The Dwelling: A Novel (9 page)

The next two were toned-down versions of the first one. The pants flared out in the second. The breasts were remarkably reduced, the work of a skilled (if somewhat disappointed) surgeon. After some of that had worked its way out of his system, and he began thinking
nun-like,
she began to take on a sort of personality.

He cut off her hair, curled it around her face. Kept it dark, as a foil of sorts for Malicia—whose hair was dark and long and straight. He made the Reporter’s hair short and curled, soft-looking. He made the eyes smaller, but kept them spaced: it gave her a young-old look, like knowledge unwanted. Dark eyes. He rounded her face, made it heart-shaped.

Somewhere between sketches four and six, he gave her a skirt and a little sweater. Nothing debutante, but short, to show off a high waist. The skirt was fitted through the hips and then flared out, to her ankles.

She looked old-fashioned, maybe a touch too feminine. A politically correct Betty Boop, with her curly hair and the figure not quite hidden under her clothes. He frowned at the last sketch, unsure of what to change to sharpen the character, remove some of that overt femininity. He started a seventh sketch after deciding he didn’t need a cigarette just then. One more and he’d take a break. Maybe a couple more. The house was quiet around him. A stillness that felt like breath held, but it might have been his own, held and let out in gasps, little moans sometimes, noises that went unnoticed by him.

Unaware, he hummed as he drew. A tune that seemed to fit his mood, the sketches. Something old and dreamy. Something he’d heard, but didn’t know. Jazzy. Far away, he heard something in the attic, which he ignored or simply didn’t acknowledge. Once, he thought he heard water running in the tub, but it was discreet and quiet, muffled as though through a closed door, and it went away before he’d really even thought it through.

Around him, the house went about its business.

In front of him, the Reporter came to life, taking on form and feature, growing in detail, both visually and in character. She was quiet, but every emotion showed on her face; she liked jazz and dark rooms; she had a weakness for the wrong men; she was in love with the Headhunter. She was not as innocent as she looked. She looked very innocent. The last sketch betrayed that best. Her mouth was twisted up at the corner, in a smile that
knew.
At some point, he had a name.

Maggie.

Something moved in the attic, a shuffle across the floor. A door slid open in one of the bedrooms. Water in the tub drained. A whiff of fresh hay. Dan hummed, aware of nothing but (his own) breathing.

After you’ve gone…

Becca’s hands were shaking as she stood in front of Gordon Huff’s solid oak door. His name was stamped into a brass plate just above eye level. She checked her watch. It was one minute before ten. She rapped twice on the door, willing herself to relax.

“Come in, Rebecca,” he called from behind the door. It was muffled. But she’d heard him say her name. That heartened her. She pushed the door open, her face a fiercely willed mask of efficiency and determination.

“Mr. Huff,” she said firmly, nodding once. No wasted motions. In her mind she repeated,
Director of Patient Services, Director of Patient Services.

“Sit down, Rebecca,” he said, waving toward a large chair angled to his desk. He leaned forward as she sat (and
she
leaned forward as she sat, willing her face not to blush, not to heat, not to redden even as she did, shamelessly). “What can I do for you?” He looked her straight in the eye. He was not an unkind man; this she already knew. He was not unattractive, either. He was about fifty or so, and had not run to fat as some executives did. He was married, of course. Becca knew nothing of his family. Theirs was not a company of family picnics, Christmas parties or retreats. For that she was truly grateful.

“Thank you for seeing me,” she began steadily. “I understand the director’s position in Patient Services is opening up. I’d like to put myself forward.” She was firm, but not aggressive. She smiled to soften the words, but not servilely. Her heart pounded so hard in her chest, she was sure he could see it, or at least hear it.

He nodded thoughtfully. “How long have you been with the Center, Rebecca?”

“I started in Nutrition right out of college, Mr. Huff. I’ve been here six years. I was committee head two years after I started with the company, and I now hold—as you know—” her hands continued to shake, and she held them tightly in her lap where he couldn’t see them “—an executive assistant position in Patient Services.” It came out in one fast breath. She hoped he hadn’t noticed. She smiled warmly, she hoped. “I’m just one position under director now.” She said, “It’s the logical next step. I’ve worked closely with Mr. Anderson. I have experience.”

Gordon Huff raised an eyebrow and allowed her a small smile that faded quickly. There was a pause during which Becca’s heart resumed its serious thudding. She swallowed. Her mouth was filling up with saliva.

“I have an updated résumé in my desk. I can put it in your mailbox, if necessary,” she said.

Mr. Huff nodded. “You understand that there are six other exec assistants, equally qualified, also applying for the position.”

Was he testing her? “They are all from other departments.”

“Tom Higgins is from your department, Rebecca, and he’s also expressed an interest. I’m not saying anything at this point. Decisions won’t be made until the end of the month, as you know. And it isn’t entirely up to me. There’s a committee that will choose among the qualified candidates. All of your qualifications will be taken into account.”

“I’d like a recommendation from you, Mr. Huff,” she said quickly, firmly, before he had a chance to dismiss her. They met eyes. His flickered quickly to the V of her jacket and back again. So quickly it was hardly noticeable.
I saw that.

Her mind flashed possibilities as quickly as her heart skipped in her chest. Director of Patient Services was a good gig. A
very
good gig. The sort of position from which there was no (or little) looking back. From the Center she could move into an executive position. It was also an extra twenty thousand dollars a year.

With slow, uncertain deliberation, she said, “I would like to take you to lunch, Mr. Huff, in an effort to better familiarize you with my experience and qualifications for the position.” She dared not look at his face. She swallowed. “Would tomorrow be a good time?”

It wasn’t a terrible idea, and it wasn’t anything below board. Huff had had lunch last week with Lynn Sanderson from Accounting. No one had said boo. Craig Pollack had lunch with
everyone
and he was Huff’s boss.

She dragged her eyes up to meet his. They were a clear, wet blue. They bored into her. Finally he said, “I’ll have Mary check my schedule and get back to you later today. What would you say, one?”

She nodded briskly, just once, lowering her chin and bringing it back up. She stood on weak knees, squeezing her hands together to force them to stop trembling. “That sounds exactly right. Thank you, Mr. Huff.” She extended her hand over the desk. He rose and tugged his jacket down as he did, over a slight paunch. So he wasn’t without vanity. His hand was warm and steady in hers. They shook and she excused herself.

When she was halfway to the door, he said, “Slip your résumé into my mailbox this afternoon, will you, Miss Mason?”

She started in surprise.
Miss.
Becca paused just a beat before turning. “I’ll do that,” she said and left his office, without correcting him.

Dan took a break around one and ate his sandwich in the studio. He was terribly pleased, in an offhand sort of way, with his diligence. He was rarely so motivated when a whole day like this one—which would soon be a whole raft of days, months—stretched out in front of him, and he took advantage. Who knew how he would feel in a week?

He decided to try some group sketches for the afternoon. See how the characters looked together. The first storyline, introducing all the characters, ended with the Headhunter meeting the Reporter—Maggie (he supposed he would have to discuss her name with Max, but already it had wormed its way into his head and it was not just a name, but
her
by then)—on the roof of an abandoned building in the heart of the city. It offered beautiful, poignant possibilities. He itched to start it.

There was also Hanus and Malicia in their office.

There was Headhunter in his Supersuit disguise, wandering in a subway crowd, Hanus and Malicia somewhere distantly in the background, searching for him. And of course, The Hideaway. He planned a nerdy, adolescent boy’s dream cave, deep in the catacombs of the city. He smiled. That would be
cool.

On the walls all around his drawing board, he taped up individual sketches of the characters. Then he opened his sketchbook to a fresh page, and began the rooftop scene, the first meeting, between the Headhunter and the Reporter for the underground newspaper.

He fell immediately, deeply, into the page. It was not just a sketch, but became, slowly, as he worked, a scene. He put the pencil aside after a while and worked with the charcoal. Darkest night with light pouring from a full moon; the Reporter, books primly covering her bosom, as seen over the shoulder of the tall, thin Headhunter. Fear on her face, as she looks up at him, sensuous lips parted.

He hardly noticed his erection, or the fact that the door had swung closed slowly during the course of the sketch, the sound of his breathing, small gasps and murmurs, occasional grunts, as he moved pencil, charcoal, fingers around the page, executing life from dust. Under his breathing were strains of music too low to really hear, something that moved in and out at such a low decibel that it might have been the hum of the fridge, a car driving by outside, the buzz of electrical wires in a distant power plant.

Sometimes he spoke, real words: “Rounder, yeah, like that…good. Arched…angled light…good.
Good.
Right.”

No one answered back.

Not really.

It was after six when Becca pulled in front of the house, parked her late-model Volvo behind Dan’s ancient Mustang. In the terrible days just after he’d lost his job they had discussed, briefly, getting rid of one of the cars to save on insurance and the like. She had been horrified when he suggested her car. He said maybe they should trade it in on something smaller and cheaper. “Like a Taurus,” he’d said.

She nearly died. She wouldn’t be caught dead in a Ford Handivan, even if both her legs fell off, was her answer to that. He hadn’t brought it up again.

His car was parked in the exact same place it had been when she’d left that morning, which meant he hadn’t left the house all day—unless he’d
walked
to the grocery store, and there wasn’t much chance of that. She was late because she’d stopped at the store on the way home. She was going to make veal Parmesan. Dan’s favorite. They hadn’t had it in months and soon it would be too warm to cook anything fancy.

Just before leaving work at five, Becca had slipped her updated résumé into Gordon Huff’s mailbox. He’d e-mailed her at four and said that Tuesday at one for lunch was a go. That’s what the e-mail had said:
Lunch is a go for one tomorrow.

All systems go.
And how far, exactly, will I be going?

Veal Parmesan.

She juggled two bags of groceries onto the front stoop and twisted the knob, but the door was locked. She knocked a couple of times, but while she waited she rested one of the bags on the stone step and fumbled with her keys. She unlocked the door and, holding it open with her elbow, grabbed the other bag and went inside. She pushed the door shut with one heeled foot.

“Hello!” she called. The hall was dark. The sky was cloudy and very little sun managed its way into the house. Most of it was blocked during the day from the hall, anyway, by the neighbor’s huge tree. It would help keep it cool in summer.

There was no immediate answer to her call. She wondered if he was napping, the thought instantly pissing her off, but she cut it off. She was going to be
nice.
In the back of her mind was the reason why, but she cut that off, too.

Instead, she slipped off her heels with a delighted sigh and picked up the bags of groceries again to take them into the kitchen. Stepping once off the mat, she was greeted by the distinct growl of an animal.

She stopped dead, listened, feeling ridiculous.
We don’t have a dog.
She didn’t like dogs as a rule: they shed hair, and needed too much attention. They drooled. What she had heard was likely air forced up from the furnace, or the pipes or something. Really, in an old house, it could be anything. It was part of the charm and character of an older home. That and the lower taxes.

She took two brisk steps down the hall and heard it again, the growl of a dog, clearly, distinctly, right in front of her.

Low. Menacing.

Her head swung around, she looked quickly into the living room and by her feet, blocked by the bags. There was, of course, nothing there. Radio? Nothing else could be heard in the house.

“Hello?” she called out weakly. There was no answer. Then she moved.

The dog barked, loud, once. Becca dropped the bags of groceries, hearing something break (that would be the salad dressing, goddamn it) and, unable to stop herself, she let out a small scream, in reaction. Her hand flew to her mouth.

The door to the studio flew open. Dan appeared in the hall, hair disheveled, in the same T-shirt he’d had on when she’d left; the same T-shirt he’d slept in.

“What the hell happened?” Anger twisted his feminine features.

“I heard a dog bark. Did you buy a dog, now?” she said angrily back.

“What?”

Becca leaned down and poked through the bag. The dressing bottle was intact. “I heard a dog growl! And bark! And why are you yelling at
me?”

He stared unbelievingly at her for a moment. Then shook his head, anger dissolving, but slowly. “Sorry,” he said crisply, “but
obviously
there’s no dog in here. I didn’t hear you come in.” He ran his hands through his hair and for a moment looked disoriented, like he’d just woken up, or didn’t quite know where he was. He looked around and low-whistled. “I was working. What time is it?”

“There was a dog in the yard the other day. It could have gotten in,” she said, not letting go.

Becca stood up, awkwardly with the two bags, her purse still over her shoulder. Reacting, finally, he rushed forward and took the bags from her. She muttered a sulky
thank you
. “What’s all this?” He peeked into the bags as he walked them into the kitchen.

Becca looked around the empty hall suspiciously. There was nowhere for anything to hide (unless it was in Dan’s studio). She shook her head. “This house has the strangest noises,” she said. “It’s after six and all that’s veal Parmesan. I thought I’d cook tonight,” she said, dropping her purse on the dining-room table and going into the kitchen.

“Oh, wow. Are we celebrating? Are you
Rebecca Mason, Girl Director?”
He did not begin unpacking the groceries. His face still had the faraway look of earlier.

“Not yet,” she said evasively. He didn’t notice. He didn’t ask about work. She didn’t ask him, either.

Over dinner, two hours later, she mentioned that she was having lunch with Gordon Huff the next day. She kept her eyes on her plate and hoped he didn’t see the blush rise on her cheeks.

“Oh, yeah?” he said disinterestedly. He sipped wine, preoccupied.

“It must be going well,” she said, just a trace of sarcasm escaping.

He nodded, and looked at her, sheepish. “I think I’m going to get back at it after supper. You mind?”

She shook her head. “I’m going to move some things into
my
office, I think,” she said. Transforming a bedroom into an office. There was just something about that room that seemed to mark it as an obvious bedroom and nothing else. She wondered if she should try the other room. Even with a desk in it, she had a feeling the yellow room was always going to look like a bedroom.

With the image of a bed in her mind, Becca imagined lying across one in a hotel room, listening to Gordon Huff brush his teeth in the bathroom. Waiting. She wondered if he went tanning after his workout, or if his skin would be pale from too much time spent indoors.

“Great.” And as an afterthought, he said, “Think you’ll be needing it soon?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she said sharply.

He raised an eyebrow. “An office. You’re having lunch with the guy. I just thought—
Christ.
Never mind.”

She recovered quickly. “It’s just lunch,” she said, to him, and to herself.

It’s just
lunch.

Becca noticed the mark on the wall when she was moving around the little antique desk her mother had given them one Christmas, trying to find just the right place for it.

It was a long mark on the interior wall of the room. She thought at first that it was a shadow, but there was nothing in the room that would cast such a shadow. It was too long, and too large. All that was in the room was a couple of boxes, the desk and the matching chair. It couldn’t be a shadow, anyway, because she could see her own shadow move over it, and there was nothing behind her.

She bent low for a closer look. The overhead light was dim, only a sixty-watt bulb under the frosted glass—which, although cleaned on Saturday, still did not let as much light through as she would have liked. She would have to get a desk lamp, if she expected to work in here. She was going to put the overstuffed chair from the bedroom in the corner, and move one of the small tables from the living room to go beside it, and get a floor lamp, for reading. That would leave a huge, empty space in the overlarge bedroom, but when she was director, she would buy something elegant for it, and bigger, like a chaise longue or a small love seat.

The mark ran from about six inches from the wall that faced the hall to about six inches from the opposite wall, the one with the south window. It was oblong, and solid, with a lip at both ends, the lip taller at the end by the window. She frowned and ran her fingers along it. She had washed the walls herself and hadn’t noticed anything. She hoped it wasn’t something under the paint. Wall stains were notoriously difficult to get out if they had bled through paint.

She stood and stepped back for a larger perspective, still frowning. Her own shadow cut the mark in half, and the two were indistinguishable, making her think again that it was a shadow of something. Behind her were two brown boxes about a foot apart. They were barely tall enough to reach her knee. The mark on the wall was higher than that. Past her knee, up to her thigh.

Getting closer again, she bent low to it, eye level. The outline of her head stuck up through the middle of it, and no edge that separated the mark on the wall from her shadow could be seen. She licked her finger and rubbed. Nothing changed. Her finger was clean.

She stood up and backed away, surveying the whole thing again. It was coming through the wall. It was a mark under the yellow paint, and it had bled through. She would have to have the whole thing painted. Glancing up and around at the room, the decision to paint lifted her spirits. It was not undue hardship. She hated the yellow. Rose. She would paint it a nice rose.

The mark reminded her of something, but she couldn’t think what. After a minute, she let it go, and decided to put the desk almost at the corner between the two windows. She would deal with the wall later.

They lay in bed that night, not touching. Becca had fallen into sleep only with difficulty, her mind raging over the next day. Her clothes (the green suit, to be worn with her white DKNY matching undies, no pantyhose) were hanging off the door of their armoire. Shoes. Mr. Huff was at least two inches taller than her; she was safe in higher heels.

She fell asleep to her cocktail party. She had on her pink suit. Everyone else was in dark colors, subdued tones. She was explaining to someone about
it’s only lunch
and realized her dress was actually red. She wasn’t wearing the pink suit at all. Gordon Huff approached her and cupped her breast.
I enjoyed our lunch,
he said.

Dan did not have trouble falling asleep the first time. By the time he gave up for the night and crawled into bed, it was after one and Becca was lightly snoring, the sheet tangled around her body as though she was restless. He untangled her with the greatest care, so as not to wake her. Then he fell into a deep, dreamless slumber.

When he woke, stumbling out of sleep much the way people fall into it, it was after three. Dan opened his eyes and propped himself up on one elbow. Saw the lighted numbers on the clock, moved to the table on Becca’s side of the bed. His brain registered it, distantly:
after three
. He groaned and flopped back down onto the pillow and closed his eyes. A second later they popped back open. He flexed the fingers of his right hand. They were stiff. He hadn’t done so much work in a day for years. It was a good feeling. He felt productive, alive, thick with possibilities and meaning; he smiled into the dark,
truth, justice and the
Mason
way.

Outside the house, on the street, a car pulled up and stopped. The door opened and slammed shut, echoing off the pavement, making it sound very close. Dan stiffened.

Déjà vu.

He listened, slowing his breathing down, making it shallow. The front door opened.