Red House Blues (17 page)

Someone was shouting. She raised her head
toward the sound and a gust of wind tore the umbrella out of her
hand, whirling it away across the street. Something blue the size
of a garage door smacked her across the face and she went sprawling
backward, her kidneys taking a hit on the concrete curb.

“Hey, moron, I told you to grab it!” shouted
a male voice over the wind’s howl.

Pain shot from tailbone to ribs.

“What are you talking about?” screamed
Suzan. Struggling to her feet, she watched a guy sprint away down
the street chasing something blue. If the jerk came back to see
what kind of damage he had left in his wake she would have a few
choice words about his lack of gallantry.

But the man had other plans. Down at the end
of the block he gathered up a blue tarp the wind had plastered
against a chain link fence. He strode, clutching the tarp to his
chest, back to where Suzan stood under torrential downpour. She was
about to unload on him when he walked right past her as if she were
invisible, trudging toward the house at the crest of the hill.

What a self-centered, inconsiderate creep,
she thought. No apology. No nothing. Her first impulse was to
muster whatever dignity she had left and run after him. Sanity
quickly reasserted itself. Just let it go, she told herself. The
sooner she got back to Linda’s to dry off the better. No sense
adding pneumonia to her list of woes for the day.

Half way down the block she turned and
looked back at the big red house. Through a sheet of silver rain
there it was - the goal right in front of her streaming face,
taunting her. She was turning tail once again, this time because it
was raining. The flimsiest of excuses.

All her lost opportunities
came rushing back like a wet wind. Somewhere through that door
might be the key that unlocked this mystery, Sean’s notebooks or
someone who could tell her what happened to him. All she had to do
was walk up the stairs from the street. Was she going to fail him
again as she had done so many times before? And prove as big a
coward as her mother after all?
This is
it, I won’t get a better chance than this.

During the minute or so Suzan stood arguing
with herself the rain eased to a misty drizzle. Whether from the
chill or nerves, her teeth were chattering so hard she was afraid
she was going to crack a tooth. Where was the guy with the tarp? He
had vanished once he reached the house.

Pushing her dripping hair out of her eyes,
she climbed cement stairs from the street to what must have once
been a garden, now an overgrown tangle of hydrangeas and neglected
roses bushes. A stone path swept to the side of the house following
the curved front porch. It was slippery and moss clotted. Suzan
followed it thinking that had to be the direction the man had
taken.

Her eye caught a flash of blue from the far
corner of the building. There he was, struggling unsuccessfully to
cover something with the tarp. Rather like locking the barn door
after the horse fled, thought Suzan. Whatever he was trying to
protect was already as wet as it was likely to get this side of the
next Great Flood.

He didn’t see her at first as he wrangled
the flapping tarp.

“Hi there,” she chirped at the back of his
head.

“Holy crap!” he yelled, jumping back. “You
scared the shit out of me. What do you think you’re ... oh, it’s
you. What do you want?”

“You left me sitting in the street, pal,”
said Suzan. “What do you think I want? How about, ‘Are you hurt?
Can I help? Sorry.’ Or any of the above.”

“You seem to be moving okay. And I’m too
busy right now to be social. So, go away.”

Having dismissed her, he turned back to
trying to thread a bungee cord through two corner eyelets of the
tarp, attempting to secure one end over the object, whatever it
was. He was clearly a nasty, inconsiderate creep but he was all
Suzan had at the moment.

“Let me help,” she said, grabbing the loose
end and holding it tight against what she now saw was a motor
scooter of some kind.

“Here, hold this,” he said, thrusting the
hook end of the bungee at her from under the fender. “Now, hook
your corner of the tarp on it.”

She did as directed.

“It’s too little too late, though,” she said
as they covered the scooter.

“What do you mean?” he said, straightening
up.

“It’s dripping wet. Isn’t it going to rust
under there?”

“Doesn’t matter. It’s a trashed Vespa some
guy gave me but kids around here will steal anything, even garbage.
The tarp only slows them down.”

“If it’s trash why does it matter if it gets
stolen?”

“You’re just full of questions, aren’t you?
It’s my trash and it works and I want to keep it.”

“Can’t we go up to the porch out of the
rain? There’s something I want to ask you.”

“Forget it. I’m not interested in being
saved or whatever else you’re selling.”

“I’m not selling anything. And I did help
you with the tarp, don’t forget that. You owe me.”

“Thanks, but you don’t get a medal and I’m
kind of pressed for time,” he said, pushing a dripping lock of hair
out of his eyes, looking her up and down. “Maybe under other
circumstances but as it is . . . why don’t you shove off.”

With that he started for
the back door leaving Suzan standing flat-footed in the rain, her
face flaming. The insufferable creep!
But
this is the best shot I have.

“Hey wait, I’m looking for a friend.”

“Well, I’m not him.”

“No, I mean he used to live here and I’m
trying to find him.”

“Does he have a name?”

“Can we get out of the rain?”

He turned toward her and hesitated as if
considering how much of an investment to make in the encounter.
“Okay, but no guarantees. Come inside,” he said.

He led Suzan in the back door to a room that
must have started life as a kitchen. It contained an old round-top
refrigerator, some cabinets, a tiny gas range and washtub-sized
sink. Every inch of the narrow countertop and the wooden table in
the center of the room was piled high with greasy car parts. No one
could have actually cooked a meal in that kitchen.

Suzan recognized a head gasket and some
pistons, having helped her brothers rebuild cars in their garage at
home. Truth be told, her help didn’t go beyond putting nuts and
bolts into old muffin tins as her brothers handed them to her from
under their beaters. Still at least from that experience, she knew
what she was looking at.

“Want some coffee?” he asked, as if offering
a cyanide cocktail.

“How?” She scanned the room. The smell of
gasoline and motor oil was so strong she wondered what kept the
place from exploding from the range’s pilot light. How did he
intend to make coffee without blowing them both into particles
smaller than cotter pins?

“In here,” he said, sliding open a pocket
door and motioning her into the next room. “Sorry about the
kitchen. One of my housemates was working on a project in the back
when the storm came up. There’s a hot plate in here we use to make
coffee. Cups and things are in the buffet.”

Did that mean he wanted her to do the
honors? If so, he was going to be disappointed.

The room, once a dining room, was now a
painter’s studio. Four wooden easels lined the perimeter of the
room, and art supplies were set out in neat rows across a large
oval table. As an artist herself, Suzan envied whoever was
fortunate enough to be working here. The light through the wide bay
window was as perfect for painting as she could imagine. It was a
beautiful space in which to work.

The paintings that filled the room were
something else again. The technique was clearly professional,
mature and confident. This person was no mere dabbler. It was the
subject matter that set her on edge.

The artist was creating ornate patterns -
almost Moorish in feel - using body parts as motif. One painting
taking up almost an entire wall was a sunburst pattern that on
closer inspection proved to be composed entirely of hundreds of
human eyes in disturbing detail. Clearly a person with issues.
Suzan prayed the guy with the tarp wasn’t the artist.

The buffet he had referred to was a mammoth
Victorian sideboard, displaying on its white marble top the
promised hot plate next to a terrarium housing what appeared to be
stick insects. There were no chairs in the room. Was anything in
this house used for its original purpose? Where did these people
eat? Certainly not here. Who could eat with those disembodied eyes
staring from the wall? Not to mention the bugs under glass.

“I’ll pass on the coffee,” she said. “But do
you have a towel or something? I’m dripping on the floor.”

“Yeah, I’ll get you something,” he said, and
went back into the kitchen.

Suzan was left alone with the eyes until she
noted a small triptych featuring internal organs. If the guy didn’t
hurry back, wet or not, she had to get out of that room before she
threw up.

“Here, catch,” he said, throwing her a roll
of paper towels from the doorway. She caught it neatly.

“So, do you like art? I saw you looking at
the paintings,” he continued, while Suzan blotted her dripping
hair.

“I’m an artist myself. A little photography
but mainly watercolors,” she said. “Did you do these?”

“God, no. I don’t know anything about art.
Alexis painted these. She shows down in one of the galleries in
Pioneer Square.”

She was relieved to know she didn’t have to
fake admiration or pretend to understand the “message”.

“Is there somewhere we could sit down?”

“Sure, come on into the living room. It
can’t be long though. The others will be coming home soon and then
it gets crazy around here.”

The living room wasn’t any more hospitable
than the first two rooms except that it had seating of a sort, an
eccentric collection of ancient overstuffed chairs and sofas that
left almost no room to walk around. In the dim light it seemed as
if the room was filled with multicolored mountain ranges and
valleys. To reach some of the furniture a person would have had to
climb over other furniture. The housemates couldn’t be burdened
with a lot of vacuuming. The carpets, if there were any, were
inaccessible. Suzan claimed a mustard colored armchair. Her host
flung himself onto a brown sofa, wet jacket and all.

“So, who is this guy you’re looking for?” he
said.

“His name is Stephan. We went to college
together. Somebody said he lived here and I was hoping I could
catch up with him while I’m in town.”

“This guy an old boyfriend?”

“No, just a friend. You haven’t said if you
know him. Does he live here or not?”

“Hell, he doesn’t live anywhere. He’s dead,”
he said, letting the words hang in the air. “And by the look on
your face I see you already knew he was dead so what are you really
asking?”

Suzan vowed to never play poker.

“I should have been honest with you from the
beginning,” she said, trying a little laugh. “I pretty much grew up
with him, only his name wasn’t Stephan it was Sean. I heard about
what happened. Wanted to find out what was going on with him while
he was down here.”

She felt squirmy. This wasn’t going well.
His dark eyes bore through her. He was nailing her to the wall
without actually saying much of anything. She hadn’t asked any of
the questions she had planned to ask and suspected he wouldn’t have
answered anyway.

“I never met the dude,” he said. “I moved
into his old room not long ago so there isn’t much I can tell
you.”

He studied her as if trying to decide which
way she was going to jump. From the set of his jaw Suzan suspected
he was more than capable of waiting her out no matter how long it
took. His attitude - how he reclined against the cushion, his
slight smile - had something of the coyote about it.

He looked about twenty-five but she
suspected that, like her, he was older than he looked. He was
short, well under six feet, and wiry. Everything about him spoke of
an inner toughness that didn’t cave in easily. He knew something;
she was sure of it but suspected she couldn’t fool him with some
lame story. There was only one inevitable end. She would be pouring
her guts out to him eventually, so she capitulated.

“Sean was more than my
friend, he was my husband.”
I shouldn’t
have told him that!
“We were separated.
You might not have known him but I’d be grateful for anything you
might have heard about him.”

“Supposing I’ve heard something.”

“Yes, supposing. Anything is better than
what I have.”

“You do know he was killed by a hit and run
driver. I’m assuming that’s what you want to know more about, not
what he ate for breakfast or what kind of house mate he was. You’re
looking for smoking guns but smoking guns can still be loaded guns.
Give some thought to that, is my advice.”

“Is that some kind of threat?”

“Not from me,” he said. “It’s the threat of
the situation, the threat of your actions. Me, I’d leave well
enough alone and go back where I came from. It’s not worth getting
yourself hurt. The only thing I know about your husband is comments
I picked up. From what I’ve heard no one around here much liked the
dude. He paid his rent on time but he was a useless junkie. And
personally it took weeks for me to get the stink out of my room. I
was finding needles and bloodstains all over the place. You know
what surprises me? That he’d have any friends at all. I can
understand why you were separated. What I can’t imagine is why you
married a dude like him but that’s your business. That’s the full
extent of what I know. You need to get yourself someone better than
that guy. He was a total loser by all accounts.”

Then having baited the trap he waited to see
if she would jump right in, either bursting into tears or simpering
a “thank you for all your help”. Suzan got up and retrieved her
purse from the floor beside the chair.