Ghouljaw and Other Stories (18 page)

“What happened to Lacey?”

Moss stopped moving. With mock astonishment he said, “Seriously? I already told you.” He grinned. “She’s in the tub.”

He was shuffling toward me again.

“Moss—maybe you’re hallucinating . . . or sick.”

“Oh . . . I’m sick, man. Feels like worms are squirming in my goddamn skull.”

“Let me help . . .”

“You’re going to help me, Wally. Just like Lacey helped me last night. But I’m going to need you to hold still—” He lunged, darting across the pool of blood.

I twisted away, looking over in time to watch the knife come down on the lip of the sink. Moss grunted and took a back-handed swipe at me, which I somehow ducked before shoving into his midsection, sending him back far enough for me to stretch out and grab a sauté pan from the sink, which I had time to bring up like a shield when the blade came down again. The knife hummed like a tuning fork and fell from Moss’s hand. I wrenched the pan over my shoulder and struck Moss alongside his head. He went limp, collapsing into the pool of blood.

Verbal altercations aside, I’d never been in a physical fight, let alone one where my life was at stake. I was trying to breathe, trying to think.

I stepped over Moss, already clawing for my cell phone. I was in the entryway when I slowed and stopped, my thumb on the keypad of my phone.
She’s in the tub.
And by merely recalling Moss’s words I felt as if I’d invoked something. I imagined I heard a low, steady beating. Moss had planted an awful question in my head:
Did you eat the meat?

I clicked the phone shut.

I gathered myself, looked at Moss (not budging), and took a few steps toward the inner chamber of the apartment.

From the weak kitchen light issuing from behind me, I could discern on the left a slatted set of bifold doors (the kind used to conceal water heaters), and two doors on the right, the first of which was open, a bedroom. I peered in, waiting for anything, movement, a sound; but the only sound I heard was that hypnotic pulsation. The door at the end of the corridor was closed.

I inched down the hall, the beating growing louder now. I should have run. Instead I clasped the doorknob, twisted, and let the door yawn open.

A roadkill aroma spilled out of the black space. I winced, swatting at the inner wall for a light switch, which my fingers found. Lights—the same morgue-florescence from the kitchen—buzzed and stuttered to life.

A murky shower curtain was drawn shut; it was filmy with residue, but clear enough to see that the tub was filled with dark liquid.

And then came sloshing, the surface jostled. The beating persisted, the thrumming muffled, as if hearing my own heartbeat while holding my breath under water. Something began emerging from the dark liquid. I backed into the doorframe, lamely bringing my hand to my mouth.

Through the opaque plastic drape I watched a slender figure rising slowly, almost sensually, to stand fully erect, shin-deep in what I knew was blood. There was a viscous dripping as liquid ran off her body in thick rills, exposing patches of grub-white flesh.

I could distinguish the clumpy, once-blonde hair hanging over her shoulders, barely covering the crescent mounds of her breasts.

Her arm began rising, and I saw that her thin fingers clasped an object—smooth, glistening, pulsing. The heartbeat mingled with a small giggle, and I saw the ivory flash of teeth on the angular face behind the curtain. Her other hand clutched hold of the curtain, smearing it with streaks of red.

I shoved away from the door and scrambled down the hallway.

As I sprinted through the kitchen I gave a brief glance at Moss. He was still sprawled on his side, crumpled in the pool of blood. His eyes were open—fixed on me, unblinking. Moss was smiling. Without budging, his gaze followed me as I fled. And then I was in the hallway, in the entryway, in the second-floor corridor. I ran down the stairs and raced out the breezeway, the night sounds of insects along with my frantic footfalls eventually drowning out the laughter that had followed me out of the apartment.

I didn’t have the heart to call the police.

In fact, the only phone call I dealt with that night (aside from phoning my brother to pick me up, his only comment: “You look sick, man”) was from Moss, who left a voicemail:

“Your fingerprints are on the sauté pan you clocked me with if you’re thinking about calling the cops.”
His voice was reedy but composed.
“I know you can use this message as some sort of evidence, but I could say the same thing about your footprints.”
He sounded as if he were about to hang up when he hastily added,
“Bon appetit, pal.”

Again I thought about eating from the same batch of steaks as Moss. I disconnected the phone and steered into my bathroom where I was tidily sick.

No one ever heard from Lacey Raymond again. Moss simply stopped showing up for work.

The closest I ever came to doing the right thing was actually visiting The Beaumont, dropping by the front office under the guise of inquiring about apartment availability.

There were vacancies, according to a chit-chatty manager wearing a pink polo shirt. As ignorantly as possible, I asked about a particular apartment on the second floor.

“Afraid not,” he said, dismissing it with a lisp. “That space is occupied at the moment.” The manager leaned toward me conspiratorially. “Had a resident about six months ago who wrecked the place.”

My breath caught. “Oh, yeah?”

Pink polo shirt was smirking. “When his lease was up, the facilities crew said he’d vandalized the place; they ended up calling the cops.” He raised an eyebrow. “They did some sort of analysis on residue found in the bathroom.”

I swallowed. “What was it?”

In a husky whisper he said, “You’ll never guess.”

“Try me,” I said a bit too eagerly.

He shared this last secret by lifting a stack of envelopes to the side of his mouth. “Blood,” he paused dramatically, “from a bovine.” It was unnecessary, but he added: “Cow’s blood.”

Here’s something that recently occurred to me: Because of the meticulous nature of those famed eviscerations, there’s a theory that Jack the Ripper was some sort of physician; but I wonder why no one has ever suggested that Jack the Ripper was a world-renowned chef.

About four years ago, after the sous chef, Drew, resigned from the country club for some ritzy job in the city, I was promoted to sous chef. If I have anything to thank Moss for it might be for the lingering residue of his culinary guts and ambition.

Before I finish, there’s one more component to disclose: This is the only story I’ve ever written. I’m not illiterate, but I’m ill-suited to be a writer. I am a chef. Although I’ve agonized over these contents with bloodless scrutiny, the essence of my confession—the “meat” of my story—remains intact.

By now, friend, your suspicion has transformed into certainty that my name is not Wallace, and that my former comrade’s name is not Joe Moss. I see him from time to time in a food magazine or on a cooking show. He’s a celebrity now (the diseased heart had apparently sharpened his senses—not destroyed—not dulled them). But I won’t confess his real name. I couldn’t cope with promoting his career.

The central artery of Deacon’s Creek, which is Exchange Street, runs north and south between a vast patchwork of fields. Most of these tracts are empty, dormant bodies waiting to be renewed by this season’s rotation of soybeans or corn. Sooner or later, the narrow networks of country roads widen and branch off, running their crooked courses to steadily streaming motorways, pulsing back to life as they channel into flourishing communities that flaunt their vicarious promises of hope and rejuvenation—promises this infertile town can no longer fulfill.

Walking down the sidewalk, Ray Swanson slows his stride, squinting against the late-morning sun as he half-heartedly surveys the tightly huddled buildings along Exchange Street. Not for the first time since his recent return, it occurs to Ray that nothing has changed here, and not just the buildings—the market, the post office, the taverns, the newspaper suite—but the people themselves. Being Sunday, nearly all the businesses are either closed or closing early. Being Sunday, most folks are at church.

He glances up the street, at the Tudor-style façade of the restaurant where he and Heather had their first date. In fact, the more he considers it, just about everything along Exchange holds a bittersweet memory of Heather.

Ray fishes his car keys out of his pocket, opens the driver’s door, and places the brown grocery bag on the bench seat. He’s about to slide in when he catches sight of the barber shop.

A gentle breeze disturbs the striped awning hanging over the face of the shop.

Three weeks ago, the day before his father’s funeral, Ray had slipped away from his parents’ house—crammed, by that point, with casserole-toting townsfolk and estranged family members offering low-toned condolences—and made a break for the outskirts of town. If he was going to be a pallbearer, he’d need a presentable haircut. And a few drinks. He’d driven nearly twenty miles before reaching a familiar little community in the neighboring county. Finding the least obnoxious barber shop, Ray asked for a simple haircut, something as anonymous as he. The day after, Ray helped slip his dad’s casket snugly into the ground out at Evensong Cemetery.

Now, Ray stares at the ancient barber shop on Exchange Street, the wind ruffling a few unruly bangs hanging across his forehead. Curious, Ray jogs across the street.

The barber pole attached to the brick exterior of the building is spinning slowly, listlessly. The sign painted directly over the glass reads,
Vaught’s Barber Shop, Est. 1928,
and a smaller sign hanging over the door:
Sorry . . . We’re Closed
. Ray mumbles, “Of course you are,” making a note of the shop’s weekly business hours. There is some sort of cheery Bible verse along the lower sill of the window. Ray ignores it, but catches sight of his reflection in the storefront. He doesn’t want to admit it but he looks . . . old—his boyish features have somehow faded without consent. A black thought scurries through his mind:
I hope I don’t look like Dad when I get old
.

He shifts focus to peer at the interior of the barber shop. There’s too much glare, so Ray steps forward, pressing his forehead against the window and cupping a palm to his temple. Despite the warped glass, Ray can distinguish the layout: the wall-to-wall mirror running the length of the shop, eliciting the illusion of a wider room. Beneath the mirror is a long shelf covered with bottles, tonics, elixirs; low-lying coffee tables with a scattering of magazines; the vague rectangle shape of a painted-over door. He begins to pull away but pauses, squinting harder. There’s a figure sitting in one of the barber’s chair, a featureless silhouette, indistinct in the shadow-cauled gloom.

Ray pulls his face away from the window and reappraises the exterior of the shop. Rechecking the hours posted on the door, Ray’s gaze drifts down and settles on something he’s never noticed before. Painted on the glass on the bottom corner of the door is what looks like a number seven, with a curly tail and a small band over the middle section. He frowns, cocks his head—it was nearly unnoticeable, but now that he’s caught sight of it, Ray can’t help but wonder what the hell it is and begins to stoop and inspect the little symbol.

Shuffling footfalls sound on the sidewalk, but Ray doesn’t turn from the window until a man’s voice says, “This certainly is a pleasant surprise, Ray.” He turns, instantly recognizing the couple standing here. The man extends his pale blade of a hand. “So nice to see you enjoying this glorious day.”

Herbert and Hazel Steinhauer. Ray had gone to school with their son, Travis. But like most post-graduation relationships, they’d drifted apart once the flimsy structure of high-school customs disappeared. He’d lost touch with Travis but really hadn’t given it a second thought. This isn’t the first time he’s run into the Steinhauers. Like many in town, they’d attended his father’s funeral weeks earlier. Ray produces a polite smile and shakes the man’s hand.

“Good to see you again, Mr. Steinhauer,” Rays says.

“Now, now. Please, call me Herb. Hazel and I were just leaving church, out for a walk.”

Ray would have been satisfied to keep looking at Herb, but feels obligated to offer a well-mannered nod toward Mrs. Steinhauer.

The woman’s overwrought features had shocked Ray at the funeral, but now she looks worse, genuinely ill. She’s pallid, and her faded blonde hair is threaded with gray and looks poorly washed. Dark purple crescents underrim her eyes. Her neck appears strained, the cords standing out, as if she is tentatively biting her tongue. The woman’s eyelids have retracted from the eyeballs, giving the illusion that she has no eyelids at all. But the worst part is the makeup, which appears garish and gaudily vaudevillian—her gray skin looks as if it’s brushed with baby powder, prominent cheekbones smudged with rouge.

Ray’s breathless hesitation is brief, but before he can strike up a friendly response, Herbert clears his throat, his eyes ticking from Ray to Hazel, from Hazel to Ray. “Hazel has been . . . unwell, lately.”

No shit
. “Oh,” Ray whispers.
If she’s so sick, why are you dragging her all over town?
“What’s wrong?”

“Thyroid,” Herbert says, caressing his wife’s back. The thin fabric of her dress flutters in the breeze, clinging to her willowy frame. “Graves obitopathy. It’s affected her voice and her eyes . . . the doctor calls it
proptosis
.” The man sounds weary, as if this explanation is something he’s recited for a long time. “It has been a struggle.” Herbert looks at Ray. “Of course, nothing like your family has experienced during the last few weeks.”

“Yes,” Ray says. “Mom still has her moments, but I think she enjoys having me around the house.”