She got up and brushed the dirt off her knees, left the room and turned down the hallway. As she walked, she couldn't resist the appeal of the sealed doors, and tried them all once again. She turned every knob on her way to the stairs but they would not open. She finally came to Paulo's door and reached out to rest her hand on the knob. She hesitated, briefly, feeling like a character in a fairy tale: the lonely maiden, whisked away to a remote and dingy castle by a mysterious lord. Given free-reign of the place, except, of course, for the one forbidden room. She turned the knob and walked in. It was dark inside, the windows were covered by blankets nailed to the wall. It stank like death, and it took a second for her eyes to adjust to the light. When they did, she saw his walls were lined with shelves holding different sized jars. What looked like dozens if not hundreds of them, and they were all filled with dead bugs. She peered into a jar filled with some type of huge beetle with slick, black and white shells. She felt a wave of revulsion move through her and began to back out of the room.
“You're lost, little girl,” Paulo sang behind her. She jumped around to see him standing in the doorway.
“Shit!” She said, caught off guard by his presence, embarrassed, and more than anything, afraid. Now she really had been caught doing something she wasn't supposed to.
“Having fun looking at my collection?” Paulo asked. “You probably think I'm fucked-up in the head, huh?”
“No,” she lied. “I.. I had an ant farm when I was a kid. That's what this shit is, right? Like an ant farm?”
“You had a ant farm when you was a kid? Me too!” Paulo laughed. “I knew we'd have a lot in common. My moms got me one when I was little. I remember I stopped feeding them, though. You know, to see what would happen. I thought maybe they'd fucking eat each other or something, I don't know. I watched them every day. They didn't do shit; just kept building them tunnels. Every day. They didn't do nothing. They wouldn't even die. Did you know that? Ants don't die. They just keep going and going...”
Alene let out a nervous laugh, “Yeah, sure, ants don't die.”
Paulo smiled at her. “That's right, they don't. You gotta kill 'em.” And then he said, “I'll kill you, too.”
Alene took a step back. “What?”
A hideous smile bloomed on Paulo's face, “I said, if I ever see you in here again, I'll cut your tits off, you fucking whore. Keep them motherfuckers under my pillow.”
Alene looked around the room, terrified, as Paulo closed in on her. The smile was gone. He moved slowly and his figure grew like shadows in the sunset, blocking the exit, he loomed over her.
Paulo burst into laughter. “Oh shit, girl, I'm just fuckin' with you. You looked like you was gonna piss your pants!” He laughed even louder.
Alene took a moment to breathe and then slugged Paulo in the chest as hard as she could, “Not fucking funny, man. Not even a little bit.”
Paulo dragged a tear across his sore-encrusted face. “Don't be like that. I said I was only fucking with you. C'mon, let's go downstairs. I got a nice meal for us to eat. We'll talk, have some wine. It'll be nice. You'll see.”
“Fine, whatever. Lead the way,” Alene said, glad to have a chance to get out of his creepy room. She followed Paulo downstairs to the dining room. It seemed a little nicer than the rest of the house. There was a bay widow with a view of the garden, streaming in soft light as the sun sank below the horizon. There was a long table with three places set; a bottle of wine, and a fresh floral arrangement in the center. Alene sat and Paulo leaned over the table to light candles. He disappeared behind the swinging door that led to the kitchen. Alene glanced at the old man, seated at the head of the table. He stared straight ahead, eyes unfocused, still in the grips of his benumbed daze. Alene could see a puddle of drool collecting in the bottom of his oxygen mask.
Paulo reappeared, pushing a cart with three covered serving trays, which he placed before them, serving Alene last. He poured wine from a bottle covered in a thick layer of dust, and sat down across from her.
Paulo raised his glass. “In honor of your first night here, I'd like to propose a toast: May you be imprisoned by our charm, may you be held by our hospitality, and may it keep you forever.” Paulo took a long drink and pulled his lips back over his wine-stained teeth to grin at her.
“Cheers.” Alene threw back the wine, and almost gagged on it. It had a smell like rotten eggs and tasted like vinegar.
Paulo snickered, “Don't like the wine? Maybe you're just not used to it. I think you'll find that we're like a better class of people here. All our shit's real fancy. Have you ever had wine like this before?”
“No. Tastes like shit by the way. I've worked in enough barrooms and restaurants to know when a bottle is corked. But I guess you knew that already, didn't you?”
“Corked? This shit ain't corked. It's that rich shit. It's an acquired taste. Here, let me pour you another glass. You'll like it.”
Alene put her hand over her glass. “Better not. People tell me that I can be kind of a cunt when I have too much to drink. Another glass and I might let it slip that the first time I saw your face, I mistook it for one I'd seen decaying in a body farm.”
If Paulo was insulted by this, he didn't show it. He only chuckled to himself and continued his imitation of civility. “Well we wouldn't want that then. Some people can be sensitive about their appearance.” He lifted the cover off his tray. “Not me, though. You gotta learn to take it all in stride. Know what I mean?” He motioned to her serving tray with his fork, “Don't let your food get cold.”
Alene made a face and lifted the cover off. Beneath it was one of those frozen microwavable dinners in a cardboard tray with sections separating the food: some kind of beef patty covered in gravy, mashed potatoes that seemed to be caught in a state between solid and liquid, a rock-like brownie that had pieces of the paper tray fused to the bottom of it, everything covered in stray corn kernels.
“You know, some people appreciate a man with a sense of humor,” she said, watching Paulo shovel forkfuls of the slop into his mouth. “But you're about as funny as a fucking child's funeral.”
Paulo swallowed audibly. “You think this is a joke? This is gourmet, baby; says so right on the box.”
“This is fucking dog food,” said Alene. She picked up her fork and scraped away the gravy from the beef patty. It came away in a single gelatinous glob to reveal the meat beneath, a sickening gray.
Alene pushed the tray away from her.
“You didn't like it, huh?” Paulo said, wiping his face with a cloth napkin.“That's okay, I won't tell the chef. You know who lives for this shit, though?”
“Mrs. Boyardee?”
“No.” Paulo laughed, “The old man. It's his favorite.” Paulo dragged his chair around the table and pulled it up beside the old man. “Isn't that right, abuelito? Tell her how much you love it.” He yanked down the old man's oxygen mask and grabbed the back of his head, nodding it back and forth. Then he took the old man's bottom lip between his fingers and moved his mouth up and down like a puppet, speaking for him in a cartoonishly high-pitched voice, “Si si, Senior, comida para perros es me favorito!”
“It is?” Paulo responded in his own patronizing tone.
Si, Senior. But I cannot eat eet by myself. I neeed heeelp. Can you heeelp me?”
“Okay, I'll help you. What would you like first?”
“Ohhh, the meeet looks so teender! I think I want that,” Paulo answered for the old man, working his jaw with his fingers.
He skewered the old man's beef patty and shoved the entire grisly slab into his own mouth. He chewed it for a long time without swallowing, and when he had worked it into a near-liquid consistency, he stood over the old man, jerked his face up, forced his mouth open as wide as he could, and dribbled the disgusting puree into the old man's gaping maw.
Alene stared on, gripped by revulsion as Paulo clamped a hand over the old man's face and pinched his nose shut.
“That's a good boy. Swallow it all
down, abuelito. Swallow it all down.” The old man lurched forward in his chair and retched, sending a brown spray of gravy and saliva between Paulo's fingers that dripped down in viscous gobs. Paulo shook the slime from his hand and it spattered across the tablecloth. “Guess he was already full, huh? Well, I hope he saved room for dessert.”
“No,” Alene said, getting up. “This is fucked up, what you're doing. You're going to kill him.”
“Shut the fuck up and sit down!” Paulo screamed. “You don't want to know what I'd make you eat; though I don't think there's much you wouldn't put in your mouth already.”
Alene sat.
Paulo bent forward, reaching under the table for something. “You're gonna love this.”
He came back up with a glass jar. Alene recognized it from the ones he kept in his room; the jars with the insects in them.
He set the jar on the table and unscrewed the lid. It was full of the same huge, black-and-white-shelled beetles she had seen earlier. Paulo put his hand in and dug around. He found one he liked and held it out to Alene. “Cottonwood Beetle. It has a very distinct flavor that perfectly compliments a rich meal.”
Alene turned away, disgusted. The beetle was easily half as long as Paulo's index finger, and its shell had a sheen like snake skin, but what made her most uncomfortable were the long, thin pair of antennae coming out of the back of the thing's head.
Paulo turned to the old man again and plunged his hand back into the jar, coming up with a handful of the writhing insects. “You've been a good boy, abuelito. You cleaned your plate, and now it's time for dessert.” He fed the beetles to the old man, one after another, like a man feeding his lover chocolates. And although the vacant expression never left his eyes, the old man seemed to actually enjoy them. A pleased hum sounded from deep within his throat as he crushed the bugs between his gums in his hollow and cavernous mouth. Alene could hear him smacking from across the table, grinding the insects into a yellow paste that dribbled out over his chin.
He noticed her staring and twisted his mouth into a toothless grin. She felt vomit rise as she looked back into his smiling, idiot face smeared with entrails and insect limbs.
Paulo howled laughter, “You should see the look on your face, girl,” he managed between lunatic screeches of joy. “You're gonna look back on this real soon and realize how fucking funny it all is. I promise. I'd tell you now, but I wouldn't want to ruin the joke.”
Alene pushed her chair away from the table and got up, trying not to look as rattled as she felt. “I think I'd like to go to bed now. But thank you for a wonderful time. Dinner was lovely,” she said sarcastically. “But, there comes a time at any dinner engagement when the host is force-fed maggots, and that's usually my cue to exit.”
“They were beetles,” said Paulo.
“Yes they were. They were beetles and you're insane. So, I'll just be off to bed, then. Try not to, you know, stab me in my sleep and fuck the knife wound or anything, 'kay?”
Paulo raised a hand, “I promise. The old man don't like me to touch his things anyway. Especial the new things he hasn't even had the chance to knock a few dents in himself.”
“You really know how to make a girl feel safe.”
Paulo turned his back and began feeding more beetles to the old man. “You know, you don't have to go to bed so early. The night's still young and the old man can put away a lot of bugs.”
Alene was already walking away. She was halfway up the stairs when she heard the sound of the old man choking, followed by Paulo's mad cackle.
She woke early the next morning and battled her way out of the drooping bed. She left her room, went down the hallway past Paulo's door. The dawn light wasn't doing the house any favors; it only made the membrane of dust and grime more apparent. She had to get out. She took the stairs, making new footprints in the odd, yellow powder scattered around. She shifted her weight as carefully as she could to repress the creeks and moans of the rotting structure beneath her.
And finally, she found herself outside in the garden. It was lovely in the morning light and she lost herself in a labyrinth of delicate blossom. She found a stone bench and sat for awhile with her back to the ugly, dark house, trying not to think about Paulo. He was crazy, obviously, but she was just beginning to realize how dangerous he might be. She grew restless and meandered around the garden some more. She was starting to notice the grotesque statues, how they undermined the beauty surrounding them. They truly were hideous. There was a statue of a man, prone with his hands clutching at his throat in agony. His mouth was stretched unnaturally wide, and in it sat a bed of marigolds; they seemed to burst out of him in an explosion of gold and apricot. Another statue, close to the fountain, depicted a screaming woman with her arms and legs forced apart. She was covered in vines as if they were inflicting some medieval torture on her; drawing and quartering her, pulling her apart. There was a woman whose head had been Withd by some sort of bush that reminded Alene of Chia Pets. Another of a man, bent over, growing a single daisy from his asshole.
“That's one of my favorites,” a voice behind her said.
Alene turned to see the old man sitting in his wheelchair, with Paulo standing behind him.
“It was inspired by The Garden of Earthly Delight,” the old man continued. “Do you know Bosch?”
“No, I don't,” Alene admitted.
“That's a shame. I'll have to introduce you to his work. It's quite whimsical, I find. I see you’ve been enjoying my garden, my dear. Isn't it lovely?”
“Yeah, it's great. Are you feeling okay this morning?” Alene said, trying not to think about the old man grinding Cottonwood beetles to mush between his gums.
“I suppose you would be concerned. The state I was in all of yesterday. I can't imagine what you must have thought. Doped to the gills, my dear. It's the only way I'll set foot inside one of those god awful contraptions. Mass graveyards on wings is what they are really. But yes, I'm feeling more or less myself. A bit of indigestion, but that seems to be typical whenever I ingest those particular pharmaceuticals; very harsh on the digestion, you know, but a small price to pay.”
“Maybe it was something you ate,” Alene said.
Paulo snorted laughter behind the old man, and covered his mouth with one hand.
“Christ damn you, Paulo. Don't you have anything more important to do than lurk behind me sniggering?”
“Si, abuelito. Just let me move you out of the sun and I'll find some work to do,” Paulo told the old man. Alene followed them as Paulo wheeled him beneath one of the blooming willow trees. He took great care in positioning the old man, moving his wheelchair back and forth, adjusting him sightly until, finally, the old man became fed-up and shooed him away.
“He's Mexican, you know,” the old man said as Paulo spread apart the dangling branches and walked out from beneath the tree.
“I think he said he was from Ecuador, or something,” said Alene.
“Some part of Mexico anyway. It makes no difference. He's here now. I let him tend to the garden. It's good for him. The sun is good for him. He has a slight skin condition.”
“I hadn't noticed.”
“Well he does; cursed with a blight of rot eating away the flesh, poor bastard.”
“Ugh! That's kind of a gross way to put it.”
“It is the only way I'd put it. And, in a way, I admire it. Paulo is a man with nothing to hide. All his imperfections and corruption are plain to see; right on his face. So much of our world has the appearance of purity, but it is only aesthetic. Beneath it is a festering lesion; a writhing pustule spreading like plague beneath a pleasing facade, do you understand?”
Alene nodded although she was barely paying attention. If she was wearing a watch she would be checking it.
“Good. I can think of no better example than this very garden where we stand. All around us is a grand and serene beauty. But if one were to look closely... Do you see Paulo over there? See what he's doing?”
She looked th
rough the overhanging willow branches. Paulo was stalking around the yard, spraying the flowers and bushes with pesticide from an antique bug sprayer; the kind that looks like a bicycle pump with a canister at the end. “Oh, look at that. He's got one of those old-timey sprayer thingies. Cool. I don't think I've ever seen one outside of cartoons. I think Donald Duck had one.”
The old man narrowed his gaze at her. “The point is, even though we are surrounded with the appearance of beauty, beneath it all is worms. Worms and rot, and bugs, insects, and slugs, all chewing, chewing, chewing away and devouring everything healthy, do you see?”
“Fuck yeah.”
“And we must fight them,” the old man carried on. “And no matter how fiercely we battle them, we only hold them at bay. They're resilient as a species. The individual does not matter to them. Kill one fly, kill a hundred flies, it makes no difference. The infestation must be demolished on a massive scale.”
“I'm pretty sure worms and flies and slugs are all different species.”
“Rot is a species! Plague is a species!”
“Sure. You're right,” Alene agreed. She didn't want to encourage him further.
The old man was silent for a long time after that and Alene was beginning to think he had fallen asleep, but he started speaking again.
“This garden is my birthright. I was born in the very house that stands behind us, long ago; long ago, and yet, not long at all. I closed my eyes in the eventide of youth, and when I opened them again I was old. But I was never supposed to be born at all.
“My father built this house. It was intended as a home for he and my mother; a place to raise a family, but sadly, it was not to be. My dear mother was incapable of carrying a child to term. Her womb was a horrid place that refused to harbor a child. And so my brothers and sisters were ejected from her, half-formed and still-born. My father resented her for it. He accused her of lacking the will or the want to bear him live offspring. His resentment and misery drove him to drink, and that made him hateful. But my mother tried, again and again to give him the child he so desperately wanted. And each time she failed, every red pulp of flesh that wriggled out of her, drove a little more of her sanity away. And still she tried; for thirty-seven years she tried, while my father drank and abused her. And the whole time the ground beneath our feet filled with my little quaggy brothers and sister, because that is where she put them; in the ground. Right where this garden stands was a massive unmarked cemetery for my unborn siblings. My mother would walk around the yard- for there was no garden at this time- and she would call out the names she had given to her children. She would call, Rebekah, and Jonathon, and William, and Bethany, and dozens of other names but there was never any answer. And then one day when my mother was late into middle-age, she felt a great pain inside of her. And that pain was me, fighting to get out. She didn't even know I had been there, for she had given up. But I was here, and I came without regard.
Flyblown and Blood-Spattered Page 2
