Authors: Edward Lee

The House (31 page)

BOOK: The House

11.87Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub

ads

That would be a big negatory.
"She's not...close by right now, Dad."

"Oh, well how are things going up at the house?"

Melvin could not conceive a way to frame an honest answer so he just said, "Fine, Dad, but look, there's something I have to tell you." He ground his teeth. "It's about Gwyneth—"

"Ha, great set of tits, huh?"

"Yes—"

"I told you."

"Yeah, but listen, Dad. There's something you need to know about her, and I'd be...remiss in not telling you, so I need you to get ready for a shock."

Dad laughed over the line. "Son, son, I'm grateful for your concern, but relax. I know what you're going to say."

"No, Dad. You don't," Melvin guaranteed.

"Let me take a shot, then. Gwyneth got bored up at the house so she drove out to the nearest bar, hooked up with a guy, and made some whoopie. Am I right?"

Melvin gave that one some thought.
Well, she injected heroin into her breast, had sex with over a dozen bikers, and right now she's got a prostitute's foot up her ass and she's eating shit. Does that go a bit beyond the definition of "making whoopie?"
I'd say so.
But before Melvin could actually respond, his father piped right back in:

"I should have told you in advance, but Gwyneth and I have what's called an ‘open' marriage. It's only practical in this day and age, son. We agreed that we'd be able to see other people on the side, to follow our natural instinct. If I want to fool around, I can, and if she wants to fool around, she can."

"She's fooling around bigtime right now, Dad," Melvin nearly choked.

"And that's perfectly fine with me. Hey, your old man gets some sideline nookie, too, you know. And it's all kosher, so don't you worry about it. Look, son, I'm at this conference and I've got to give a lecture right now, so I'll talk to you soon, okay? Have fun up there!"

click

Melvin put his phone away, dismayed. He didn't know
what
to think.

He jumped when someone tapped on the window. He expected to see a biker standing there but to his relief, it was Squirrelly, not looking happy.

"Shit, man, it's a fuckin' mad house in there. Some slutty rich chick with big tits just pulled a train on the whole room, man. You'd think a fuckin' stripper just walked into a rest home for old men the way those animals are carryin' on. Big tit bitch, I'd like to slap the shit out her, man."

"Oh," was all Melvin could say.

Her chipmunk face was creased with indignation. "Then you know what the sick fucks made me do? Had me take a fuckin' shit on the pool table and stick my foot up the bitch's ass, and then she ate my shit! No lie!"

"I, uh, oh," Melvin said.

She held her flip-flopped foot up, streaked brown. "Look at that, man. I got the bitch's
shit
on my foot!"

"Uh, sorry," Melvin said.

"Hey, can I have that pizza you said you'd get me?"

"Sure," Melvin said. He passed the box out the window. "Uh, have a good, uh, day," he finished, then pulled out of the lot and drove away.

(III)

Disillusioned, dejected, and aghast, Melvin drove back to the Vinchetti house and immediately took a nap. He awoke in fits, chased by sour dreams he instantly forgot—an instance he was very grateful for—and once he awoke with a numb, pulsing erection. Melvin, as usual, masturbated with a fury, contorting into laughable shapes, and the fuel for the necessary imagery was again provided by Gwyneth.

And violence.

Rap Daddy M. made the scene, laying more hefty pimp-hand across Gwyneth's angel face. Uh-huh, he
stepped
it
out.
"I
own
dis hood, bitch, and I own
you!
"

Then Melvin ejaculated on his stomach in grand style.

He slept again, struggling to push away less welcome images: Gwyneth's chicanery in the tavern.
I didn't even know it was possible for a human anus to admit a human foot,
he thought, but, lo, it was, the proof all too detailed in his memory. Then an even more demented thought:
I wonder what Squirrelly's...poop...tasted like...
A few minutes after he finally fell into a decent state of slumber, a cacophonic staccato-burst voice exploded through his mind: "—that's right, be there or be square and speaking of square, that last cut was ‘Square-Headed People,' off the brand-new solo album by Steppenwolf's lead throat, John—that's right!—John Kay, and up next—you heard it here first because the Sauce Boss knows what's best for you, that's right, I predicted this tune would make the charts and here it is, number twelve this week on the billboard, ‘Evil Woman,' by Crrrrrrrrooooooooooooow...," and then a discordant yet eerily melodic hard rock song ground between Melvin's ears, "Black cats lay atop your satin bed, you sure wish that you could see me dead. Evil woman don't play your games with me..."

Melvin snapped awake and jerked up, staring hard into space. He whipped his head back and forth as if there was some way to actually
look
for sound, in which case all he wound up seeing was...silence.

Man...

He got up, splashed water on his face and without much conscious thought found himself meandering in the back yard. In the back of the horse stable he discovered a storage room containing what appeared to be some very old photographic equipment: spotlights, empty film magazines, a reel-to-reel film editor.
Leonard D'arava made pornographic movies for the mob,
he knew,
and this must be some of his equipment.
Hair on the back of Melvin's neck stood up when he considered the exact nature of these films. What had Squirrelly said?

...that place was a snuff-house, but they also made scats and wet-flicks, nek-flicks, and a whole motherfuckin' shitload of fuckin' animal movies, man. Dogs, goats, horses... Pigs.

"It's a sick, sick world," he muttered to himself and left.

Next he found himself looking down into the hole Gwyneth had dug near the dog pens. The hole was considerably deep; it must have taken quite a bit of physical effort on Gwyneth's part.
That really is bizarre,
Melvin realized.
What would compel her to dig right there? What would compel her to dig at all?

He picked up the shovel and fished around, then shuddered when he remembered still more of Squirrelly's words:

That place is a fuckin' graveyard, man! It was a body-dump for the mob!

Melvin dropped the shovel by the mound of earth, and took long strides back into the house.
Gwyneth found a pig skull in that hole. God knows what else is in it...

Next, he puttered around in Gwyneth's work room and saw that she had indeed smashed most of the pig skull into dime-sized fragments with the hammer. In the corner of the table lay the plaque she'd been working on. Melvin's eyes narrowed as he bent to inspect it.

Hmmmm...

The shield-shaped cutting of mahogany had now been meticulously fitted with the bone fragments to conform to the shape of a cross. The pieces had been lain into some kind of resin which had hardened clear as glass, and around the cruciform configuration, much tinier bones—the bird bones she'd found when they'd arrived—had been just as meticulously arrayed about the center crux, to a fascinating effect that resembled a halo. Melvin stared harder, amazed. Something about the way she'd arranged and set the piece made the plaque seem multi-dimensional, the bone-white of the fragments hovered over the fudge-brown wood, and when he stepped back to re-view it from a distance, the effect was trebled.

Well... I'll be,
he thought.

The piece was stunning, beautiful. In fact, Melvin had never seen anything like it. What he had seen of her other work seemed mediocre, or downright hackneyed. But this?

I hate to say it but I'm impressed,
he admitted. It was an utterly unique piece of artwork and proof of exemplary craftsmanship. With talent like that, Gwyneth could indeed make money with such wares, not that she needed to now, not married to a millionaire.

Before he left the room, an impulse caused him to take another look at the plaque. The pieces of the mosaic seemed to focus a clarity that maximized the more one looked at it, an optical puzzle which shifted between blinks.

Was it jealousy that urged Melvin to smirk now? The quality of Gwyneth's talent proved that she was more than a frivolous ditz. She possessed considerable skills that Melvin had overlooked.
But I've got some skills too!
he insisted.
Maybe I don't write for a very good paper, but I AM a good journalist!

He spent the next several hours in the converted pantry but those hours flew by. He started off with a bit of history, followed with incremental exposition, then cited witness accounts.
This is going great!
he thought a while later. All of a sudden, the spurious article he was being forced to manufacture was demonstrating some craft of his own.
Dirk will love it...

Melvin's journalistic jubilation carried him through another hour, then another. Then—

He heard the front door barge open; Gwyneth stumbled in.

I guess the party's over,
Melvin thought.

"Where
are
you—oh," she slurred, standing unevenly in the pantry doorway.

"Hi, Gwyneth," Melvin said. It was hard not to shake his head. "How was your day?"

"I—I...don't remember, I guess." She almost fell over when she rubbed her face. It was no surprise to Melvin that she looked an absolute mess, hair askew like a handful of hay, tight lavender top crooked and pocked with flinty smudges, and her jeans...

Oh, that's priceless!
Melvin thought in a revel. "I hate to tell you this, Gwyneth, but those designer jeans you're wearing? You've got them on backwards."

"I do not," she droned, then stared down at herself for a good 30 seconds. "How did I..." She rubbed her face again.

"Where'd you go?" He stared up for the answer. "You look pretty messed up. Did you, by chance, maybe, go to a bar?"

Her fingers opened over her face, bloodshot eyes peeking through. "A...bar? I...don't know but I think maybe I did. Why don't I remember? I'm usually not forgetful." The words continued to pour out in a slow, dreadful slur. "Could I have dreamed it? I remember, earlier today, when you left to get lunch... I finished the plaque, and-and-and— I don't remember anything after that."

"Interesting," Melvin remarked. "I'm sure it'll come to you."

She brought her hand to her forehead and moaned, "And, God, I feel so woozy. I don't understand why."

Well,
Melvin thought in delighted sarcasm,
I'm not a clinician, but do you think that the mainline of heroin in your TIT might have something to do with it?

She stammered on, "And-and-and—
yuck!
I've got the
worst
taste in my mouth..."

Might that be—oh, I don't know but let me take a wild guess—the prostitute feces you were eating earlier?

BOOK: The House

11.87Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub

Read Book Download Book

ads