The Glass House (29 page)

They did and were immediately blinded by an intense surgical light.

They shielded their eyes—then they heard it. The high, whistly voice: “Where do you want this killing done?”

And slowly the image of a boy—Seth, naked on a metal table, his hands tied together in front of him as if in prayer, his fingernails black—came into being.

Then appearing from the light they saw Decker approach his son.

Then Seth was screaming: “I never agreed to this. Let me up. I'm here against my will.”

There was a sigh from the darkness, then a high thin voice, almost a whistle, said, “Not against Mine, though.”

Somehow that voice seemed to be coming from every direction.

Seth twisted to see who had spoken. He was surprised to see that he wasn't in a room at all but at the crossroads of two highways. What he thought was a surgical light was an intense desert sun.

“Where do you want this killing done?”

His father! Fuck, his father.

Seth pulled at his restraints again, which had somehow changed from metal to something soft—like lambskin. Then he sensed the blood. He felt its stickiness—and he knew where he was: The portal at the dream temple at Epidaurus. He was wrapped in a sheepskin—the pelt of a recently sacrificed animal still thick with fresh blood.

For a moment the word “sacrificed” reverberated in his head, growing louder and louder until he heard, “Down on Highway Sixty-one.” That thin, whistly voice again: “Yes, down on Highway Sixty-one.”

“Father! Father!” Seth shouted.

Someone stepped forward and momentarily blotted out the sun.

“Seth.”

Seth took a breath and tried to stop the rising terror. “Father, what are you doing?”

“Doing?”

“Yes, doing! What are you doing?”

“That which must be done.”

The sun glinted off the blue edge of the surgical scalpel in his father's hand.

“Don't do this, Father. Don't!”

The scalpel scythed through the air. Seth yanked his hands, still bound as if in prayer, high enough to deflect the blade but not before it cut both his hands—cleanly removing the baby finger from each.

He felt pressure on his chest. His father's right hand was there, pressing down hard. The scalpel in his left hand was in motion again.

A gush of blood fountained up from Seth's belly and bathed his face.

He swallowed blood—his blood.

He gagged. His body convulsed.

His two fingers fell to the floor.

Blood fountained up on Decker—and he smiled.

Decker looked at his hands—he was missing the baby finger from each. Seth stood over him with the scalpel in his hand.

“Seth. Seth!”

The boy seemed to come back from a great distance.

“Seth?”

“Father?”

“Use the scalpel, Seth. The last duty of a father is to show a son how to die. Use the scalpel. Put your hand on my chest.”

The boy did.

Decker put his hand on top of his son's and the boy wrapped his fingers around his father's.

“Now, Seth, now, and we can put this nasty old world behind us.”

The boy stepped back and shouted, “No!”

“Please, Seth, please.”

Then there was a blur—Martin Armistaad held out the would-be architect's compass, its sharp point aimed directly at Seth. He was running towards the table and shouting, “Don't. Don't! We all have to be here!”

And then Yslan raced forward and threw herself at Martin. The man's body flipped forward under the force of her tackle. The two of them smashed into Seth as the point of the compass cut deep into his side.

The boy cried out as he stumbled and grasped for balance against the slab.

But he was off by a foot, and he'd forgotten the scalpel was still in his hand, now in his father's heart. They all stood back as Decker's life flew from him like a wild beast finally unleashed.

HE FELT SOMETHING SOFT IN
his hand and looked down. fingers slid across his palm, then held on tight.

He looked up—Seth.

Six-year-old Seth dressed in a new black suit. They had just come home from the funeral, and he was holding Decker's hand.

The doorbell rang.

“It's open,” Decker called. Eddie came in with his daughter Marina, her face alive, her eyes bright. “Hi,” she said. “I thought Seth might like some company, but if you think it's not appropriate—”

“No,” Decker said. “No, it's completely appropriate. Please come in.”

She moved past Decker and ran into the kitchen and embraced Seth.

Eddie held out his hand. Decker took it. It was then that Decker realized that he was missing the little finger from each hand.

Without a word, Eddie turned and walked back to his car. Decker noticed that he wasn't limping—no clack when he moved. Decker called out, “She loved you, you know that, don't you?”

Eddie turned back and nodded. Then slowly he said, “Yeah, I know that.”

• • •

Yslan awoke with a start. There was someone cooking in her kitchen. Bacon. She threw on a robe and moved slowly towards the kitchen. It was a man. An older man, maybe in his sixties. In good shape with a Marine tattoo on his left arm. He turned and smiled. “Hey kiddo, I cooked you some bacon, good at any hour.”

• • •

Trish opened the door to her condo and called out, “Can I help you guys? Maybe some coffee?”

“Yeah, coffee would be great,” came back from up the stairs—followed shortly by two men carrying an overlarge chair. At the door one of the men asked, “Should we take off our shoes?”

“Yeah, if you wouldn't mind.”

They did, then entered the completely empty condo and asked, “So where do you want this chair, ma'am?”

• • •

From Seth's room, Decker heard the sounds of early Bob Dylan. He knocked on the door. “Can I come in?”

“Sure.”

Decker entered the room.

“Do you miss her, Dad?”

“You bet.”

Seth gave a small smile.

“You gonna be okay, Seth?”

“Yeah. You?”

Decker smiled and held out his arms to Seth. The boy hugged his father, then they walked out onto the second-floor balcony. Over the boy's shoulder Decker saw the night's star display. The Southern Cross was low on the horizon.

“What do you see, Seth?”

The boy turned to the window and said, “Scorpio rising, as always.”

Decker nodded, then looked more closely at Scorpio rising—the third star in its torso blood red but pulsing erratically.

Decker shivered.

“What, Dad?”

Decker pointed, and as he did, the red star blinked out. For a moment there was a hole in the body of the scorpion. Then a crystalline white star blinked into existence. “Scorpio,” he said.

Seth smiled and said, “Yeah, Scorpio.”

They stood there for a long time, sensing the coming of autumn to the Junction, the trees clinging to their leaves but knowing they would lose the battle, that winter was on its way.

But Decker wasn't worried by that.

He held out his hand—and Seth took it.

Then father and son stood side by side as the world changed, and Decker thought that the crescent moon was all there would ever be. No more waxing and waning—just a slip of a moon, too thin for stories.

• • •

But Decker was wrong.

In far-off Afghanistan, it was beginning again as an Afghani dancing boy stepped forward with a ludicrous smile on his painted face, feeling the huge dose of opium coursing through his system. His mascara-covered lashes made him even prettier than he usually was when he danced for the tribal leaders. He'd painted his fingernails black—he thought they were so pretty.

He drank more of the milky drink and seemed to float.

The two holy men, each the leader of a warring sect, came into the tent. The boy smiled at them lasciviously.

The men nodded to their respective bodyguards, who grabbed the boy and held him down.

Each holy man took out a pair of garden shears, and after eyeing each other quickly snipped off the dancing boy's little fingers.
The boy was so drugged that when the bodyguards released him he held up his bloody hands and laughed at the stumps.

His laughter stopped when they tightened the noose around his neck. And, as they yanked him skyward, the two leaders of the warring sects signed the truce, and the moon—for the first time in human memory—began to grow again.

I'd like to thank the literally thousands of actors I've had the privilege of working with over the past twenty years. Although they thought me to be their teacher, often they were the teacher and I the student. I owe them a profound thanks. To name but a few by their first names: David, James, Tatiana, Scott, Gord, Noam, Jonas, Patrick, Melee, Saad, Megan, Alexandra, Joris, Trenna, Anthony, Peter, Taylor, Neil, Paula, Jimmy, Stephanie, Tee, Ryan, Jordan, Maurizio, Kas, Jeremy, Jeff, Glen, Rae, Bruce, Marvin—and so many more. My thanks.

And one last—the composer and collaborator on my Broadway show,
The News
, Paul Schierhorn, who had music itself in his being and is no longer with us.

ALSO BY DAVID ROTENBERG