Authors: Edward Lee
The House (21 page)
"Oh...sure."
At least she's got a decent vocabulary.
Melvin told himself. But he was no dummy himself—a 4.0 student when he'd been in college. He fleetingly thought back to an old theology class, remembering his Kierkegaard. "Only the naked existential leap of faith brings the spirit of mankind away from the corrupt strictures of denominationalism and closer to God through Christ."
At least she's got a decent vocabulary.
Melvin told himself. But he was no dummy himself—a 4.0 student when he'd been in college. He fleetingly thought back to an old theology class, remembering his Kierkegaard. "Only the naked existential leap of faith brings the spirit of mankind away from the corrupt strictures of denominationalism and closer to God through Christ."
Gwyneth stopped filing, and didn't say anything for several moments. She took a sip of Hershey's from the straw. "That's very profound, Melvin. Most people don't see that in my work."
Neither do I,
he admitted.
But it sounded good.
he admitted.
But it sounded good.
But why did he feel the sudden need to impress her? To appeal to her phony-granola-Left-Coast-artsy-fartsy-hypocritical-pseudo-intellectuality? This was something new to him. He dug back into his memory for more college philosophical pedantry: "Kind of reminds me of the way some of the hardcore dialectical idealists and phenomenalists tried to transfigure artistic verity into functional philosophy. You know, Jaspers, Spinoza, Immanuel Kant? The artistic image, when pursued honestly, becomes an immortal symbol—a
piece
of the artist—that will, in a sense, live forever. Immortality equals salvation, and nature, according to Spinoza, equals God. Transitively, then, you use bone fragments to craft your art—the propagation of your creative verity—the sense of
truth
in your artist's heart. Nature equals God, and the bone fragments come from nature. The rest reverts to the common summation of Kantian artistic transcendental idealism, essentially the working parts of the philosophy made objective, a series of mathematical equations: salvation for the artist equals immortality, bones come from nature and nature equals God, Christ—symbolized by the crosses in all your work—equals salvation. The equation ends where it begins, and solves itself through its own interrogative cycle."
piece
of the artist—that will, in a sense, live forever. Immortality equals salvation, and nature, according to Spinoza, equals God. Transitively, then, you use bone fragments to craft your art—the propagation of your creative verity—the sense of
truth
in your artist's heart. Nature equals God, and the bone fragments come from nature. The rest reverts to the common summation of Kantian artistic transcendental idealism, essentially the working parts of the philosophy made objective, a series of mathematical equations: salvation for the artist equals immortality, bones come from nature and nature equals God, Christ—symbolized by the crosses in all your work—equals salvation. The equation ends where it begins, and solves itself through its own interrogative cycle."
Due to the angle at which he stood, Melvin couldn't see Gwyneth's nipples beneath the tight T-shirt grow to the size of football cleats.
She stopped her filing. She didn't look at him but she wiped the corner of an eye and whispered, "Finally. Someone understands me."
Melvin feigned more focus on the outwardly interesting but ultimately mediocre bone-mosaics. "Wow, you really are very talented. These plaques are beautiful...and so meaningful, too," he said but all the while was thinking,
Bone mosaics? Ossarial crucifictive art? What a joke. I wouldn't pay five bucks for one of these things.
Bone mosaics? Ossarial crucifictive art? What a joke. I wouldn't pay five bucks for one of these things.
"You're very smart," Gwyneth said.
"I did all right in school."
"And you're an artist yourself, really. You're a journalist."
I'm not even really a journalist,
he admitted to himself.
I write fluff for a free city paper.
"I do my best."
he admitted to himself.
I write fluff for a free city paper.
"I do my best."
"How unique that I'll be a part of your family once your father and I are married."
"Yeah, I guess that means you'll be my stepmother."
Another long pause. She lit a cigarette that smelled cloying; its paper was pink. It wasn't marijuana; Melvin had smelled that crap before in college. At that moment he caught her looking at him very appraisingly—that is, she was looking at his reflection in the long mirror mounted behind the door.
Oh my God,
he thought, eyes widening. He could see her clearly aroused nipples in the reflection.
They look like somebody's got their thumbs sticking up under her T-shirt!
he thought, eyes widening. He could see her clearly aroused nipples in the reflection.
They look like somebody's got their thumbs sticking up under her T-shirt!
Melvin's penis...quaked.
She said in that same calm, very low tone: "We have a lot in common, you and I."
"We...do?" Her nipples were riveting; in fact, they looked...like rivets! "Oh, art, philosophy, sure." He tried to sound cool.
"And you're a very attractive young man."
Now Melvin frowned. The door mirror showed him his reflection in detail: skinny, stooped shoulders, buck teeth. His neck had to have been a couple inches longer than normal, and his adam's apple jutted. Richard Simmons hair made a mess of his head.
Melvin was the ultimate geek.
"I...am?"
"Thank you for your insights about my art," she said. "You're not only attractive, your intellect is very refreshing. We're going to be great friends."
Melvin's titanic adam's apple bobbed as he gulped. He bid his adieu, then retreated quickly to his cottage and masturbated in grand style.
(VI)
The above convoluted transition, of course, confusingly describing Melvin's first introduction to Gwyneth's ossarial craftwork, occurred before his assignment to write about the Vinchetti house, this being an author's tool to propel the narrative in a way that's more interesting than starting at the beginning and writing through in a linear fashion to the end. Sometimes this doesn't work, however, leaving the narrative garbled, clotted, and seemingly directionless.
Some authors, though, get away with it regardless.
(VII)
It also occurred twenty-four hours before Melvin and Gwyneth would first step into the Vinchetti house, after which Melvin would drive a considerable distance to procure carry-out Chinese food only to have it eaten in its entirety by a malnourished prostitute named Squirrelly, who would not only grace Melvin with the first sort-of hand job of his life but also convey quite a bit of pertinent information regarding the house itself...
««—»»
Dad seemed questioning at first, his brow squished up into a net of ridges. "And
where
is this house?"
where
is this house?"
"Pennellville," Melvin said. "Or I should say
past
Pennellville. Dirk wants me up there for a week or so."
past
Pennellville. Dirk wants me up there for a week or so."
"Oh, so it's for your job."
"Right, Dad." Melvin manufactured a quick, harmless lie. "I'm writing a piece on classic old homes of upstate." He didn't think it wise to tell Dad the whole truth: that he was actually writing
bullshit
about classic old
haunted
homes of upstate. "So I just wanted to let you know I'll be gone for a while."
bullshit
about classic old
haunted
homes of upstate. "So I just wanted to let you know I'll be gone for a while."
"Excellent," Dad approved. "It'll be good for you, getting out, interacting, being in a new place and meeting new people."
Melvin was terrified of meeting new people but that was neither here, nor there. He didn't bother telling his father that there would likely be
no
new people to meet, not unless the realtor's description of the area as remote was exaggeration. "Yeah, Dad. I'm really trying to break out of my shell."
no
new people to meet, not unless the realtor's description of the area as remote was exaggeration. "Yeah, Dad. I'm really trying to break out of my shell."
"Good, good. Well, since you'll be away for a week or more, you'll need money."
Bingo.
When Dad was in the right mood, he was very favorably predictable. "That would be great," Melvin said. "Maybe a hundred or so?"
When Dad was in the right mood, he was very favorably predictable. "That would be great," Melvin said. "Maybe a hundred or so?"
"Nonsense." Dad flipped open his wallet like the communicator on
Star Trek.
"You'll need more than that, because you'll be doing me a service at the same time."
Star Trek.
"You'll need more than that, because you'll be doing me a service at the same time."
Before Melvin could ask, Dad handed him two grand in hundreds.
Do I have a great father or what?
Do I have a great father or what?
But what was this "service?"
"It just so happens that I'll be in Providence all next week for a business conference. It's the annual meeting for the American Automobile Dealers."
"Oh," Melvin said. "What a coincidence."
"Yes. And I don't want Gwyneth alone in this big house for all that time." Dad leaned over and whispered, "She's a little nutty. God knows what she'd get into—"
"I heard that!" Gwyneth's voice sailed down from upstairs.
Dad frowned. He whispered even lower. "So I want you to take her with you. I don't want her in my hair at the conference."
"I heard that!"
Now Dad sighed. "So look after her for me."
Melvin looked at the two grand. "Sure, Dad. Anything for you."
"Good boy. And take whichever cars you want."
The Hummer,
Melvin thought.
Melvin thought.
"I'm taking the Vette!" Gwyneth's voice sailed down again.
"Whatever you want, honey," Dad agreed toward the stairs.
Gwyneth's voice sounded sourceless. "So where are you packing me off to?"
Melvin spoke up to answer. "A solitary old house way out in the hills."
"Oh, that sounds wonderful. I could do so much work in a natural setting like that."
"Like Thoreau at Walden Pond," Melvin added insightfully.
Gwyneth squealed with delight from wherever she was upstairs.
Dad put his arm about his son's shoulder. "Now I know you probably weren't counting on company for this writing assignment, Melvin, but you'd be doing me a big favor—"
"No problem, Dad."
"And I need to add that, as far as Gwyneth is concerned... there are a few perks."
Perks?
Melvin scratched his head. "What do you mean?"
Melvin scratched his head. "What do you mean?"
"She's a naturalist."
Now Gwyneth's voice lanced their ears, objecting, "I've told you a million times! Not a naturalist! A
naturist!
"
naturist!
"
"I know what a naturalist is," Melvin—former English major that he was—said. "A film-maker like Bergman, or a writer like Ibsen. The literary movement that embodies social realism against concrete modern objectivity—"
"Your son's so smart!" Gwyneth called down.
Melvin continued, "but...naturism? An interest in natural beauty? Devotion to the land? I'm not sure what naturism is."
Dad's eyes gestured toward the second floor landing. "Take a look."
"Naturism is synonymous with nudism," Gwyneth said. Her voice seemed much closer now. When Melvin glanced up, his expression registered the same way an adolescent's would, when happening upon his father's secret stash of
Playboys.
Playboys.
Oh—oh—oh!
Gwyneth stood atop the landing dressed in nothing but her wedding ring and a pair of Earth shoes. Her long curly-blond tresses fell over frost-white shoulders, and more immaculate alabaster flesh flowed downward in ultimate feminine curvatures. Her navel—an inny—was an adorable slit, and an abundant pie-wedge of light-mocha-colored pubic hair puffed forward between the white thighs. Melvin's eyes actually began to water at sight of these breasts: chiffon orbs, bigger than life—centered by pig-pink bolts of flesh. She was a Peter Paul Rubens painting standing before them...
...in which case, Melvin would've been desperate to ejaculate on the Baroque master's canvas.
"That's some woman I married, huh, son?" Dad expounded.
Melvin's mouth fell open to never utter a word. One wouldn't speak before an angel, would they? This was better than an angel, this vision of beauty nearly heavenly itself.
Gwyneth's appearance on the landing only lasted for the few seconds it took her to physically demonstrate a definition of naturism. She disappeared in a blur white as Cool-Whip.
Melvin stammered, "She-she-she... You mean she's going to be walking around
naked
the whole time we're in Pennellville? With
that
body?"
naked
the whole time we're in Pennellville? With
that
body?"
"That's a fact, my boy," Dad said. Then he blurted a fatherly laugh and slapped Melvin hard on the back. "I knew you wouldn't have a problem with her going."
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