The Collection

by Bentley Little

  Alex nodded distractedly. They had reached the edge of the lake, and he crouched down, dipping his fingers in the water. The liquid felt uncomfortably warm to his touch. And slimy. Like melted Jell-O. He quickly withdrew his hand.

  He stood, shaking the water from his fingers. There was a faint ringing in his ears. He looked around the meadow but found that his whole perspective had changed. The trees no longer seemed so beautiful. Rather than a miraculous exam­ple of the wonders of nature, the forest looked like a fake grove that had been inexpertly planted. The lake looked small and ill-formed, particularly in comparison with some of the pools and lagoons created for the newer resorts. The meadow, he saw now, would be perfect for either a golf course or an intra-resort park. Lighted walking paths or horse trails could be constructed through the grass and the trees. Landscaping could accentuate the meadow's natural beauty.

  Accentuate natural beauty?

  Something seemed wrong with that, but he could not put his finger on what it was.

  "This sounds exactly like what you're looking for," the realtor said.

  Alex nodded noncommittally. His gaze swept the short shoreline of the lake. And stopped. In the weeds on the opposite side of the water was a rusted water pump.

  A chill passed through him as he stared at the pump. It was nearly identical to the one in his dream, his mind hav­ing conjured correctly even the rounded organic contours of its shape. His heart was pounding crazily, a rap rhythm in­stead of its usual ballad beat. He swiveled toward the real­tor. The agent was staring at him and smiling. What was the expression on the man's face? Was that amusement he saw in those eyes? Was there a hint of malice in that smile?

  Jesus, what the hell was wrong with him? There was nothing unusual in the real estate agent's expression. He was being paranoid.

  "Should I draw up the papers?" the realtor said jokingly.

  Alex forced himself to remain calm, gave the man a cool smile, did not tip his hand. "What other properties can you show me?"

  While April was in the shower, he looked at himself in the full-length mirror on the back of the door. For the first time he realized that he was middle aged. Really realized it. His gaze shifted from his thinning hair to his expanding waist to the increasing rigidity of his previously malleable features. His age was not something of which he'd been un­aware-each birthday had been a ritualized reminder of his loss of youth, each New Year's Eve a prompter of the pass­ing of time-but he now understood emotionally what be­fore he had comprehended only as an intellectual concept.

  His best years were behind him.

  He sucked in his gut, stood sideways in front of the mir­ror, but the effort was too much and he let it fall. That stom­ach was never going to go away. He would never again have the kind of body that females would look at admiringly. The women he found attractive would no longer find him attrac­tive.

  He might die of a heart attack.

  That's what had brought this on. His heart had been pounding so forcefully and for so long after he'd seen the water pump that he'd honestly been afraid it would burst. It did not seem possible that his unexercised and cholesterol-choked muscle could keep up that pace for so long a time without sustaining damage.

  It had, though.

  He walked across the carpeted floor of the hotel room and stared out the window at the black silhouette of the San Francisco Peaks. The mountains towered over the lights of Flagstaff but were dwarfed by the vastness of the Arizona night sky. He had two more days of scouting to do, two more days of meetings and sales pitches, but he knew that he had already made his decision.

  He was going to recommend that the corporation buy the meadow. He didn't feel as bad about the decision as he thought he would, and that concerned him a little. He stared out the window at the stars, tried to imagine what it would have been like if he really had followed his dream, not allowed himself to be deterred by practicality. Would he have been with April or someone else? Would he still be living there in the meadow, by the lake, or would he have long since given up and, like most of those involved in the back-to-nature movement, joined mainstream society? Would he be where he was now anyway?

  He didn't know, he wasn't sure, but he felt a vague sense of sadness and dissatisfaction as he looked into the night.

  "Hon?" April called from the bathroom. "Could you bring me my panties from the suitcase?"

  "Sure," he answered.

  He turned away from the window and walked over to the suitcase on the floor near the bed.

  He dreamed of the pond.

  He walked down the narrowing, darkening path until he reached the blighted clearing, where the filthy water lay in a sickening pool. He stared at the pond and he was afraid. There were no monsters here, no evil spirits. This was not sacred Indian land that had been unthinkingly desecrated. There were no strange creatures swimming beneath the sur­face of the brackish liquid.

  There was only the pond itself. And the pump.

  These were the things that were scary. Against his will, he found himself moving across the dead ground to the edge of the water. He looked across the pond at the pump and the hose protruding from its side wig­gled obscenely, moving upward into the air, beckoning him. He awoke drenched in sweat.

  Two days later, he faxed his preliminary report, along with the appropriate documents and estimates, to corporate headquarters, then took April out to look at the site. He drove himself this time, using the rental car, so the going was much slower.

  He parked the car at the end of the tire-tracked path and said nothing as April got out of the vehicle and looked around. She nodded appreciatively as she took in the trees, the meadow, the lake. "It's pretty." she said.

  He'd been expecting something more, something like his own initial reaction when he'd first seen that photo years ago, but he realized that she had never shown that sort of en­thusiasm for anything.

  "It is pretty," he said, but he realized as he spoke the words that they no longer held true for him. He knew, ob­jectively, intellectually, that this was a beautiful spot, a prime location for the resort, but he no longer felt it. He re­membered the slick and slimy feel of the water on his fin­gers, and though his hands were dry he wiped them on his pants.

  The two of them walked through the high wispy grass to the edge of the lake. As before, the placid surface perfectly reflected the sky above and the scenery around. He let his gaze roam casually across the opposite shore, pretending to himself that he had no object, no aim, no purpose in his vi­sual survey, but the movement of his eyes stopped when he spotted the water pump.

  He glanced quickly at April to see if she'd noticed it. She hadn't.

  He looked again toward the pump. Its metal was dark, threatening in the midst of the yellow-tan stalks of the weeds, its hose draped suggestively over the small mud bank into the water. He didn't want April to see the pump, he realized. He wanted to protect her from it, to shield her eyes from the sight of that incongruous man-made object in the middle of this natural wilderness. Was it man-made ? What kind of thought was that?

  He made a big show of looking at his watch. "We'd bet­ter get back," he said. "It's getting late. We have a lot of things to do, and I have a long day tomorrow. There are a lot of loose ends to tie up."

  She nodded, understanding. They turned to go, and she took his hand. "It's nice," she said as they walked back to­ward the car. "You found a good one." He nodded.

  In his dream, he brought April to the pond. He said noth­ing, only pointed, like a modern-dress version of the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come. She frowned. "Yeah? So it's an old polluted pond. What of it?"

  Now he spoke: "But why is it polluted? How did it get that way? There are no factories here, no roads to this spot-"

  "Who knows? Who cares?"

  She obviously didn't feel it. To her, this was nothing more than a small dirty body of water. There was nothing sinister here, nothing malicious. But as he looked up at the blackness of the dead sky he knew that she was being de­cei
ved, that this was not the case.

  He turned around and she was gone, in her place a pillar of salt.

  Again, he awoke sweating, though the room's air condi­tioner was blowing cool air toward him. He got out of bed without disturbing April and walked into the bathroom. He did not have to take a leak, did not have to get a drink of water, did not have to do anything. He simply stood before the mirror, staring at himself. His eyes were bloodshot, his lips pale. He looked sick. He gazed into his eyes and they were unfamiliar to him; he did not know what the mind be­hind those eyes was thinking. He leaned forward until his nose was touching the nose behind the glass, until his eyes were an inch away from their mirrored counterparts, and suddenly he did know what that mind was thinking.

  He jerked away from the mirror and almost fell backward over the toilet. He took a deep breath, licked his lips. He stood there for a moment, closed his eyes. He told himself that he was not going to do it, that he was going back to bed.

  But he let himself silently out of the hotel room without waking April.

  He drove to the property.

  He parked farther away this time, walking the last several yards through the forest to the meadow.

  The meadow.

  In the moonlight, the grass looked dead, the trees old and frail and withered. But the lake, as always, appeared full and beautiful, its shiny surface gloriously reflecting the magnif­icent night sky.

  He wasted no time but walked around the edge of the lake, his feet sinking in the mud. The opposite shore was rougher than the side with which he was familiar, the tall weeds hiding rocks and ruts, small gullies and sharp, dead branches. He stopped for a moment, crouched down, touched the water with his fingertips, but the liquid felt slimy, disgusting.

  He continued walking.

  He found the pump.

  He stared at the oddly shaped object. It was evil, the pump. Evil not for what it did, not for what it had done, not for what it could do, but for what it was. He moved slowly forward, placed his hand on the rusted metal and felt power there, a low thrumming that vibrated against his palm, re­verberated through his body. The metal was cold to his touch, but there was warmth beneath the cold, heat beneath the warmth. Part of him wanted to run away, to turn his back on the lake and the pump and get the hell out of there, but another - stronger - part of him enjoyed this contact with the power, reveled in the humming which vibrated against his hand.

  Slowly, he reached down and pulled the lever up. The metal beneath his fingers creaked loudly in protest after the years of disuse. Yellow brackish liquid began trickling out of the pipe, growing into a stream. The liquid splashed onto the clear water of the lake and the reflection of the sky dark­ened, disappeared. The water near the pump began foaming, the suds blue then brown in the darkness.

  He waited for a moment, then pushed the lever down again. He knelt, touched his fingers to the water. Now it felt normal to him, now it felt good.

  He rose to his feet. Dimly, from the far side of the clear­ing, he thought he heard April call his name, but her voice was faint and indistinct and he ignored her as he began to strip. He took off his shoes, his socks, his shirt, his pants, his underwear.

  He looked across the lake, but there was no sign of April.

  There was no one there.

  The last time I went skinny-dipping, he thought, I had a beard and a ponytail.

  "POP," he said, whispered.

  Naked, he dived into the water. His mouth and nostrils were filled instantly with the taste and odor of sulfur, chem­icals. He opened his eyes underwater, but he could see noth­ing, only blackness. His head broke the surface and he gulped air. Above, the sky was dark, the moon gone, the stars faint.

  The water felt cool on his skin, good.

  He took a deep breath and began to swim across the lake, taking long brisk strokes toward the dark opposite shore.

  Roommates

  I've known people who have roomed with strangers for "financial reasons, but to me the idea of sharing an apartment with someone I don't know sounds like a prescription for hell. Although I've never had to ad­vertise for a roommate, this is what I think it would be like.

  ____________________________

  I should have charged Ira a cleaning deposit, Ray thought.

  He looked around the empty bedroom. The fat son of a bitch had left cigarette butts, old Coke cans, crumpled paper, and other assorted trash all over the stained and dirty carpet. Bushes of fluffy dust had grown in the sharp corners of the room. The small adjoining bathroom was even worse. Used toilet paper clogged the sink and bathtub drain. The water in the toilet was black, the shower curtain covered with mold, and the entire bathroom smelled of rot and decay, dried urine and wet feces, old vomit. He'd almost puked when he'd peeked through the doorway.

  I should have charged him a big deposit.

  Ray sighed. Hell, if he'd known that Ira had been this much of a pig, he would have kicked him out months ago.

  After all, it was his apartment, registered in his name. If any damage occurred, he'd be the one liable for it.

  But he'd been a nice guy. He'd left Ira his privacy, had 1 not ventured into the territory beyond the closed door of f Ira's room. He'd even let the fat cow slide on the rent for two months after he'd lost his job. And how had the bastard J repaid him? He'd skipped out, owing Ray nearly a thousand dollars in bills and back rent, leaving behind this putrid pigsty to be cleaned up.

  Ray walked over to Ira's bathroom and shut the door, almost gagging on the smell. He had to get this place cleaned up and find another roommate within the next two weeks or he'd be out of an apartment. Rent was due on the first of the month, and there was no way he'd be able to make the pay­ment alone.

  But he was going to lay down the law for his next room­mate.

  And charge a hefty security deposit.

  He took another look around the filthy bedroom and went into the kitchen to get a garbage sack, the broom, the mop, the vacuum cleaner.

  The Lysol.

  ROOMMATE WANTED

  W/M, 28, non-smkr, Ikngfor rmmte

  to shrxpenses. 555-5715.

  Ray came home from work, threw his tie on the couch, and walked immediately across the living room to check his answering machine.

  Nothing.

  He sat down on the couch. He was starting to get worried.

  The ad had been running in the paper for three days and he hadn't gotten a bite. Not even a nibble. Yesterday he'd stopped off at the university after work and put up a notice on the housing bulletin board, figuring that since it was near the beginning of the semester he'd be able to find a re­spectable, trustworthy college student to room with him. But no one had called from the college, either.

  He could feel himself starting to panic. After the Ira dis­aster, he'd sat down and written out a long list of ground rules: "The Law," as he called it. It was his intention to read The Law to all prospective roommates and to get their signed-agreement in case he needed it as proof should he ever have to take them to court. But for the past two days he'd found himself mentally striking items from the list, ad­justing his rules, rationalizing the dropping of standards and requirements.

  He sorted through the mail in his hand. There was an en­velope addressed to Ira, and he opened it without hesitation. He had no idea where the pigman was or how to get ahold of him, but he probably wouldn't have forwarded the mail even if he had known. Inside the envelope was an overdue notice from Ira's bank, warning that if his car payment was not received his vehicle would be repossessed.

  Ray smiled as he tossed the envelope into the trash. He hoped they'd nail that bastard's ass.

  He turned on the TV and was about to start dinner— macaroni and cheese—when the phone rang. He rushed across the room and picked up the receiver before the ma­chine answered it. "Hello?"

  "Hello. I'm calling about the apartment?" It was a woman's voice, tentative and hesitant, sounding as though she was not quite sure what to expect.

 
Ray tried to keep his voice light, to sound as unthreatening as possible, knowing that the woman might not be entirely comfortable with the prospect of sharing an apartment f with a strange man. "The room's still available."

  "Room?"

  "Well, room and bathroom. You'd have the master bed­room even though the rent would be split evenly."

  She was silent.

  "If you're worried about rooming with a man—"

  "No, it's not that," she assured him.

  "Well, would you like to come over and look at the place?"

  "Sure. Will you be there tonight? About eight?"

  "That'd be fine," Ray said. He did some quick mental calculations. If he skipped dinner, he would just have enough time to vacuum, dump the garbage, and straighten up the living room. He could grab some McDonald's after she left.

  "Okay," she said. "I'll see you then."

  "What's your name?"

  "Lilly."

  "Okay, Lilly. I'll see you at eight."

  The doorbell rang at seven fifty-five, and Ray ran a hand through his hair and tucked in the back of his shirt before opening the door. "Hello," he said, smiling.

  The smile froze on his face.

  On the phone, Lilly's voice had been low, sensuous, se­ductive. In person, she was a thin, emaciated wraith, all elbow angles and pointy facial features. The plain white suit she wore accentuated the angular boniness of her frame, and both her light blue eyes and thin-lipped mouth were hard.

  She carried in her hands a small, particularly unpleasant-looking monkey, a brown hairy beast with too many teeth.

  "I should have told you over the phone that I was look­ing for a place for me and my baby," she said.

  Baby? Ray frowned. Was that an affectionate term for her pet or ... ?

  "Baby?" he said aloud.

  She lifted the monkey. "My daughter." Her voice, which until now had been comparatively soft, was now as cold and hard as her appearance.

  "I'm sorry—" Ray began, starting to close the door.