Flowers in a Dumpster (28 page)
She clicked on the file
Mace’s Short Stories
. She wanted to read some of the work by the man her husband couldn’t stop raving about, the man who had become more important to Rich than his own wife. There were about twenty stories in the file, and she picked one at random. A story entitled ‘Coming in For a Landing.’
The story wasn’t especially long, fifteen pages. It was a science fiction piece set in the distant future, where a group of space explorers land on a distant planet in search of intelligent life. What they find is a race of vicious creatures that enslave the explorers, using them as both sexual toys and servants. At first the explorers resist, but they eventually grow to love the abuse and degradation, ultimately sending word to Earth that the planet is a paradise so that more potential slaves will be sent. The story was sick, making victimizers into heroes, and she suddenly knew what had reawakened her husband’s interest in dark horror. Or she should say
who
had awakened her husband’s interest in dark horror. There were several parallels between Mace’s story and what she’d read of her husband’s recent work. It was almost as if Rich had adopted the other writer’s style. Not copying, exactly, nothing so blatant, but the influence was unmistakable. Vanessa hated to sound so mom-ish, but Mace certainly seemed to be a bad influence on her husband.
No longer in the mood to fix a romantic pasta dinner, no longer with much of an appetite at all, Vanessa left the office, making sure to close the door behind her, and retreated down the hall. She paused at the bedroom door then hurried downstairs.
She was suddenly in no hurry for her husband to wake up.
***
Richard stumbled downstairs at a quarter past eight that evening. Vanessa sat in the living room, eating a sandwich with the TV playing softly across the room. She wasn’t really watching the inane reality show, but she kept her eyes glued to it as her husband came into the room, refusing to acknowledge him.
He stood there for a few minutes, his hair sticking up in wild corkscrews, scratching himself and staring at his wife, as if waiting for her to say something. When she continued to ignore him, he finally cleared his throat and said, “Hey,” in a husky croak.
Finally turning her eyes toward her husband, she said, “The sun sets and the creature arise.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. You tend to keep vampire hours these days. Do you even remember what the sun looks like?”
“Big yellow ball of fire, right?” Rich said, yawning into his hand. Looking at his wife’s half-eaten sandwich, he said, “Did you fix anything for me?”
Vanessa leveled such a heated glare at her husband that he held up his hands and backed away, as if she had aimed a gun at him.
“Never mind,” he said. “I’ll go fix something myself. Then I have to head upstairs and get to work. I gotta finish a half dozen obits by morning.”
“Another all-nighter, huh? You didn’t used to get so behind.”
“I know,” Richard said, rubbing at his temples. Vanessa suspected he was hungover as well as tired. “This job is getting to be a real burden. I wish I could quit.”
“Well, you can’t.”
Rich stood by the sofa for a moment, rocking on his feet, fiddling with the tail of the T-shirt he’d slept in. Finally he looked sheepishly at his wife and said, “Why not?”
“Why not what?”
“Why can’t I quit?”
Vanessa paused with the sandwich halfway to her mouth and stared at her husband as if he’d lost his mind. She suspected he had. “Please tell me you’re not serious.”
“Hear me out,” Richard said, sitting next to her. “You’ve been selling houses left and right lately, and that has really padded our bank account. I’ve sold another two stories to publications that pay pro rates. I’m really on a roll now.”
“Three stories, none of which you’ve been paid for yet, hardly constitutes a roll,” Vanessa said coolly.
“I’m telling you, Ness, this is the beginning. Big things are around the corner, I can feel it. And the new novel I’m working on is going tremendously well.”
“Your novel,” Vanessa said with a sneer, before she cut herself off. She wasn’t sure why, but it felt important not to let Rich know she’d read some of his work.
“Yes, I really think I’ll be able to find a publisher when I’m finished, but I need to focus, and the job at the
Gazette
is a distraction I don’t need right now.”
“Need I remind you that when you first got the job at the paper, you were ecstatic. ‘Finally, a job that utilizes my skills as a writer,’ you told me.”
“So-and-so passed away last night, and is survived by a wife and two kids,” Richard said mockingly. “Not exactly Nobel material. I really feel that I’m on the precipice of a major breakthrough in my writing career. I need to devote more time to it.”
“How is that possible?” Vanessa asked. “How could you possibly devote
more
time to your writing? You already spend every waking second at it, neglecting everything else. Your job, the house, your wife. The only way you could spend more time at it would be to add extra hours to the day.”
“Ness, please, listen to what I’m—”
“No, Rich. No! Right now I’m doing well at my job, but real estate is a fickle business. If the market were to go south, my commissions would dry up and we’d be in quite a bind. If you’re looking for me to tell you it’s okay with me if you quit your job, you’re out of luck.”
Richard stood, his mouth puckered as if he’d tasted something sour. Vanessa noticed a tick in his left cheek, causing his eye to twitch. “I don’t know why I bother trying to talk to you,” he said. “You never understand.”
“Well, maybe if you started talking sense, I’d understand.”
“You’re a fucking philistine.”
Vanessa tossed her unfinished sandwich in the wastebasket then turned to leave the room. “I’m not in the mood for this. I’m going to turn in early. I have a long day ahead of me tomorrow.”
Without a “good night” or a kiss, Vanessa walked past her husband and out of the room. Only after she was safely behind the closed door of the bedroom did she allow the tears to flow. Something was very wrong with her husband and she didn’t know what to do about it. After changing into her nightgown, she crawled under the covers of the big, empty bed, still warm from Richard’s body, and wept softly into the pillow until she fell asleep.
***
FROM:
[email protected]
SUBJECT: Loved the Chapters You Sent
You’ve nailed it, Richie!
I am totally fucking hooked on
Subtle Changes
. I need another fix, so hurry up and send me some more chapters. I can tell you’ve finally stopped holding back and are letting the muse flow through you. No more safe, dull stories for you; from here on out, it’s all a trip down the rabbit hole into a world of insanity and depravity. I think you’re finally learning that nothing makes an impression like the extreme. I like to think I’ve played at least a small part in helping you tap into the dark power that you’re showing in this novel. If it keeps going this well, I’ll bet you’ll have agents beating down your goddamn door to represent you, and there will probably be a bidding war among all the big publishers. I’m not blowing smoke up your ass, either; I am truly impressed.
So is the wife still being a bitch about all this? I don’t mean to badmouth the missus or anything, but from what you’ve told me, she sounds like a really insecure woman. Maybe she’s jealous of your talent, bitter because she doesn’t have a gift like yours. In any case, sounds like she’s really trying to stand in your way. It’s a shame some people have to be like that, a hindrance instead of a help. A truly devoted wife would bend over backwards for you, do whatever the fuck she could to make your life easier so you could focus on your writing. Your wife sounds like she wants you to make her life easier. This is what happens when all this women’s lib shit gets taken too far. You end up with women who think they’re men, women who want their husbands to play the housewife. You’re wife sounds like she needs a wakeup call, something to let her know you’re the man of the house, and she can either support you or get the hell out of your way.
You know, Rich, I’ve been thinking about this, and perhaps it’s time you and I met face-to-face. I mean, I feel a kinship with you that I’ve never felt with anyone else. It’s like we’ve known each other for years, like we really understand how one another’s brains work. I’ll be traveling in your neck of the woods to visit some family in the near future; maybe I could swing by and we could spend some time together. Perhaps together we could persuade your wife to be a little more understanding. Let me know what you think.
Mace
FROM:
[email protected]
SUBJECT: Pain in My Ass
Hey Mace, I broached the subject of quitting my job with Ness earlier tonight. She reacted predictably, which is to say like a real cunt. She has pretty much forbidden me to quit the paper. Like she wears the pants in the family or something. With the money she makes at her job and the money I know will start coming in now that I’m having some success with the bigger magazines, there’s no reason I should keep that lousy shitty job at the
Gazette
. Crazy as it sounds, I think she resents the fact that writing makes me so happy, and I swear she is out to spite me. She’s really changed in the past couple of months; it’s like her mission in life to make me miserable. I don’t know what her problem is, but she needs to get over it right fucking quick. I mean, I haven’t been able to get any decent writing done tonight, she put me in such a bad mood. And I simply cannot allow anything or anyone, not even my wife, to interfere with my writing. That is unacceptable. She is in need of a serious attitude adjustment.
You know I’d love to meet you, Mace, but the idea also makes me a little nervous. I mean, it would be like meeting an idol. Your work is so fan-fucking-tastic, I am afraid I would feel totally inadequate in your presence. Let me give it a little more thought, and I’ll get back to you.
Well, I was supposed to finish up a bunch of obits to send off to my supervisor in the morning, but I think I’m going to take some of your advice and say FUCK IT! I would rather spend the time working on
Subtle Changes
, and it’s not like those folks will be any less dead if I don’t write their obituaries. I’m going to try to get some work done so that I’ll have some more chapters to send you by the weekend.
‘Til later.
Mace
***
Vanessa could remember a time when she found absolute pleasure in coming home after a day in the trenches. Nine times out of ten she would find Rich in the kitchen, tending to something on the stove or in the oven. Often he had something romantic waiting—a rose in a vase, soft music on the stereo. Even in the early years of their marriage, when he worked at temporary labor jobs while she studied to pass the realtor’s exam, he found the time to be romantic. Now she stepped into the house with a ball of dread knotted in her stomach. The door closed behind her with a muffled thump and she stood in the foyer, listening.
She could hear the steady, bass
thud
of music from the upstairs office. The room that had become Richard’s domain.
Ness moved through the house, putting her briefcase and jacket down in the dining room. The house was dim, the blinds in the same half-drawn position they had been when she’d left that morning. The breakfast dishes were heaped in the sink, unwashed. The anger that Ness wanted to feel—righteous anger at her husband’s sudden dismissal of everything in his life outside of his writing and his friendship with Mace—was dampened by fear.
Are you really afraid of Richard? Afraid of your own husband?
To be honest, Ness thought she was. She never imagined there might come a day when Richard could frighten her, but here she was, standing at the bottom of the stairs, listening to the heavy notes of music that came from behind the closed office door. That closed door seemed to represent everything that had come between them in the past months. It was a barrier that had never existed before.
Drawing up her courage—and some of her anger—Ness mounted the stairs. She meant to have it out with Richard now, for better or for worse. She couldn’t continue living with him if he was going to treat her like something secondary. She wouldn’t be afraid or upset by him any longer.
She paused outside the office door, the floor vibrating underfoot. She could smell smoke. It wasn’t the bitter smoke of a fire or something burnt, but rather the acrid aroma of tobacco. Ness was immediately taken back a dozen years, to a time when Richard still smoked. That had been his one true vice when they’d first married. He used to smoke like a chimney, in fact, until Ness squeezed it out of him and made him quit. Now, it seemed, he’d gone back to his old habits.
Ness put a hand on the doorknob and turned. Part of her, that same frightened, saddened part, half-expected the door to be locked, but it wasn’t. The knob turned and the door swung open. With the barrier removed, the blasting beat of the music rushed around her like a hot summer wind.
Richard sat at his computer, chair leaned back and feet on the corner of the desk. He held a half-smoked cigarette between his lips and stared at the computer screen through a haze of smoke. On the desk, by his elbow, was a bottle of Jim Beam and a tumbler, half-filled with amber liquid. Richard scrolled down the screen with his mouse, lips moving slightly as he read the text.
