Authors: Edward Lee
The House (32 page)
She turned in the doorway, taking very small, calculated steps. "I have to go lie down."
"Good idea."
She clacked her teeth together at an obvious stab of pain when she took one step forward. Her back stiffened, and she brought a hand back to her buttocks. "Oh, God!"
"What's wrong, Gwyneth?"
"I— Oh! What is that?"
"What is what, Gwyneth?'
"It hurts so
much...
"
much...
"
"What?"
"I—" She shook her head as if in some arcane resistence. "I can't tell you."
"Sure you can," Melvin insisted.
"It's private."
"Tell me."
"No! I don't even know..."
Melvin had to toy along. "Gwyneth, you're in obvious pain. Tell me what's wrong. Where does it hurt?"
Finally she sighed and simply gave up. "If you
must
know, Melvin, my
asshole
hurts
real bad
and I don't know why!"
must
know, Melvin, my
asshole
hurts
real bad
and I don't know why!"
I do,
Melvin thought.
Melvin thought.
(IV)
Well past sundown, Melvin called it a day as far as the article went. He felt coolly satisfied with the work. He microwaved a few slices of pizza, then went to Gwyneth's bedroom to look in on her.
Jeez...
She lay atop the bed like a ledgejumper on a sidewalk, limbs oddly angled, neck crooked, hair in a tousled mop across her face. To his amusement he quickly recognized that she'd obviously passed out in the middle of an attempt to take her backwards jeans off; they'd been pulled halfway down, their butt at the front of her thighs. It was a mortician's ultimate masturbatory fantasy: the intact yet outrageously sexy suicide victim spraddled on the bed after ingesting a bottle of valium. Still warm, still soft, breasts full, and—well, not an expository term but none other would do for such a passage—her
pussy
still plump, perfect, and gorgeous and in some otherwordly way
begging
to be derricked by a hard cock one last time before the inevitable redeposition into a casket. Was Melvin The Mortician's penis up to the task?
pussy
still plump, perfect, and gorgeous and in some otherwordly way
begging
to be derricked by a hard cock one last time before the inevitable redeposition into a casket. Was Melvin The Mortician's penis up to the task?
Of course not.
I can't have sex with my father's wife while she's unconscious!
But it was a hearty thought nonetheless, and he took the vivid fantasy with him, to the bathroom, where he masturbated in grand style, ejaculating on the same pair of noon-blue Victoria's Secret panties he'd drained his vesicles on earlier.
I can't have sex with my father's wife while she's unconscious!
But it was a hearty thought nonetheless, and he took the vivid fantasy with him, to the bathroom, where he masturbated in grand style, ejaculating on the same pair of noon-blue Victoria's Secret panties he'd drained his vesicles on earlier.
THUNK!
Melvin turned with a start, pants still at his knees.
What was that?
Something solid had hit the floor. At first he thought Gwyneth might have fallen out of the bed but the sound...
What was that?
Something solid had hit the floor. At first he thought Gwyneth might have fallen out of the bed but the sound...
Came from the living room,
he realized,
not the bedroom.
he realized,
not the bedroom.
It was with more than a titter of fear that Melvin moved out of the bathroom and slowly peeked around into the living room.
Oh, jeez, that's all it is!
The cheap pastoral print hanging over the couch had fallen down. It didn't even have glass over it, so nothing had broken. He picked it right up ro re-hang it but then discerned the cause: the weight of the frame had pulled the nail out of the wall, and now the print, complete with "faux" brushstrokes, couldn't be put back up.
I'll have to get another nail...tomorrow,
he decided. He set the print face-out on the couch, but then caught himself staring at it: the pasture in the sweeping green valley. Then he glanced up at the wall and saw the hole in the sheetrock that the print had been covering.
I'll have to get another nail...tomorrow,
he decided. He set the print face-out on the couch, but then caught himself staring at it: the pasture in the sweeping green valley. Then he glanced up at the wall and saw the hole in the sheetrock that the print had been covering.
He remembered feeling ill at ease last night when he'd first discovered it, right after the bizarre dream he'd had, the dreams populated by ghosts of what his imagination had turned into Leonard D'arava and his two skeletal cohorts. Next, he remembered...
That smell.
An unpleasant odor had drifted from the hole. He squinted.
Did I dream that or was it real?
His mind felt wiped out after working on the article most of the day. He couldn't recall so he leaned forward and sniffed the hole—
Did I dream that or was it real?
His mind felt wiped out after working on the article most of the day. He couldn't recall so he leaned forward and sniffed the hole—
Ho-boy!
No, the dirty stink had not been dreamed, that was for sure.
Must be a dead animal in the wall. A mouse or something. And guess what? I don't care.
Must be a dead animal in the wall. A mouse or something. And guess what? I don't care.
But a second later something glimmered in the carpet. Melvin picked it up: the nail.
"Might as well rehang it now," he grumbled aloud. But he'd need a hammer.
Gwyneth has one in her workroom.
He loped to the room, switched on the light, but didn't see the hammer anywhere.
It was here earlier, on the table.
He felt sure. All that remained there now, though, was the completed plaque along with a scattering of unused bone fragments.
It was here earlier, on the table.
He felt sure. All that remained there now, though, was the completed plaque along with a scattering of unused bone fragments.
Hmmm.
Would she have taken it into the bedroom? There was no logical reason for her to have done so but...Gwyneth was probably significantly
less
than a well of logic right now with biker heroin in her blood.
less
than a well of logic right now with biker heroin in her blood.
He looked back in her bedroom and saw she wasn't there.
Where on earth could she have gone? She was out cold less than ten minutes ago...
"Gwyneth? Where did you go? I need the—"
BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM!
When Melvin rushed to the living room, his jaw dropped.
Gwyneth, jeans still backwards and down past her butt, was—
BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM!
—turning the small hole above the couch into a great big hole that was running toward the floor.
"What are you doing!" Melvin shrieked so loud his voice went hoarse.
She wielded the hammer with a wild precision, knocking out more divets of plaster.
Outraged, Melvin snatched the hammer away, threw it to the couch, then grabbed Gwyneth by the shoulders and shook her hard—one of the most aggressive acts of his life.
"Are you insane?" he bellowed into her face. The tiniest speck of pepperoni stuck to her cheek. "You just destroyed the living room wall!"
Gwyneth wobbled on her feet. She looked at Melvin as if trying to focus on an eye chart. "There's...evil in the wall," she droned.
"No, Gwyneth, there isn't evil in the wall! There's plaster in the wall, and you just knocked a whole lot of it out! Now I'm going to have to
fix
that! My boss's brother owns this house!"
fix
that! My boss's brother owns this house!"
"Where's the bucket from my dream? Pam and Tom own a football team." She blinked glassily. "Hey, that rhymes!"
"You're out of your mind!"
"The weather!" she blurted, then pointed at him like a gun. "The leather!"
"What!"
"Gee, that's a swell map..."
Melvin checked his temper for a moment.
Of course she's delirious and not making sense. She's on drugs.
"Stay right there!" he ordered. "I'm getting my cell phone to call Dad."
Of course she's delirious and not making sense. She's on drugs.
"Stay right there!" he ordered. "I'm getting my cell phone to call Dad."
Melvin hadn't even made it back to the kitchen before—
BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM!
—Gwyneth was at it again with the hammer. Melvin tackled her this time, wrestled her to the couch, and now his aggression took on another aspect quite rare in him: profanity. Melvin almost
never
cussed; in fact, it took quite a bit of active anxiety to cause him to do so. Cursing was uncivilized; it was the way rednecks spoke, and plebeians and other low-lifes. Bad language proved an affront to Melvin's intelligence and refinement.
never
cussed; in fact, it took quite a bit of active anxiety to cause him to do so. Cursing was uncivilized; it was the way rednecks spoke, and plebeians and other low-lifes. Bad language proved an affront to Melvin's intelligence and refinement.
Fuck!
Anyway, his even more rare spate of anger caused him to completely abandon this tenet of sophistication, and he yelled in her face: "What kind of a fuckin' moronic ditz are you? You ridiculous, preposterous ASSHOLE! Did you see what you did to that WALL?"
Gwyneth's eyes rolled up at the wall, and she giggled.
This is how mad Melvin was: at the moment, his legs were wrapped around Gwyneth's hips, her bare stomach and pubic hair pressed against him...and he wasn't the least bit aroused.
Women!
he thought.
Are they all this insane? Dad really picked himself a winner!
Women!
he thought.
Are they all this insane? Dad really picked himself a winner!
"You're a fuck-head, Gwyneth! You're a silly floozy fruitcake with tits for brains!"
"Oh, bondage, up yours!" she giggled some more. "I'm a worrier in Woolworth's!"
"Get up!" he barked, disgusted. He hoisted her to her feet, pulled her pants up.
"The morrow will not change your shameful deed!" she said, sing-songy. "You'll be someone else's fertile seed!"
It was just more nonsense she was blabbering. Finally she added, in an African American dialect, but giggling, "It was me and Lou Rawls. They locked us up in that cage and didn't give us nothin' but milk bottles and soup!"
"Aw, Jesus, you're all fucked up on drugs!" He roughly guided her back toward her bedroom. "You're a disgrace, Gwyneth. You're a dick-brain!"
In the hall, her knees began to give out; Melvin had to carry her the rest of way, not an easy feat for a confirmed weakling. When she burped in his face, Melvin nearly wretched at the smell:
Poop-breath! Argg!
He found some satisfaction, then, in finally heaving her out of his arms onto the bed because in his mind was the fantasy: heaving her out of a very high window.
Poop-breath! Argg!
He found some satisfaction, then, in finally heaving her out of his arms onto the bed because in his mind was the fantasy: heaving her out of a very high window.
Moonlight lay across her. Her hands feebly felt her groin. "The...ass of my pants is over my pussy!"
Tit-head!
he thought. "Go to sleep! You're in a lot of trouble!"
he thought. "Go to sleep! You're in a lot of trouble!"
She lay completely limp now, purring. "I'm...too fucked up to take my clothes off!"
"Tell me about it."
She tried to pull her top off but gave up. "Take my clothes off...and you can fuck me."
Melvin stared at her in the dark.
The moonlight made her eyes look like eggs. Her voice droned upward, "I really want you to fuck me, Leonard."
It was a vertiginous shift in his vision that showed him
this
fantasy: dropping the blade of a fire-ax into the middle of her face.
this
fantasy: dropping the blade of a fire-ax into the middle of her face.
Melvin didn't do that, of course, and it wasn't really even a fantasy. It was just something that—combined with the trauma and stress of the moment—occurred to him.
Melvin left the room, after telling her in a voice like crumbling rocks, "My name's not Leonard."
««—»»
The mess she'd made was horrendous. Chunks of sheetrock lay strewn everywhere, and when he took another long glance at the wall, he groaned. It reminded him of the Three Stooges episode, "Goofs on a Roof," where Larry had dropped a television knob into a hole in the wall and used a hammer to get it out.
The entire wall section would have to be replastered, sanded, and painted.
It's not my problem!
Melvin reasoned.
It's Dad's. That dizzy tramp is HIS wife.
It only seemed fair.
I'll have to hire a contractor and send Dad the bill. Dirk'll go nuts if he finds out about this.
It's not my problem!
Melvin reasoned.
It's Dad's. That dizzy tramp is HIS wife.
It only seemed fair.
I'll have to hire a contractor and send Dad the bill. Dirk'll go nuts if he finds out about this.
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