Authors: Andy Cox
Dinner is microwave spaghetti and meatballs. Normally I’d eat on the coffee table with the TV on, but I don’t want to get any tomato sauce stains on the couch or carpet. So I eat in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, holding the meal container in one hand while I work a fork with my other. Halfway through the poor imitation of a meal, I realize I don’t have any alcohol in the place. No liquor, no wine, not even a couple beers. I’ll need something to serve Renee. Even if she isn’t able to drink it.
I dump the rest of the lukewarm spaghetti down the disposal, throw on my coat, and head out the door.
•••
On the way back, two bottles of wine on the passenger seat next to me – a red and a white, since I don’t know what kind Renee likes – I start thinking about the head hidden beneath my bathroom sink. Where did it come from? What was it made for? Maybe it was some kind of practice dummy made for a student hairdresser. No, that doesn’t make sense. Once the hair was cut, it wouldn’t grow back. I suppose you could style the hair and get some practice that way. Maybe the student finished the coursework, maybe even got his or her license, and so didn’t need the practice head anymore. Maybe it was a decoration, something weird that some young kid thought was kitschy cool at first, but then got tired of and threw away. It could have been a lot of things, I suppose.
I wonder what it is now.
•••
“This is very good wine, Pete. Where did you get it?”
Renee sits next to me on the couch. I’ve tried to keep some distance between us, but she keeps moving so that her leg touches mine. I wonder what she’d do if I got up and sat in the chair next to the couch. Come over and sit on my lap?
“The grocery. Nowhere special.”
She’s drinking the white. I hate white wine, but I poured a glass for myself anyway. It’s sitting on the coffee table. I haven’t touched it. If Renee’s noticed, she hasn’t said anything.
“Well, you made a great choice. I like a man who can select a good wine.”
I chose the brand primarily because it wasn’t the cheapest or the most expensive. But I don’t tell her this. Instead, I watch in fascination as she raises the glass to the emptiness where her face should be. She tilts the glass back, and when she rights it again, the level of wine has lowered a bit, and her throat muscles work as if she’s swallowing. I have no idea how she’s managing to make it look as if she’s actually drinking. It’s an impressive trick, and I’d love to ask her how she does it, but I’m afraid it might be rude.
She talks between sips, complaining about her job, wondering what kind of winter we’re in for, reminiscing about her cat Jennie, who died a year ago from feline leukemia. I listen without paying much attention. I can’t think of anything to say, but she seems content to carry the conversation for the both of us, which is fine with me. I’m more preoccupied with how she looks. Even though this is just a drink with a neighbor, and not a date, she’s wearing a tight black dress which shows a significant amount of leg and cleavage. Sufficiently provocative, but not so much as to make her seem slutty. The problem I’m having is that I can’t tell when she’s watching me. Whenever I’ve been with a normal woman – one with a head, I mean – I know when to sneak a look at her body based on where she has her gaze trained. But I can’t see Renee’s eyes. I’m not sure she has any, at least not eyes as I’d recognize them. So every time I glance at her breasts or legs, I feel as if she knows. There’s nothing in her manner to indicate she’s aware of my mild lechery, though. She just continues delivering her monologue, and I continue half-listening.
She finishes her wine, and I break my silence to ask if she’d like a refill.
“I’d love one,” she says.
I nod and take the glass from her hand. Our fingers brush for a split second, and I feel the proverbial stirring in my loins. Ordinarily when something like this happens, the two people involved might share a meaningful look. But we can’t. I stand and start toward the kitchen.
“Do you mind if I use your bathroom? I’m afraid wine goes right through me.” She punctuates this statement with a giggle.
“Sure. It’s down—”
She stands. “I know. You’re place is set up the same as mine, remember?”
“Right.”
I continue to the kitchen, put her glass on the counter, and take hold of the wine bottle, which at this point is half empty. But before I can start pouring, I hear the sound of the bathroom door closing, followed by the much softer sound of its lock clicking into place.
She’s in the bathroom. And so is the head.
Cold panic grips me, and I put the wine bottle down too hard, and it thumps on the counter, loud enough for Renee to hear, most likely. I half walk, half run through the living room and down the narrow hallway to the bathroom. My shoes don’t make much sound on the carpeted floor, but they make enough, and I fear Renee hears me.
I stand at the door, listening. It occurs to me that if someone could see me now, I’d look like some kind of pervert, eager to get off on the sound of a woman pissing. But I was married for over thirty years, and I have a daughter. I long ago got used the sound of a woman relieving herself. In truth, I’m not sure what I’m listening for. I’m not sure why the idea of Renee being alone with the head disturbs me so. I only know it does.
I don’t hear a spray of urine hitting water. What I do hear is soft whispering. One voice, two…I can’t tell.
I lean closer to the door, place my ear against it. The whispering doesn’t sound any louder, but I think I can detect two different voices, one pitched slightly higher than the other. I can’t tell if they’re feminine or not, but they must be, of course. I can’t make out any words. I’m not even sure they
are
words. They’re more like rushing wind, ocean waves, or the surge of blood moving through your veins. I think I hear something that might be my name spoken once or twice, but it could easily be my imagination. My imagination also pictures Renee squatting in front of the open cabinet, looking at the newspaper-covered head, the wrapping vibrating slightly as the head speaks.
Another thought strikes me then, and my anxiety level – already high – shoots up. What if this was Renee’s plan all along? What if she invited herself over for drinks only so that she could find the head and get some time alone with it? What if she wants it for herself? After all, she doesn’t have one of her own. What if she comes out of the bathroom with the plastic head attached to her shoulders, her neck somehow fusing with it until they’re one? How would I get the head back then? But then I think,
There are plenty of knives in the kitchen.
The whispering stops and I hear the sound of the cabinet door closing softly. Seconds later, the toilet flushes, and then I hear water coming from the tap. Renee is washing her hands to make it look as if she peed.
I pull my head away from the door, and I hurry back to the kitchen. I hear the lock click and bathroom door open, and when I return to the living room with Renee’s wine, she’s sitting on the couch once more, still headless.
I’m so relieved I break out in a grin.
Renee takes her wine.
“From that smile, I’d say you’re having a good time.”
I sit down on the couch, making sure to leave a few inches between us. I might as well not have bothered, as she immediately scoots closer.
My grin slowly dies.
“Sure,” I say. “A very good time.”
•••
I’m lying in bed, swaddled in darkness. Alone. After making her second glass of wine disappear just as magically as her first, Renee said she needed to get up early for work in the morning, but she enjoyed herself and hoped we could get together again soon. Before leaving, she paused at my door, put her hand on my shoulder, and leaned forward as if intending to kiss me on the cheek with her nonexistent lips. I didn’t feel a thing.
I tried to watch some TV after that, but I couldn’t concentrate, so I left the wine glasses on the counter along with the open bottle, and went to bed early. I have no idea how long ago that was. I don’t keep a clock in my bedroom. What’s the point when you’re (mostly) retired and don’t have to get up in the morning? It feels like I’ve been lying here for hours, but it’s probably been less than thirty minutes. I’m not disappointed that Renee and I didn’t have sex. I hadn’t been that into the idea in the first place, and the whispering in the bathroom thing was a real mood-killer. It’s better this way. I prefer being alone. Life is less complicated that way. What was it that some philosopher said? Hell is other people? Whoever the sonofabitch was, he got that right.
I lie there for a while longer, and eventually my eyes close and I start to drift off. And that’s when I hear it. Whispering. As before, I can’t make out specific words, but there’s a difference this time. It sounds as if it’s coming from
inside
my bedroom. I think back to earlier, when Renee was here. Did she have enough time to remove the head from its temporary home beneath the bathroom sink and hide it in my room? I don’t remember seeing it before I climbed beneath my smooth, neat covers. It could be under the bed, though. But I was listening closely at the time, and I’m sure she couldn’t have moved the head, not in the short interval between when I heard her leave the bathroom and then saw her sitting on the couch. Then again, she doesn’t have a head, and she’s able to get around just fine, see, hear, speak, and apparently even drink. Who knows what a person like that can do?
The whispering continues for several minutes, an uninterrupted flow of sibilance that despite the situation, I find rather soothing. I’m about to drift off again when the whispering grows louder, more distinct, and becomes speaking. The voice is soft and clearly feminine, each word enunciated clearly, and I don’t need to strain to listen.
“What’s wrong with you, man? Didn’t you see that bitch’s tits? She might be old, but those melons of hers are still fresh enough. Bet there’s plenty of juice in ’em, too. You were sitting right next to her. You could’ve reached out and copped a squeeze whenever you wanted. She wanted you to, you know. I’m a woman. I know these things. Why else would she have worn such a low-cut dress? For Christ’s sake, you don’t show that much boob unless you want someone to give you a little fondle. And while you were working one of her tits, you could’ve slid your hand between her legs and moved your fingers all the way to her no-no place. She wasn’t wearing panties. Couldn’t you tell? Couldn’t you smell how wet and hot her snatch was? She wanted you so
bad
, Pete. And what did you do? Nothing, except settle for a goodnight peck on the cheek that you couldn’t even feel. Pathetic. But it wasn’t just the sex that you were afraid of, was it? What if she’d tried to talk to you afterward? What if she’d asked you how you
felt
? What if she wanted to commit the unpardonable sin of hoping to get to know you, even just a little? What would you have done then, Pete? Huh? What?”
The whole time the voice goes on, I lie still, staring into the black nothing above, a coldness settling in my bones. By the time the voice finishes, I’m trembling all over with fury. I throw off the covers, turn on my night stand light, and get out of bed. I drop to the floor on hands and knees and peer under the bed. I see nothing but carpet and a few dust bunnies. I stand up and listen, waiting to see if that horrible voice – which sometimes sounds like Renee, sometimes like Kristie, and sometimes like Anna – has anything else to say. Evidently it’s spoken its piece, for it’s silent now.
Wearing only briefs, I head to the bathroom, flip on the light switch, hunker down in front of the cabinet under the sink, and throw open the door. The head is still there, still wrapped rather sloppily in newspaper. I peel it off, and the head’s painted eyes seem to look up at me.
“You got something to say to me, bitch, you say it to my face. You hear me?”
I yell these words, knowing that I risk waking the neighbors – waking Renee – and not caring.
“Come on! Let’s hear it!”
Silence.
“Fuck this shit,” I mutter.
I go back to the bedroom, throw on a shirt and some pants, and then head to the front hall to put on sneakers and grab a coat out of the closet. I then return to the bathroom, grab hold of the head, and make my way to the door. I know now I should never have brought the goddamned head home, and I’m not going to keep it in my place one moment longer. I reach for the chain, intending to unlock it, but I hesitate. If I leave my apartment, there’s a chance that Renee will know. Even though she claimed she needed to get to bed early, she still might be up, watching TV with the sound low or reading. Or standing at her door, waiting, knowing that I’d eventually decide to take the head back where I got it from. Maybe this was what the two of them were talking about earlier. They planned this whole thing. The head would harass me, I’d decide to take it back to the Dumpster, and then Renee would do…I don’t know what. But whatever her part in this is, I don’t intend to give her the chance to fulfill it.
I turn away from the door, walk through the living room, and head for the patio door. I draw back the blinds, unlock the door, and take my time sliding it open. I want to avoid making any noise. I also don’t turn on the patio light, even though it’s dark as hell out. No moon, no stars. If Renee is up, I don’t want the light to alert her to what I’m doing.
I step outside, and I’m surprised to find the night air is actually a little warmer than inside my apartment. I don’t bother sliding the door shut. I don’t want to make any more noise than I have to. If a raccoon or some other animal finds its way inside, I’ll deal with it later. I tuck the head under my arm, its face against my armpit. Even through my coat, I think I feel the thing’s plastic lips move, as it it’s trying to suckle on me, and I shift it around so that its features point toward the ground. And I then I move toward the gate in the three-foot-high wooden fence that encloses my patio. I open it just enough for me to slip through. The gate creaks, only a bit, but it sounds loud as a gunshot to me. From here I can see Renee’s patio and the sliding glass door that leads into her apartment. The blinds are closed and no light spills through the slim spaces between. That doesn’t mean she’s not awake, watching and listening inside, though. I very carefully close the gate, and then start walking down the sidewalk behind our building.