House of Cabal Volume One: Eden (13 page)

I gently remove the butcher paper, careful
not to ruin the return address, and place it on the dash so that
the vents dry out the rain spatter.

This leaves a plain white box for me to
open.

My stomach tenses. I’m reluctant to
proceed.

“Go ahead.”

I pull off the lid and reveal a twelve-inch,
black, metal key. Balanced on my hand, it feels heavier than the
whole package felt before I opened it.

At the bottom of the box, I find a piece of
paper.

“There’s another note.”

I use the passing city lights to read it to
myself.

=>8<=

The first test was yours to win or lose,

But in the end there’ll only be one we
choose.

For now, take pride

At least you tried.

You have no choice but freedom plenty.

That is the paradox of a life so empty.

I turn the paper over. There is nothing on
the back. My eyes water. I swallow hard.

“It says I failed.”

“Are you sure?”

I nod and turn away so she can’t see my
weakness.

They gave me the double count of six hundred
sixty-six. I took too long.

My relationship with Carrie was ruined for
nothing. And I was assaulted by some fag who goes to my gym. God, I
can never go back to my gym. What am I going to tell Rod? I feel
sick.

“I’m sorry. Did it say what this is
about?”

I shake my head and cross my arms, hunching
my shoulders.

We remain silent as the city transitions into
the suburbs. You in the back seat are apparently here to witness my
failure. I wish I could get out of the car and be alone, but that’s
obviously not really an option.

Other candidates must be advancing right now,
probably solving the next riddle. I bet they weren’t locked out of
their apartment by their girlfriends. Or assaulted in some back
ally. It’s not fair.

Dana changes the windshield-wiper speed to
intermittent. Without me saying so, she seems to accept that I
don’t want to talk.

Maybe the riddle and the box and the key
aren’t important. I failed, but it led me here to this moment.
Maybe the real reason you’re writing about me is Dana Parr.

I unfold my arms, trying to be less
guarded.

Just look at her. It was so nice of her to
help me. And that dress! Simple, sexy, yet still glamorous. She
must have money. She must be someone. Maybe this is her biography.
I don’t want to be special anymore. An hour ago, I wanted to be
special, and now I just want my old life back. I rub the back of my
neck, covering my chest with my elbow. I wish I at least had a
shirt.

She sneaks a peek at my body, and she sees
that I see, and she smiles, embarrassed. It makes me feel a little
better.

She pulls into the driveway of a generic
two-story American Dream House on a seemly, respectable
upper-middle class street. I assume the straight-laced exterior is
a facade.

I imagined a future like this in suburbia
with Carrie once upon a time. That’s never going to happen.

“Here we are.” Dana gets out of the car.

On the windshield, water specks accumulate. A
white picket fence neatly frames a just-rolled-out lawn that
glistens beneath the porch light.

Without opening her umbrella, Dana rushes to
the front door. She turns back to see if I’m coming. Her red dress
positively shines in the porch light, the awning protecting her
from the drizzle. It’s time for me to follow. I’ll do what she says
and give her what she wants.

With her coat around my waist, I step out of
the car and, exposed to the cold again, start to shake. I grab the
damp newspapers and underwear with one hand and the box and butcher
paper in the other.

It’s not the cold. I’m trembling from
anticipation. Maybe fear. What are me and Dana going to be doing
together? I’m not the confident lover she thinks I am. But maybe I
can pretend.

I hurry to join her. My feet sting and ache
with each step. A half-hour ago a man dragged me into the ally and
it tore up my feet. I want inside the house so I can lie down. I’m
suddenly exhausted. We could lie together, warm and comfortable and
safe, and she can hold me and tell me everything will be okay.

I can’t handle sex right now.

I’m not a man. I’m a boy.

Boys want their mothers. Men want to get
laid, not coddled or protected. I should have fought back harder.
Some queer overpowered me. I was helpless. What kind of man am
I?

I failed to fight him off, and so I ran out
of time and failed the test.

His body presses into me, his erection
against my ass. My brain is the enemy. I need to pull it together.
God, help me. Remembering the attack has gotten me hard.

Dana rummages through her purse, her hair
misted with tiny droplets. I move in close and smell her
perfume.

Purity isn’t enough anymore. Non-action isn’t
enough. Dana is my opportunity to prove who I am. If I don’t sleep
with her, who am I? Just some pathetic loser too afraid to
live.

I would adjust the coat, so my erection is
less obvious, but my hands are full.

She opens the door. On the warm air, the
smell of spiced apples greets me. An image of my mom pouring
reheated applesauce over peanut butter toast flashes in my mind
like a vacation slide. I rarely think about my childhood. When I
do, it’s usually unconnected fragments. Long-term memory is not a
strength of mine.

We step into the entryway.

A blond man in a wheelchair is inside near a
hearth. A crackling fire illuminates half his face and casts the
other half in shadow.

“Who’s this? And why is he naked?”

Seeing him thankfully dampens my
erection.

He wheels forward. He is handsome and looks
fit despite his paralysis.

I smile tightly, masking my confusion.

Dana hangs her umbrella on a steel holder by
the door. “This is Everett Grimes. He’s a CPA. Everett, this is my
husband, Thomas.”

“We do have some complex finances. Now about
his clothes…”

She leans over and kisses his cheek. “Let’s
just say it’s a strange story.”

I’ve definitely misinterpreted Dana’s
intentions. I could tell her to take me home, but the last thing I
want is to face Carrie. It would be another humiliation.

“And embarrassing,” I say, turning up the
charm. “Your wife was kind enough to take pity on me.”

He extends a hand. I hesitate. The invitation
reminds me of the offered hand back in front of the Blue Stud. The
rain patters. The neon buzzes.

If Carrie found out about the assault, she
would act concerned. Her honest reaction would be disgust. She
would see me as a pathetic victim.

“Nice to meet you, Everett. Call me Tom.” His
warmth makes me even more uncomfortable, as if he expects us to be
fast friends.

"Likewise.” I shake with one hand and hold
the newspaper, underwear, and package with the other. As we shake,
Dana’s coat slips from my waist.

I scramble to cover myself.

With all this stuff in my hands, the box and
the newspaper and my underwear, it takes forever to rewrap the
coat. I look like a lothario panicking because of the unexpected
arrival of a cuckolded husband. My cheeks burn.

“It’s okay,” she says, amused.

“I’m so sorry!”

He waves it away. “I’ve made some apple
cider. Want some?”

Dana reaches out. Before she can touch my
arm, I step away. “You two just saw me naked.” That was louder than
I intended. I swallow. “I’m sorry, I’m just um... I’m what you
would call the opposite of an exhibitionist.”

“You like to watch?”

Dana laughs. “Stop teasing. Can’t you see
he’s mortified?”

“He knows I’m joking.” Thomas pivots his
wheelchair as he says, “Don’t you, Everett?” and punches my
shoulder.

I nod in all sorts of directions. “Of
course.”

“Warm yourself by the fire. I need to talk to
my wife a sec. We won’t be long.”

“You’re still shaking. I’ll get you some of
Tom’s clothes.”

Thomas wheels back into the relative darkness
of a hallway, and she slinks after him. Her dress hugs the curves
of her hips.

I can’t think about her like that; she’s
married.

And I have a fiancé.

I stand by the fire and try to relax my
shoulders. My right shoulder won’t relax as low the other one. The
joint throbs again.

What the hell am I doing here?

Inside the house is more modern than outside.
Second floor rooms are visible between the posts of an upper
railing. Why have a second floor if Thomas can’t use it? A towering
glass wall makes me wonder if any neighbors are spying on us.

I jump when Thomas says, “This way.”

He wheels through the dining room. “You
should put all that stuff down before you drop her coat again.”

I put my stuff on the dining table.

Everything he needs to make dinner has
already been laid out on the kitchen counter.

He hands me a mug. “Mind pouring your
own?”

I ladle cider from around a cinnamon
stick.

He puts a cutting board on his lap and starts
preparing garlic cloves.

A thought strikes me: can he have sex with
his wife? I guess with his hands and mouth, but what would it be
like to have sex and not feel down there?

I study my reflection in a dark window. The
scuffs on my torso, where I was pushed against the brick wall, feel
obvious, but I can hardly see them in the window. I sip the cider,
feeling the warmth down in my chest, and I run a hand over my abs
until I find a sensitive abrasion.

“How much do you work out?”

I’m caught off guard. “Oh. Um, not too
much.”

“Come on.”

“No, seriously. If I eat right, my body’s
metabolism keeps me lean. I lift weights. Some swimming. Nothing
too crazy.”

“You must have to fight the women off with a
stick.”

I laugh.

The next moment I feel guilty for laughing. I
don’t want to feel happy so soon after what happened to me.

“Something wrong?”

“No. Nothing.” I fold my arms, feeling
exposed again. When is Dana getting back with those clothes? “I’m
kind of distracted. You have a gorgeous wife.” I amend quickly,
“Oh, God, that came out wrong. I don’t mean—”

“Everett! It’s okay. Relax.”

“You must think I’m some kind of freak.”

“Stop it. My wife likes you. I like you.
You’re doing everything right.”

I nod, not sure what to say.

“Dana and I travel a lot. We meet new people
all the time. At first I let Dana do the talking, but when you’re
nomadic like us, if you want to make connections, you have to be
open. You have to stop worrying all the time about what other
people think.”

“I guess.”

“You got into my wife’s car because you
wanted to take a chance. Am I right?”

I nod.

“Well, here you are. Taking a chance.”

“Is flannel okay?” Dana has been watching us
from the dining room. “I thought you could use something cozy.”

I grab the clothes and avoid eye contact.

“How’s the cider?”

I think to myself,
It’s warm, but it’s
nothing special, nothing like you, Dana.
“I’d better take that
shower.”

“Yeah, a cold shower,” you say under your
breath.

“There’s soap in the right-hand drawer.”

I thank her and go, keeping my head down.
God! I forgot you have a wife, Chuck. You must think I’m such a
creep.

When I get to the spartan (no decorations, no
patterns, no clutter) bathroom, you’re already in here, looking
around as if it’s a crime scene. It’s a bathroom, Chuck. Calm
down.

You roll your eyes and continue your
inspection. The shower curtain has a plastic smell. Not a speck of
grime grows between the tiles, yet there’s no smell of cleaners,
only the smell of plaster and freshly cut tile.

I set my mug on the counter. With a piece of
toilet paper, I blow my nose and since there is no wastebasket,
throw the tissue into the toilet.

“I freaking hate myself,” I tell you and drop
the coat to the floor.

To give me privacy, you pick up the mug and
gaze into the cider. You feel the warmth and smell the cinnamon.
But can you also taste it? You bring the mug to your mouth and take
a sip. The pleasantly intense cinnamon and the apple flavor, sweet
and tart at the same time, is surprisingly tasty.

I empty my bladder into the toilet, my
genitals cold and shrunken. The stream goes for a long while.

Drinking the cider is now unappealing and you
pour it down the sink. You ask me why I hate myself. I accepted a
woman’s help out of the rain. I didn’t sleep with her.

I start the water running.

Carrie is in my apartment right now, upset.
And I’m here. Isn’t that reason enough? Yesterday I loved her.
Yesterday the last thing I would ever do is cheat on her. Today I’m
not sure of anything.

I turn on the showerhead. Steam rises
immediately.

I’m coveting someone else’s wife, and part of
me wants to tell Carrie about it so that she can hate me.

I got into a stranger’s car, wanting an
affair.

Who am I?

My chest rises and falls like a bellows and
the steam clears out some of the darkness that has crept inside
me.

Maybe it’s progress. I’m finally admitting I
don’t have all the answers.

In the drawer Dana mentioned, resting on top
of the bars of soap, is an envelope, and on the outside of the
envelope is my name.

Cassette Tape Six:

In the Bedroom

I unfold the letter and read it loud enough
so you hear over the gushing water.

We have a proposal. I worship Dana, but I’m
not able to show her that love physically in the way that she needs
and deserves. It is our sincere hope that you would consider
helping us.