part of the country. So he wanted to collect art. Lots of people do, and while it wasn’t a great investment, Jack didn’t have to worry about investments.

  He didn’t need the money. That’s not why he did it.

  No. It wasn’t the surface that bothered me. It was the dark, murky pool which swirled under the surface that held me in its swirling current. Jack’s very demeanor, his addictive tendencies and his well-established psychotic behavior gripped me in their talons.

  He’s not well.

  During the drive, I was forced to shield my eyes against blisteringly bright shards of sunlight which shot between the branches of trees. Their leaves, once an impregnable army, deserted their posts and became impotent sentinels against the shimmering autumn sun.

  Children ran along the sidewalks. A sign that the school year had commenced. With regret, I thought about those days. Days when I had little care beyond trying to figure out how to get into a girl’s pants. For the first time in awhile, I thought about Elizabeth and wondered how she was doing.

  It had been four years since we talked. In that time I had lost all track of her. Jack and I never talked about her, and I was glad that he didn’t bring her up. He had no qualms discussing her technique in great detail. And the ‘nasty things,’ as he liked to put it, that he had done to her.

  My knowledge grew long unwelcome tendrils the day I saw them in the throes of passion. That was enough. I blocked it out of my mind, each day. Even then, getting close to that truth would have killed me.

  After her call on my twenty-sixth birthday, I thought about her frequently and wondered if she still thought about me. I wanted to talk to her. Wanted to know if there was a chance for her forgiveness. My absolution. But I didn’t have the guts to pick up the phone.

  Of course Jack plied me with willing and attractive women, and that helped to ease the pain. But my heart knew that I wasn’t over her, and I probably never would be. So I boxed up my feelings, like one of the crates that sat in Jack’s former home. I placed the box on a shelf somewhere in the dark recesses of my soul and hoped that eventually the label would fall off and that new boxes would shroud it in obscurity. Eventually, it would be forgotten with the other clutter.

  But deep in my psyche, I was resigned to the knowledge that it would always be there. She was there with me, every day and night. And while she rarely left her box to journey into my soul, when she did it caused a whole set of problems that frustrated and confused. When it happened, I fantasized that we would eventually be together. Forever.

  I let myself go there, even though I knew it was wrong to long for something which would never happen.

  This track occupied my thoughts until we got to my townhouse. Jack pulled the car up to the curb and left the engine running. He didn’t even put it in park.

  He looked at me with eyes that said ‘get the fuck out.’ So I shrugged and got out of the car. But I left the passenger door open, for I genuinely believed that if I hadn’t, he would have taken off without allowing me to get my luggage. I retrieved it from the back seat and closed the rear door. When I poked my head into the cab to thank him for the drive, he anticipated my courtesy and cut me off.

  “Get your hands off my Jag.”

  “Okay.” I frowned and closed the door. As the car raced off, it drew a trail of damp autumn leaves, which swirled slightly in the wake of the Jag and summarily fell lamely to the pavement. I watched it disappear around a corner and contemplated. What’s this trepidation? I shook my head, as if there really was a loose screw up there. But shaking it didn’t release me from the trance.

  You’re nuts, I told myself as I hoisted my luggage up to the entrance.

  When I got inside, I left it at the door. That was as far as it was going today. My keys made a muted jingle on the hallway table. As I pulled my coat off, I thought about dropping that too; but it was cashmere and so I carefully hung it in the hall closet.

  God, my wrist was sore. I thought briefly about having it checked by a doctor and then decided that liquid medicine would be easier and quicker. When I walked into the living room I made a beeline for my liquor cabinet. I poured a Scotch and looked my watch. It was 8:40 AM, but in Paris it was almost three in the afternoon. By Parisian standards, I was starting late.

  I gulped down the first one, poured another and walked to the table that stood by the hall entrance. Flipping through my mail as I took a sip. Jack had keys to the townhouse and at my request came by infrequently to sort the mail for me, leaving only the important stuff on the table.

  At least he managed to fulfill that obligation.

  Fortunately, there wasn’t anything that required my immediate attention. But as I held the glass with my good hand and flipped through envelopes with the other, I noticed that the light on my phone was flashing.

  Frowning, I dropped the mail and grabbed the handset. Very few people had my home number, and everyone knew that I’d been in Paris for two months. I took the phone and the glass to my couch and sat down. Placing both on my glass coffee table, I picked up my remote control and turned the stereo on.

  Soft sultry sounds of opera filled the room while I picked up the phone and pressed the ‘callers’ button. Divine instrumentals transformed into a soulful voice singing in a language I did not understand, but I still felt the passion.

  Now, who was calling me…106 new calls? That’s just strange. I pressed the ‘down’ button…

  Jack. That’s what the phone said. He called last night, around the time that I arrived in Montreal. The same time that he should have been picking me up at the airport. I pressed ‘down.’ Jack again, two hours earlier. There were several more from him, each a few hours apart. Beginning to think that every call was from him, I was about to stop. But then I came across my father, who called two weeks ago. That wasn’t strange, for given the choice of talking to me or my answering service, he usually opted for the service.

  I kept hitting ‘down.’ More Jack. Then one from Bill. My financial advisor. As I flipped through the callers, Jack’s name kept popping up. I picked up my Scotch. Perverse memories welled deep inside my chest. I frowned and began to take a sip when I saw it.

  Elizabeth.

  My arm stopped in mid-drink. An involuntary shock coursed through my brain as I stared at the name on the tiny screen. My breathing increased in pace and intensity. I pulled the phone closer to my face, just to ensure that I was reading it right. It was her name alright. It was a 310 Area Code. Apparently, she was still in Detroit. I slowly lowered the phone to the coffee table and let it drop to the glass with a clank.

  As Bocelli’s powerful voice echoed through my sparsely-decorated room, I took a gulp. The music punctuated things inside me. Things that were supposed to have been long dormant. She called me. I didn’t want to believe my eyes. Dear God. Deep inside, I guess I always knew that this day would come. But after the steady, gradual erosion of life wears away at you, when it happens it’s totally unexpected.

  I suppose I paced the room for a couple of minutes while I pondered on why she called. Finally, I sat down and put the glass to my lips. I had drained it. I needed another.

  As I poured a fresh drink I continued to ponder. Why did she call? Why is she doing this to me?

  Most importantly, some part of me melted. A tiny chunk falls off a glacier. She still thinks about me. Inwardly, my heart leapt. So I got up and paced some more.

  Outwardly, I’m sure that if someone had observed me, they would have likened my behavior to that of a distressed chimpanzee in a small cage.

  While this unsettled tide flowed through my mind, the base of th
e phone fell into my field of vision. The reason I picked it up in the first place. The ‘messages’ light had been flashing.

  I darted back to the couch, sat down and picked up the handset. I dialed the number for voicemail and the automated voice clicked in.

  “You have…one…hundred…and…five…new messages. To listen to your messages…” One hundred and five? I didn’t like where this was going. At all. I pressed 1-1.

  “First…message…’Mal, where the FUCK are you? We need to talk…’” I pressed the pound key to skip. It was from the same day he had driven me to the airport, when I left for France two months before. I didn’t understand why at the time. But I really didn’t care. I desperately hoped that one of those messages was from her.

  “Next message…’Jesus, where ARE you?’” I pressed pound again.

  “Message skipped. Next message…’Mal, it’s me, Jack. Listen, I think you’re avoiding me. It’s been days since we spoke and I’m getting pissed…’” Momentarily, I forgot about Elizabeth and decided to listen to the whole message.

  ”’Look, I think I figured out what the problem is, but it’s still trying to evade me. Like it knows that I’m onto it. Hah! What a load of horse shit, eh? There’s something here for you, but I still can’t find it. Maybe if you can find some time to get away from your busy FUCKING schedule, you can haul your ass over here and help me look for it. Listen, I gotta go. There’s something at the door.’

  –click–” I rubbed my forehead and squinted. Pursing my lips together, I blew a heavy sigh from them.

  He’s not well. He tried to kill him!