Gothic, page 3
“Yeah yeah, so I’ll see you for dessert after Billy’s done with you, right? I might meet Linda and Barb beforehand, and I want to be sure you won’t be alone on your special day.”
“My special day can shove itself up its own ass, but no, I’ll be fine.”
Just gotta get through this birthday bullshit and figure out some way to knock out 80,000 words in a month. No problemo. Fine and dandy. Right as rain. Four on the floor and the engine is rumbling, daddy-o...
Sarah kisses him warmly on the lips and presses her fingers lightly to his crotch (momentarily shutting down his trickle-down thought associations), then leaves him for the kitchen, scotch still in hand, hips moving like an old blues song, to find fixings for dinner. Tyson watches her go, hoping that this amazing woman will forever find it in her heart to love an old, out-of-shape, beat-to-death failure like himself.
He downs the last of the drink, lets out a shaky breath, and pours himself another.
He makes it a hug.
Part Two
The Surprise
Five
Pale sunlight streaks through splits in the bedroom curtains; dust-motes float through the slanting beams like untethered spacemen drifting through golden space. Radiant spills of the morning light melt on the cherry-stained hardwood floor, glow butter-yellow against the gray-blue walls and the stark white duvet draping the king-size bed, and the tired man who lay on it.
Tyson had slept little, up half the night thinking about his dilemma, racking his brain for ways to write the book he needed to write, to find an opening for a new story, a gap to shoot through. He couldn’t get his mind around the tone of the thing, the presentation, the style. At 3 a.m. he’d gotten out of bed and gone to his office, wearing only boxers and a ratty white T-shirt that featured an image from Junji Ito’s Uzumaki across its chest—a smiling young woman whose entire head was a spiraling vortex pointing into oblivion, only her curled lips and straight teeth still present on what had once been an attractive human face.
He pulled one of his older titles from a shelf, his best-selling book ever, Dangerous Dreams. The big hit of his early career. There’d been a major movie produced the year after publication, and a limited television series two decades later that was not as reverential as the film had been, picking and choosing elements, the characters kept in name only, their personalities plucked from the outcome of multiple focus groups.
The check still cleared though, didn’t it?
Tyson opened to the first chapter and began to read. He searched for a tempo, a language, something he could decipher like a code, recreate in a new story with new characters. It was his work for God’s sake, why couldn’t he replicate it? Why couldn’t he repeat his own success?
But his creation betrayed him, sinister and secret were the words, the phrases, the flow of the plot. It was a locked box. A mystery his tired—stressed, old, worthless—mind could not solve.
He shoved the book back into its spot on the shelf and debated trying to work right there and then. He stared at the laptop, closed and lifeless, on his desk. The thought of writing even a sentence was enough to suck the life from his chest and slow his heart. His shoulders slumped and a small groan escaped his lips.
Failure! Phony!
Tyson left the office and made his way back to bed, to his loving partner’s warmth and unflagging love. He curled into her and tried to make his mind a blank page. Tried to traverse the jagged mountains of worry, the eternal desert of his thoughts, to reach the land of sleep and dreams.
And he did.
But now comes the morning, and all the thoughts and fears and anxieties rush back into him like an avalanche of despair. He forces himself up and out of bed, wincing as his knees pop like broken crackers while he kneels for the robe he’d dropped to the floor the previous night. He flaps it around his ever-expanding waistline (what those in the business call a “writer’s belt,” ha-ha) and shuffles to the bathroom.
The mirror over the sink is large and—quite rudely, he thinks—shows all of him. Mordantly curious, he takes off the robe, the Uzumaki shirt, the boxer shorts. He studies his flab-ridden body, the thinning hair, his tired eyes and slack-skinned face. His flaccid dick slumps between his pale thighs like a frightened child hiding beneath a black bush, and he feels a surge of contempt for the useless thing.
Sighing, he takes two steps toward the mirror, leans in, intently studies his own blue eyes.
As a child, Tyson liked to imagine that the gold flecks among the cool blue cornea were maps, and if he could only figure out what part of the world they represented he could find treasure at each golden freckle. Later he extended the idea, thinking them a star map, something he could look up into the heavens and trace, leading him back to the planet from which he’d been sent. When he was much older, he read that gold flecks in your eyes meant you’d seen evil in your lifetime, and he often wonders if that were true.
“You’re a right evil bastard,” he growls, making a terrible face into the mirror, a mask of what an evil man might look like. “Happy Birthday, you nasty, worthless old fuck. I hope you die.”
He stares himself down another moment, imagining himself a gunslinger, waiting for the reflection to back down (or perhaps provide an even more frightening visage). When nothing happens, he straightens and practices his best smile, the one he’ll offer to Sarah when she wakes.
Self-flagellation complete, his next grand decision of his special day is whether to make coffee, take a shower, or try to shit. He counts off the options on his fingers, and finally decides on the order. “Shower it is,” he says, and takes one step in that direction when he catches his gaze in the mirror again.
The blue eyes in the reflection stare back at him boldly, feverishly.
DARING him.
MOCKING him.
There are no discovered treasures for those who do not seek them out, those eyes say.
OK, fine. So coffee, then shit, then… what?
Then? the reflection answers, and Tyson watches helplessly as it smiles. Then you go write that book, you filthy cunt.
Or I’ll cut out your heart.
Six
Tyson stares at the words and the white, blank vista beneath them:
CHAPTER ONE
He sips his coffee, already cooling, grimaces and shakes out his hands. A magician preparing for his most delicate trick.
“Staring at a fucking blank page. What a damned cliché I am,” he says aloud, and, without thought, furiously begins typing.
The fat lady went ot the moon on a rocket built by Poe, she stepped onto ARmstrong’s corpse and stubbed hr big-ass toe!
Tyson is snickering at his prose masterpiece when the office door pops open. Startled, he looks up to see Sarah, and quickly deletes the sentence. “Oh, hey babe.”
“Hey yourself,” she says. “How’s it going?”
“Fine, fine. The words are literally bursting from my fingertips,” he says, and purposely avoids eye contact with the empty screen. He notices Sarah is wearing her lululemon down jacket and clutching her bone-white Gucci shoulder bag—both the results of a recent shopping trip with her mother. “You, uh… going out? I thought you’d taken the day off work.”
“I did, but I’ve got some errands to run.”
Of course, Tyson knows as well as Sarah that her “work” is really more of a “volunteer” situation, helping out a few days a week at an old-timer’s antiquities shop on the recently hipster-dominated Orchard Street in the Lower East Side. She enjoys the benefits of her employee discount, but otherwise the job is simply something to keep her busy. Such is the life of a daughter born from incredible wealth, Tyson thinks, fighting off a stab of envy.
“When are you meeting Billy?” she asks.
“I’ll leave at five. Hopefully get to the restaurant around six. It’s Friday rush hour, so…”
“Keens again?”
Tyson laughs, and means it. It feels good to feel carefree and happy, if only for a fleeting moment. He nods. “You know Billy, Mister Tradition.”
“Well, I’ll probably just see you after. I’m looking forward to a quiet night together,” she says coquettishly, giving him a sly look. “I think you’re gonna like your present,” she teases, then waves and steps out, closing the door gently behind her.
Tyson watches the door for a moment, his smile melting into a lined frown.
Trapped again, he thinks. Come on! Do some tricks, you old bastard. The last of his good vibes flow away as his eyes focus once more on the screen and the traitorous, treacherous cursor. Blink… blink… blink…
The door bursts open again and Tyson nearly shrieks.
“Oh shit!” Sarah says, beaming. “Happy Birthday! I nearly forgot to say it. Kisses.”
She blows him a kiss and then she’s gone once more, the door slamming shut behind her. Breathing heavy, heart thumping, Tyson waits a few moments, unsure if she’s going to pop back in one last time and scare the devil out of him. He keeps his eyes on the door—giving his heart time to slow, waiting until he hears the muffled sounds of the front door opening and closing, the house silent and empty once more—before he turns his attention back to the screen.
Okay. Okay, big guy. No more interruptions. No more excuses. Just… tweak what you’ve already done. Think modern.
He eyes the pile of notes to his left, the printed outline of the novel he’d presented to Harry stacked neatly beneath it. “Well, I suppose instead of an 18th Century witch, she could be a Hollywood fortune teller,” he says, scratching his chin. “Yeah yeah… that’s not so bad.”
Tyson tilts his eyes to the ceiling for a moment, murmurs silently to himself. He waits for that “switch” in his head to flip, the one that clicks his mind over from an analytic, problem-solving brain to the wide-open sky, creative one. He turns his stare to the window, his pupils dilated, and lets out a held breath. Almost unconsciously, he picks up the small remote control off his desk and clicks on the stereo behind him, which begins the carousel of his compact disc set, The Complete Rachmaninoff.
Then slowly, methodically, but with a growing sense of rhythm, he starts to write.
Seven
Sarah decides to drive the Mercedes rather than take the subway. Despite it being a Friday, the traffic isn’t so bad and, truth be told, every now and then she likes to drive her own car and listen to her own music. Especially when running an errand like this one. One that makes her happy, one she wants to savor a bit. She smiles, ignores the honking taxicabs surrounding her, the poor souls trying to reach the Lincoln Tunnel so they can get home to the Jersey suburbs before the late afternoon rush kicks in.
A nervous excitement crawls beneath her skin. She knows how much Tyson hates surprises, how much—especially lately—he hates birthdays. There comes a time, she realizes, when birthdays are less something to celebrate and more something to dread, less a celebration of a blossoming life and more a recognition of a life slowly terminating. It didn’t help that money is tight, and Tyson would absolutely detest the idea of her spending her own money on him with any great flourish.
And this will certainly be a flourish. Even for her (and her parents’ wealth), this is a solid chunk of change. A serious purchase. Or, as she prefers to think about it, a significant investment. An investment in art. Tyson’s art. She knows, deep in her heart, that he just needs a nudge. One push in the right direction and he’ll be back to his old ways, creating fiction like he used to, the kind that kept her up at night as a younger woman, and was a part of why she’d fallen in love with him in the first place, if she were being honest. He’d been a celebrity in her mind. A magician. A brilliant, terrifying, shining man. And even though he’s older now, and not as wealthy and perhaps not as… prolific… she knows the desire to create still burns inside him. She means to try and fan that flame if she can, because she wants it for him, yes, but also for herself. She wants to see those brilliant, burning eyes look into hers once more. If she can reignite that flame, perhaps it will reignite the flame of their relationship, as well. New work—good work—will mean more money, more confidence. If everything goes perfectly (and at this thought she smiles) he may even be self-assured enough to finally marry her.
Sarah muses on this idea of marriage. She wonders why it’s so important to her, why she feels it to be such a void in their relationship. After all, it’s a modern world and, in many ways, the church-and-state institution of official coupling seems almost old-fashioned. Almost trite. Is she so desperate for reassurance from her partner that she needs a ring and a “Mrs.” before her name to prove it? Or is it simply the little girl inside of her, the one who once dreamed of a big wedding, of telling all her girlfriends how her husband this or her husband that.
Besides, Tyson’s ideas on marriage after the death of his first wife were clear: Not interested. In years past they’d had the occasional fight about it, usually ending in tears (her) and slammed doors (him). Lately, though, he’d been less hostile if the subject came up, and she did her best not to push it. Sure, it made introductions to new acquaintances awkward from time-to-time, and if she heard herself referred to as his “partner” one more time she might scream, but she’d live with it if she had to. She loved him, after all, and that’s what mattered.
Regardless, it didn’t stop that little girl in her from the occasional online window-shopping of wedding gowns and engagements rings, and where was the harm in that?
But I’m not a little girl, anymore. And I’m not defined by my husband. So what’s the big deal? Am I so pathetic that I crave... what? Assuredness? And from whom? Tyson? The public? Do I really care what people think?
Sarah lets that train of thought linger for a bit longer. She isn’t used to feeling independent, isn’t comfortable with extreme feminism or some of the modern ideals surrounding women empowerment, and that depresses the hell out of her. What, she wonders, is wrong with her? Is she weak? Needy?
No, darling. Just poorly raised.
The thought rings true as a dinner bell. But it’s a balled-up, tangled thought, one that needs to be picked at and unknotted at some point. But not now. Not today.
She mentally stores the subject away for future perusal and focuses instead on her mission, desperately hoping she is doing the right thing.
As she nears her destination, however, she begins feeling more and more confident, more and more right. Relief smooths her anxieties, and she begins singing along to the radio as she makes a turn onto 14th, then a left on Washington. The Whitney looms ahead, the Hudson River to the east. The sky is overcast, the air sodden and chilled, but she doesn’t let it drown her rising spirits.
By the time she pulls into the small parking lot of the tidy brick building that serves as a central office to the large, attached warehouse of Le Fanu Antiquities, she’s singing rowdily along with Billy Joel, the Piano Man crooning She’s Right on Time.
“And by gods, look at that, she actually is,” she says, happily noting the dashboard’s digital monochrome clock flipping to read 11:00.
****
“Sarah, darling!” Anton cries from across the small showroom floor, the antique furniture displayed within a glistening array of curved walnut, mahogany, oak and kingwood atop a polished floor of cream marble; the neatly hung, ornately framed oil paintings bursts of warm color splashed against pristine white walls.
Anton is as dapper as his showroom. Raven hair slicked back, dark suit tailored snug to his long, trim form. His shoes reflect the track lights high above, his pearly teeth shine white as a bleached skull on a pirate flag. He puts his arms on her shoulders lightly and brushes both cheeks with his lips. His breath is clean peppermint and Sarah, for all her own sense of style and primness, can’t help feel like a dumpy slouch standing beside him (self-consciously straightening her posture and checking to be sure her suede jacket doesn’t have any stray hairs or smudges).
“Anton,” she says warmly, genuinely thrilled to finally see the gift she purchased so many months ago. “Tell me it’s here. Tell me I can see it,” she says, knowing he would have never called her out here if that were not the case, but it felt good to pose the question, like a child double-checking that Santa had come despite knowing full well their parents had stockpiled gifts beneath the tree the previous night.
“Of course it’s here!” he croons, his tone rising. Then his face falls slightly, a delicate frown turning his pursed lips downward. “However.”
“Uh-oh,” she says, but Anton only puts his arm around her, begins walking them gently to his office.
“Relax, relax. Just letting you know that it’s still in the transport packaging. We’ve removed the crate, but as you can imagine it’s thoroughly well-wrapped.” They reach his office and, without asking, he pours two flutes of champagne from a recently opened bottle.
You’d think I was buying a six-figure painting, she thinks. But I’ll take it.
He hands her a glass, and they clink a silent toast before each takes a sip, Sarah nearly gasping at how delicious it is. “My God… Anton, you shouldn’t have, hon. You’re going to blow your commission on champagne.”
He gives a disarming laugh and perches on the edge of a satin-upholstered tub chair as deftly as a cat. “Nonsense. This is a wonderful thing you’re doing, and I’m a big fan of your partner in crime. Plus, I just love a surprise. Not to mention, your family has done business with us before, but that’s a footnote, darling, a footnote.”
She sips again, knowing he’s right. Her parents are indeed quite wealthy, and it was Mother who referred her to Anton when she bounced the idea of a special gift for Tyson. “Well, you’re very sweet, and this champagne is delicious.”
“I will have a bottle brought with the piece. No arguments. You two can toast to its arrival, or his next book, or whatever. Smash the damn thing against the side, Lord knows it can take it! Now, are you in the market for a little something special for you? I have a gorgeous mid-century bureau that’ll make you gasp. And, if I may be so bold, I noted the perfect location for it while doing my measurements.”
