Authors: Edward Lee

The House (35 page)

BOOK: The House

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"Damn sure the kinkiest bitch I ever seen!" Eyepatch remarked.

"You ain't seen
nothin'
yet, boys!" Gwyneth assured them and picked up the bucket with both hands.

Melvin's vantage point only permitted a single glimpse into the bucket: bubbles and froth like creek scum floating atop pale sand-colored liquid. A few squiggles of sperm floated as well.

Gwyneth's grin radiated, her eyes narrowed to devilish slits. She slowly brought the bucket to her lips...

Chopper squinted, his jaw dropped. "Man alive, that is one hardcore bitch..."

"What are you doing!" Squirrelly quailed.

Gwyneth shrugged. "What's it look like? I'm going to drink it.
All
of it." The brim came to her lips, but just as she would tip the bucket back...

"On second thought," Gwyneth said. She pointed fast to Squirrelly. "I think
you
should drink it!"

Squirrelly's eyes bugged. "Fuck YOU!" she protested. "I ain't drinkin' that shit!"

The church fell silent. Everyone was looking right at Squirrelly.

"Chopper! Tell that crazy bitch I ain't drinkin' that!"

Chopper came around Squirrelly and stepped behind her. He was chuckling. One fat arm girded her chest, while his other hand snapped open an angel-blade and held the tip against Squirrelly's back. "Tell ya what, Squirrelly. I'll give ya a choice. You can drink that bucket of slop—
all
of it—or I can kidney-stick ya, and me and the boys'll spend the rest of the day fuckin' your corpse. But like I said. It's your choice."

"Aw, man!" Squirrelly yelled.

Gwyneth passed the bucket to Squirrelly.

And Squirrelly drank.

All of it.

Melvin staggered back from the window, close to passing out. Like a sleepwalker, then, he trudged all the way back up the hill, back to the house.

(IV)

By now, Melvin's state of mind—his view of the world and the way he perceived the legitimacy of humankind's right to exist—had corroded to something unworthy of definition. Any time he tried to assess and reckon what he had witnessed at the church, he realized that there simply
was
no reckoning.
I came up here to write a silly entertainment piece for a low-circulation newspaper...and look what I get instead.

He sat on the couch in silence, watched the room darken as the sun lowered toward the horizon.

Shake-A-Puddin',
he thought.

"I just want to go home..."

If he went back down there and tried to get Gwyneth out, the bikers would kill him. Period.
Her mental illness isn't my problem,
he realized.
So why do I feel any responsibility to her?

He whipped out his cell phone and called his father.

"Dad, I want to come home."

Dad seemed baffled over the line. "But...I thought you were staying a week or two, to write your piece."

"The piece does not exist to any degree of significance whatsoever, Dad. I just want to come home. Gwyneth isn't here, so I'm going to leave her. She's got the Corvette. She can come home whenever she wants. But I'm not going to wait for her."

"Son, you're not making sense. Where is she?"

"She's—" Melvin flapped his hand in the air. He thought, once more:
Shake-A-Puddin'.
"It's too long a story, Dad. Let me just put it this way. She's with some men."

"Oh, well that's no problem, Melvin," Dad assured him. "I told you the other day. We have an open marriage. She can fool around on the side all she wants, it doesn't bother me. Neither of us are the jealous type; we're both liberated, sensible adults. I want my wife to be fulfilled. I want her to have a good time."

"Dad," Melvin said with deliberation, "your wife is insane. You need to get the marriage annulled."

"That's ridiculous! Melvin, you're overreacting like you always do."

Melvin thought about that. For one second.
I just saw Gwyneth shit sperm, piss, and Hershey's Chocolate Syrup into a bucket. I am NOT overreacting by taking exception to that.
"I just want to come home, Dad."

"All right, fine. But you will not leave that house unless my wife comes with you."

"I have to, Dad."

"Then I will write you out of my will."

Melvin slumped.

"You have to be a man, Melvin. I entrusted you with my wife's well-being. A real man would never leave a woman out in the boondocks. A real man does not
abandon
a woman, even if the woman has some eccentricities. So,
be
a man. Life is full of its trials. Assume your responsibility to me. If you want to come home, then come home.
With
Gwyneth. Is that clear, son?"

Melvin sighed. "Yes, Dad. But she really is crazy."

Now Dad laughed. "Oh, son, we all go a little crazy some time. Gwyneth likes to cut loose on occasion."

Melvin thought one more time,
Shake-A-Puddin'...

"And even if she was crazy, Melvin, I still wouldn't divorce her. You want to know why?"

Melvin shrugged noncommittaly. "Because you love her."

"No!" Dad cracked another laugh. "Because she's got the best set of tits I've ever seen in my life!"

Great,
Melvin thought.

"So just calm down. I'm sure Gwyneth will be back shortly, and then you two can come home if you want. Oh, gotta run! Got another seminar now. But it was great talking to you, son."

"Sure, Dad..."

Dad hung up.

Melvin couldn't have felt more despondent. When he looked aside, he noticed the rumpled black T-shirt on the couch cushion. He'd found it in the wall, the film cans wrapped up in it.
Did Leonard D'arava wear that shirt all those decades ago?
He looked at it again. VAN DER GRAAF GENERATOR, it read. What in God's name was that?

The shirt dangled from his hand when he quickly went to his laptop and logged online. A simple Google search brought up hundreds of entries. He opened the first one:

"A seminal progressive rock band founded by English poet Peter Hammill in 1968. VDG created a strong cult-intellectual following through the 1970s with multiple critically-acclaimed albums such as H To HE and GODBLUFF. With quasi-classical overtones blended with treatments ranging from blues to metal, VDG went on to be hailed as unsung musical geniuses garnering praise from everyone from Johnny Rotten to Isaac Stern, and remain critically stamped as a rare rock combo that borrowed no influences from other sources, ultimately forging a sound and style unique to themselves. Compact disc re-issues of their work enjoy strong sales to this day, while their early vinyl sells for top dollar on the collector's market. VDG slowly dissolved in the late '70s."

A rock band,
Melvin realized. Then he looked at the shirt again, quizzically.
Did Leonard D'arava wear this shirt when he ax-murdered all those people? In this very same house?

A retching sound flowed in through the screen door. When he looked out front, he saw Squirrelly—quite understandably—vomiting in the yard.

It was a
lot
of vomit.

She stomped into the house, teary eyed, pouting. "Those fuckin' assholes, man."

"Hi, Squirrelly. Not feeling well, I see."

"Sorry I puked in your yard, man, but fuck! Chopper's got a fuckin' freakshow goin' on down there. If I told you what went on, you wouldn't fuckin' believe it in a million years."

Yes. I would.

"He's got some fuckin' crazy bitch down there, man. Blek! Some big tit bitch who's fuckin' sick in the head." She blinked, looked around. "So this is it, huh?"

"What?"

"The Vinchetti house. Can't believe I'm fuckin' standin' in it, ya know? Feels kinda weird. I'm in the same place my sister was."

"Spooky," Melvin recalled.

"Yeah, she was cool. I'm sure she's in the ground somewhere by now."

Maybe...closer than you think,
Melvin considered.

"But, you know? It's not what I fuckin' thought. The place looks...normal."

Squirrelly, my dear. There's one thing I can assure you with incontestable certainty. This place is NOT normal.

"Hey, man, I haven't fuckin' washed in, like, two fuckin' weeks. Can I use your shower?"

"Sure," Melvin said. "Oh, and there's some pizza in the fridge if you want it."

"Thanks, but—fuck!" She stuck her tongue out in a gesture of disgust. "Lost my appetite earlier."

Understandable,
Melvin thought.

She scampered off to the shower.

Melvin puttered around, not admitting to himself that if Gwyneth didn't come home tonight, he'd have to spend the night in the house alone. His moroseness followed him around, an invisible stalker.
What am I going to do? I just want to go home!

He heard the shower hissing, then the faucet creaked off. A few minutes later, Squirrelly bounced back out to the living room, wet hair hanging in strings, smiling. "I'm done! Thanks!"

For someone who was just forced to drink a gallon of chocolate urine...she's in pretty good spirits.

"Oh, you turned the music off?"

"What...music?" Melvin asked.

"That music you were playin'. I could hear it when I was drying off. Never heard music like that—it was pretty cool. Vander something? I guess it was a radio station, huh? I could hear the DJ too."

Melvin didn't expend the energy in telling her that there was no radio in the house. Why bother?

"Hey, you want a blowjob for, like, twenty? Or maybe even forty!"

"No, not tonight, thank you."

"Cool. I ain't really in the fuckin' mood for it anyway."

I can imagine,
Melvin thought.

"Well, I better get the fuck back down there. Shit, I hope that crazy bitch is gone." She squinted at herself, rubbing her hands together. "You know what I might do?"

"What's that?"

"I just might hit the road. I don't need Chopper and those psychos. I've got a mind to hitchhike back to the city, get off the fuckin' dope, and, fuck, get a job at 7-Eleven!"

That's sound advice.
"I hope all your dreams come true, Squirrelly," Melvin said.

"Fuck yeah. Well, thanks for lettin' me use your shower, Leonard!" But then she paused, blinked. "I just called you
Leonard,
didn't I? Your name ain't Leonard, is it?"

"No. It's not. My name is Melvin," Melvin corrected.

She giggled. "My brain's all fucked up! See ya!"

She stepped out the front door, but Melvin came out behind her. "Hey, Squirrelly?"

BOOK: The House

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