Gothic, page 9
“Yeah… let me think about it.” Sarah’s astonished, and worried. Even the pleasure of being invited on a date by Violet is subdued by her concern for Tyson. As far as that man was concerned, Violet is the epitome of one of heaven’s angels walking the earth, mixing with the common and damned. He cherishes her more than anything, and in ten years she’s never once seen him so much as raise his voice to his daughter, even in reprimand.
She sighs inwardly, thinking of the previous night. Apparently, he isn’t enjoying being one year older.
I’ll give him some space, she thinks, then gets up to fix herself breakfast and pour a fresh cup of coffee. Given the state of things, it was making out to be a long day.
Twenty
Standing on the sidewalk outside the museum, Violet checks her phone one more time while waiting in line for what will be her fourth cup of coffee that day. Jennifer hadn’t yet texted her back about meeting up, and Violet now doubts that she will. After high school, Jennifer had stayed in the city to attend Barnard, and Violet has the sense her friend never got over her own decision to leave New York for Providence. This latest brush-off is likely another passive aggressive measure to punish her former high school bestie, a series of torments that started after Violet rebuffed the pass Jennifer made at their graduation party, when they’d both crashed drunkenly in a guest bedroom at Andrew Peter’s house. Violet hadn’t been interested, but she’d also been hurt that her friend hadn’t confided about her sexuality for so many years. The fragmenting cracks made in their friendship that night (and the awkward morning that followed) had only just begun to heal when Violet moved away, albeit only a few hours by train, to attend Brown.
And since Sarah hadn’t been feeling up to the museum, and now Jennifer was (apparently) blowing her off, Violet feels a sullen depression creeping in, an unfamiliar and uncomfortable feeling of loneliness, a sensation she clinically thinks of as being very adult, an analysis that only depresses her even further.
Fuck it, she thinks, and forces herself to ignore the tempting influx of dark feelings trying to claw into her mind. Straightening her posture, chin high, she puts away her phone and decides she’ll take on the museum by herself. Besides, if she does it alone she can see whatever the hell she wants, linger in front of whatever catches her interest and not have to worry about someone else’s boredom, or schedule.
Feeling better, she orders a coffee and begins mentally planning her route through the Met, knowing she won’t be able to resist starting with the Impressionists. Van Gogh, after all…
“Oh!”
Violet feels a hard shove, then the slosh of hot liquid as it slops through the loose lid of her cup and onto her hand, burning the exposed skin.
“Ow! Shit!”
The man who has knocked into her takes a full step back, flinging spilled coffee off his own hands. “Damn that stings!”
“Are you… I mean, did I…” Violet says, her words stumbling as she sucks the now-cooling coffee off the back of her thumb. “Who hit who, here?” She says it smiling, unable to help herself when seeing the stunned reaction of the guy she’d run into (or who’d run into her), charmed by his somewhat amusing—and okay, cute—facial expression. It doesn’t help that he wears a sort of retro black raincoat and fisherman-style floppy hat even her father wouldn’t be caught dead with. “Are you okay?” she asks.
The man raises his eyes to her (Violet pegs him as being grad-student age), seemingly relieved that the girl he’d run into is amused versus totally pissed off, and offers his own cautious smile. “I’m fine. And I think I’m the antagonist here, making you the young heroine.”
Violet’s smile expands into her cheeks. He is cute. “Oh man, you’ve lost me,” she says with a small laugh.
“It was my fault, I mean. I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going. I was heading to the museum and got lost in my thoughts.” He brushes beads of coffee from the lapels of his coat.
“The raincoat’s come in handy, I guess,” she says, then winces internally. Oh, that’s a good idea, Vie, why don’t you insult the guy. No wonder you’re still single. “I’m kidding. It’s cool. The coat, I mean.”
“No, no, it’s fine. I realize I look like my mother dresses me—she doesn’t by the way—but yeah, it does come in handy given my knack for spilling stuff on myself. As you can see, I’m no Baryshnikov when it comes to coordination.”
“Who?”
Raincoat guy looks at her with wide eyes, feigning shock and mild outrage. “Oh dear, not even White Nights? Gregory Hines?”
Violet blinks.
“Oh, well… that’s just sad. What about Stormy Weather? Top Hat?”
Violet shakes her head. “Sorry, you’ve lost me again.”
“Yeah, I get that a lot,” he mumbles. “Look, I’m Ben. Sorry about the rude bump.”
He holds out his (now dry) hand, and she surprises herself by taking it and giving him a firm handshake. She should be more cautious, she knows, and even though her instincts are telling her that this encounter is mildly too convenient, she also can’t help feeling that the guy—Ben, that is—is harmless as a turtledove. It’s partly the raincoat, the ridiculous hat… but mostly it’s the eyes. And his smile doesn’t hurt.
Easy Cinderella, she thinks, but allows herself to be a little daring, nonetheless. “So, you’re heading to the Met?”
He nods sagely, as if considering. “There’s a new exhibit I want to see, and I found myself with a rare afternoon free, so…” He shrugs, and Violet senses him receding from their encounter, likely eager to head inside.
What the hell. We only go ’round once.
“The Hartley. Yeah, I’m here for that, too,” she says. “I’m not a superfan or anything, it’s more of an excuse to visit the museum again. I mean, I tend to lean toward contemporary versus modern, you know? And Impressionism, which is my favorite, so I’m not really… well, I guess he sort of dips into that, right? Or at least with The Ice Hole, which I love, but he’s overall more cubist, or whatever, right?”
Violet forces her mouth shut, cutting off her incoherent (and thoroughly uneducated) discourse. Her sole experience with this painter consists of seeing a print on a friend’s wall (that she’d initially thought was a Van Gogh).
Art connoisseur she is not. Babbling idiot, on the other hand…
“Anyway…” she says, drawing it out, feeling more ridiculous by the second.
“You know,” Ben says, pursing his lips, oblivious to her reddening cheeks. “If you want, we can walk through together? Unless you’re waiting for someone?”
“No! No, I mean. No, I’m not. Yes, that would be fun. I’m Violet, by the way.” She puts her hand out awkwardly and they shake a second time.
“Cool,” Ben says. “You want to get that?”
“Huh?”
Ben points to her coat pocket, where a soft, repeating vrrrrrmmmm sound is coming from her phone. She pulls it out, sees a missed call and a text of regret from Jennifer.
Violet puts the phone away, suddenly not in the least disappointed at her friend’s stupid grudge. “I’m good. You want to go in?”
Ben nods and they walk toward the museum entrance, each sipping what remains of their spilled coffees.
****
As the afternoon wears on, Ben begins to feel badly about the deception. He’s surprised how quickly he sets aside his initial motivations for meeting the young woman, finds himself engrossed by her company and the beautiful surroundings.
They spend hours talking about art and books and whatever else courses through their easy, almost familiar conversation as they stroll through the museum’s many exhibits.
He realizes that he actually likes Violet, and, in a different world, he would probably ask for her number, pursue the possibility of a more personal, less deceitful, relationship. While their meeting at the Met is of course no coincidence, his feelings toward her are a surprise, one he keeps carefully in check as he asks her, with as much innocence as he can muster, about her father.
“A famous writer, huh?” he says casually. “I think I’ve heard of him. I actually do like horror.”
“Well, I don’t. I’ve never read his books. They’re awful. And he hasn’t been much of a writer lately, to be honest. I probably shouldn’t say anything…”
“Oh, please, my lips are sealed.”
“It’s just… he’s been struggling these last few years. He’s sort of become a shell of the guy he used to be. Could be writer’s block, or maybe he’s just getting old, who knows. But my stepmom thinks the new desk, the weird one I told you about, will inspire him. I sure hope so, he needs something to go right. Needs a win, you know?”
They stop in front of Corridor in the Asylum, one of Van Gogh’s more obscure, and oddly disturbing, paintings; the artist’s depiction of the asylum he’d lived in near the end of his life. The image he’d chosen to paint is a relatively innocuous corridor of arches that seem to go on for eternity, as when two mirrors face each other, creating a light clock, an infinity of images traveling though space-time, forever.
“Creepy,” Ben says, feeling dwarfed and intimidated by the painting’s massive size, the way it bursts from the white wall in torrents of mustard yellow, crimson waves, and pastel green smears. Only a masterful artist, Ben thinks, could make something so dead seem so alive.
“I love it,” Violet replies, chin tilted, eyes fixed on the canvas.
And so, for a while, they stand before the painting, side-by-side, saying nothing; temporarily allowing their deceptions and motivations to abate, to flow endlessly through yellowed corridors toward a mysterious, unseeable, end.
Twenty-One
Violet returns home in the early evening, as the clouds hovering above the city burned scarlet and apricot, reflecting the dying day’s red sun.
The townhouse is still and shadowed. A chemical-tinged tang of lemon scents the air and Violet notices the tables have been wiped to a shine, the floors mopped spotless, the upholstery fluffed, pillows perfectly placed. No lights are on, but she sees well enough to make her way toward the stairs. As she passes her father’s office, she stops, tilts her head toward the door.
My God, he’s still going?
She clearly hears the sounds of the keyboard; even through the closed door it’s easy to hear the keys being pecked at mercilessly. Violet looks at her watch, sees it’s just past six o’clock, and wonders if he’s even taken a break, or a nap. Perhaps he stopped, took an hour off, and then went back to work. That makes the most sense, otherwise it means he’s been working for… what?
Nearly twelve hours straight? Is that possible?
Walking to the second floor, she peeks into the open door of the master bedroom, sees Sarah asleep, fully clothed, atop the smooth white bedspread. Sarah had considered going to the museum, but Violet could tell how worn out she was from the last couple days, and when she suggested her stepmother stay home and relax instead, Sarah hadn’t argued.
Violet steps silently into the bedroom, crawls onto the bed beside Sarah, nudges her shoulder. “Yo.”
Sarah spins as if she’s been poked with a hot iron, her eyes wide and wild, her face so strained and ghastly that Violet pulls back, holding up her hands in a defensive gesture. “Whoa! Sarah! It’s me…”
When their eyes meet Violet realizes Sarah doesn’t recognize her… doesn’t even know her. Then, after a moment of internal processing, her face crumples. “Oh God,” Sarah whimpers, and puts a hand to her mouth. She rests her other hand on Violet’s cheek, then pulls her close to hold her.
Violet feels warm tears on the curve of her neck where Sarah has burrowed her face, crying openly, sobbing, shaking in her arms. “Sarah?” she says, trying to sound soothing but scared, not comprehending. “What’s wrong? What happened?”
“Nothing… nothing. I’m so sorry,” Sarah says, voice muffled, her breath hot and panting. “I had the most awful… I can’t even believe it was a dream. I can’t…”
“Okay, it’s okay,” Violet whispers, doing her best to comfort this woman who’d she come to think of as her mother, even if she’s never said as much out loud. Sarah had raised Violet since she was a child, after her biological mother had passed away, but they’ve always connected more as friends or, perhaps, sisters. Now, though, seeing her so upset, Violet loves her as a child does a parent, with an almost naïvely passionate sense of protection, and aches to have whatever this pain is inside her go away and never return.
Sarah pushes herself back, wipes her face. “Oh my God, I’m a fool,” she says, and attempts a smile. It’s wan and phony, but Violet reciprocates as best she can, despite her fears and concern. “It’s just… you know what they always say. It was so real, you know? I’ve never, not ever, had a dream seem so real.”
“Do you want to talk about it?” Violet says quietly, cautiously, unsure whether she really wants to hear about a dream that would do this to a grown woman.
Sarah shakes her head, her smile more genuine now, the glimmer back in her eyes, the horror momentarily erased. “Fuck no,” she says, and they both laugh, and then Sarah cries a bit more from having been so afraid of whatever her subconscious had conjured while she slept, and for having survived it.
****
Later, when Violet has gone upstairs, Sarah sits slumped at the edge of the bed, eyes vacant, trying to recall the horrors of the dream, hoping that reliving it while awake will soften the sting of the experience.
It was the desk. But also… not the desk. An altar. Covered in dark blood.
SO MUCH BLOOD.
A massive cage, a desert of gray sand, a bruised, starless night. Piles of torn flesh, a line of… children… babies… waiting their turn, held by cloaked figures… and then Sarah’s turn, pulled onto the altar, naked, laid out on the slab, wrists and ankles gripped tight by hard, cold hands as she screamed for help, for her life… and the robed figure held the long blade, his face in shadow but she knows… she KNOWS him.
Tyson.
There’s a glimmer from deep in the shadow of his face and that streak of white in the dark is teeth. A smile. The blood beneath her is so cold and she fights and squirms but they hold her too firmly and they chant indecipherable words as an ice-cold blade slides into her side… pierces something deep within her. A puncture. The air is sucked from her chest and her eyes roll and she feels the cold steel move inside her, cutting…
“Stop it,” she says, mumbling the words into the empty room.
She doesn’t know what caused such a vivid nightmare, doesn’t know why things suddenly feel so… wrong. It’s as if their lives have tilted. She can almost feel the stomach-emptying sensation you get when a ship lolls on a rogue wave, an unsteadiness which pervades throughout your body even after you reach dry ground, long after the rocking stops.
Come on, Sarah. Time to get a grip.
Sarah decides she’s moped and fretted long enough. Dream or no dream, she needs to get up, get out of this gloomy room, and get her head straight.
Feeling better, she makes her way to the bathroom. A hot shower will do wonders.
It isn’t until she’s beneath the water that she wonders, with a pang of annoyance, just where the hell Tyson has been all day.
Twenty-two
Tyson’s fingertip is bleeding.
He isn’t sure how it happened, and he didn’t even notice until he saw the H-J-U-N keys turning sticky red. For the first time in what feels like days, he stops typing. His breathing is heavy, strained, and a faraway voice informs him that other parts of his body are also begging for his attention; trying desperately to tell him something’s wrong.
He ignores it all.
But the finger is a problem. Yessir. Because the fucking thing is slowing him down. He stares at it dumbly, trying to understand how it even happened.
How do you cut your finger tapping plastic keys?
Upon closer examination, he notices that the bloodied nail is badly chipped, split at the crescent. The skin beneath is puffy, inflamed, and chafed. He squeezes the tip between two fingers of his other hand, watches in numb wonder as a bead of blood pushes through a crack in the skin. “Damn,” he says. Whether caused by excessive dryness or the rough edge of his fingernail he doesn’t know, or much care. What he does care about, what is absolutely PISSING HIM OFF, is that the injury has stopped him from working. From writing.
And oh, how glorious the writing has been! How inspiring! What an incredible relief it is to feel the words FLOWING through him once again.
Cockadoodie finger, he thinks, and smiles, the Annie Wilkes vulgarism bringing him a few mental steps back toward the here and now, toward reality.
Tyson cradles his sore hand gingerly, now feeling the dull throb of pain from the damaged tip rising to the surface of the present. He pulls in a deep breath, lets it out, and takes a moment to look around the room, surprised that he can hardly see a damned thing.
When the hell did it get dark?
The windows glow a dull crimson, but most of the office is hidden in dense, stretched shadows. He looks back to the computer screen and feels a chill run up his spine. He realizes, with a sort of dull terror, that he has absolutely no memory of what he’s been writing.
None at all.
As the spell of his writing marathon dissipates, he begins to become aware of other things besides his finger, besides the dark. The constricted muscles in his legs, for starters, howl angrily at him. The back of his neck is pinched and taut as a steel cord, his back twisted and knotted at the spine, and his hands… his fingers…
“Owww!” he cries, staring in disbelief at his curled, cramped fingers. He winces at the hot, deep throb of overexertion in his wrists and forearms.
“What the hell?” He tries to piece it all together. When had he started writing? Was it last night? Is that possible? And what time is it now? Past morning, that’s for sure. Late afternoon?
He looks at the clock in the upper corner of his laptop’s screen. It’s almost 7 p.m.
