The Visible Filth (7 page)

“He’s okay. I checked on him yesterday. He’s cut, but I think it’s his pride that’s hurt, more than anything.”

“What about the guy that did it?”

“I’ve never seen him in here before. I figure that’s between them.”

Derek raised his eyebrows. “Dude swings a broken bottle and you figure that’s just between them?”

“You know what I mean.”

“No, I really don’t. You see him, use that card. I want to talk to him. See how tough this bitch really is.”

“Okay, Derek.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know. I will.”

Mollified, Derek returned to the pool table, placed some quarters on the edge, and watched his partner finish his game. Will gathered a few dirty mugs from the bar and brought them to the sink. He caught a glimpse of Alicia and Jeffrey from the corner of his eye, and stopped what he was doing.

Jeffrey was staring at him with an expression Will found difficult to interpret. Alicia slouched beside him in an attitude of defeat, her head lowered, her hand cupped over her eyes.

Well, here we go, he thought, and he walked over to them.

“Need another beer, Jeffrey?”

Jeffrey looked at his bottle, which was still half full, and tipped it over with one finger. The contents splashed over the bar top, and the bottle rolled and fell over Will’s side, where it landed with a glassy crunch. “Yeah,” he said. “That one’s empty.”

Alicia lifted her head. “Please don’t.”

Will leaned over until he caught Jeffrey’s gaze, and held it. “Are you okay, Jeffrey?” His tone of voice made it more of a challenge than a question.

Jeffrey was not okay. In fact he was grandly drunk, his eyes bloodshot and the skin hanging loosely from his face, like wet laundry. He gave Will a big grin, about as genuine as an alligator’s, and clasped his hand. “Hey Will, I’m good, I’m really good. How the fuck are
you
, Will?” His words stumbled against each other.

Will extracted his hand. “You’re wasted, man. You should go on home.” He looked at Alicia. “You guys started before you got here, didn’t you?”

She didn’t answer, just watched him with a darkness in her gaze. It unsettled him; he didn’t know how to read it. She was probably wasted too.

“Bring me another beer, Will,” said Jeffrey.

“I think you’re about done for the night, man.”

“Bring me another beer, Will.”

“Don’t take this approach with me, Jeffrey.” He looked at Alicia. “Maybe you should get him out of here.”

She nodded vaguely. She looked devastated. Obviously, she’d told him. That’s what he’d wanted, of course, but somehow he’d imagined it would be different. That she would not be so upset herself. Of course, Alicia was kind, and she would be distraught over the pain she was causing Jeffrey. It would run its course. He tried to catch her eye, to communicate through a glance his own understanding, but she was too involved in getting Jeffrey to his feet to notice.

Jeffrey did not resist too much. He let himself be guided off the stool, but some residual instinct of self-respect wouldn’t allow a clean retreat: as she walked him away from where they were sitting, he flicked her half-empty bottle off the bar too. It shattered on the floor.

People were starting to look.

Alicia pulled him harder. “Jeffrey!”

“Bring me another beer, Will,” he said.

“You’re not a tough guy, Jeffrey,” said Will. “Stop acting like one.”

They were almost at the door by this time, drawing the curious gaze of the rest of the bar behind them like a net caught in their wake. It was too easy. Will was struck by a perverse impulse.

“Alicia,” he said. “I’ll call you later.”

Jeffrey turned, wrenching his arm free of Alicia’s grasp, and walked back toward the bar. Rage clouded his face. Will was fascinated; what was he going to do, vault over the bar? The presence of violence was in the room again, filling it like a gas. He felt ghostlike: a witness to his own life. Something fundamental was about to tip, and he waited for it with a hunger which was curiously distinct from any sense of self-preservation. What he wanted was an irrevocable action, the crossing of a bloody border.

Derek intervened. He stepped in front of Jeffrey, stopping him in his tracks. “We got a problem here?”

The frustration on Jeffrey’s face was almost heartbreaking. You could see his heroic plans evaporating right before his eyes. “I thought we were friends,” he said to Will, speaking over Derek’s shoulder.

“We are friends,” Will said. “Come on, man.”

“What’s the matter with you, you fucking prick?”

Derek poked him hard in the shoulder. “Don’t talk to him. Talk to me.”

Derek wanted it too; you could see it radiate from him like a stuttering light.

“I don’t want to talk to you,” Jeffrey said. He didn’t sound confrontational; he just sounded sad. All the bravado he’d felt after breaking up the fight the other night, the masculine dream he’d allowed himself to indulge in, was gone. He just stood there, ashamed and ineffectual, tears gathering in his eyes. Alicia took his arm again, shooting a dark look at Will, and led him away. This time, he didn’t resist. They pushed through the door, into the world outside.

“Was he crying?” somebody said, and there was a snicker. Then, as if a switch had been flipped, people returned to their own little endeavors. The noise rose, the pool balls clicked, and people approached the bar with money in hand. The night’s slow engine began to turn once again.

Derek and his partner finished their pool game and left, waving amiably on their way out the door.

Will felt cheated, somehow. That old hollowness reasserted itself, and he felt a vertiginous pull, as though he stood on its crumbling edge. The image Carrie had been looking at the night before came back to him: the wet, black tunnel, and the silent, gliding passage through it to an unfathomable end.

Something waited down there.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket, ready to dial her.

There was already a message waiting for him. A text from Carrie. Two of them. He quickly slid it open.

I think something is in here with me.

The next was a picture: their own apartment. Their own bedroom. The lights off. A man sitting on the edge of their bed, facing the camera. His arms rested loosely between his legs, and he was buried in shadow. His face seemed somehow misshapen. Will felt his gut clench, felt adrenaline spike in his body. He was breathing hard. His hands shook. He tapped the picture to bring it to the fore, and enlarged it. Squinted at it.

We left you a little present.

A wave of nausea passed over him, and he felt something hot crowd the back of his throat. He stepped out from behind the bar without really thinking about what he was doing. He pushed his way through the crowd. His chest was too tight, he could barely breathe. Somebody called out to him.

“Watch the bar!” he said back. He didn’t care who.

In seconds, he was in his car and speeding through the narrow streets, slamming through potholes and across cracked pavement bucked up over the roots of oaks, gunning through intersections. Aware of his recklessness even in the heat of his own panic, he had the stray thought that some kindly angel must be watching over him, shepherding him safely home.

T
HE APARTMENT WAS
quiet, the windows dark. Carrie’s car was still parked out front. He didn’t know how long she’d been home. Wishing for a gun for the first time in his life, Will sprinted across the street and crept quietly to his own front door. He pressed his ear against it, trying to siphon out the sound of the occasional passing car, the sound of the leaves rustling in a light wind. He was pretty sure it was quiet inside. He tested the knob to see if the door was locked. It was.

So much for sneaking up on the intruder.

Twisting his key in the lock, he grit his teeth at the hard thunk of the bolt sliding back. He pushed the door open while remaining outside.

The lights were out. Nobody came to answer his presence.

“Carrie?”

Still nothing.

“Is anybody in here? Come on out.”

By this time, anger had occluded the fear. Someone had come into his house. With Carrie here. The words of that college kid tolled in his skull like funeral bell.

He strode in quickly, flipping on the lights. Two roaches scurried across the floor to hide in a deep crevice between the wall and the floorboards. “Carrie! Are you in here?”

Passing through the kitchen, he yanked open the cutlery drawer so forcefully that it hung from its runners like something disemboweled, spilling half of its contents onto the floor in a bright clatter. He retrieved a chef’s knife from the pile, clutched it hard, and kept walking.

The familiar computer screen bleed of light seeped from Carrie’s study. He strode to the entrance and there she was, as he’d found her last night, staring into the screen. She seemed unhurt: no blood, no signs of distress of any kind. Her hair was loose and unwashed, and she was dressed for bed. Something in the room stank.

“Carrie. Jesus Christ. Why didn’t you answer?”

She did not seem to register his presence.

“Carrie?”

On the screen was the same image: the camera, still moving through the dark, wet hole. This time she’d turned the sound on: a distant, hollow wind, like putting your ear to a seashell. The fear settled back over him with a fluttering silence, birds settling onto a tree. He put his hand on her forehead: she was clammy and sweaty. He realized with a twist of despair that the stink was coming from her: she had pissed herself, and even now sat in a puddle of it.

“Oh fuck.”

Facing her, turned away from the rest of the apartment, he felt as though he was standing with his back to the mouth of a bear cave.

Turning around, he said, “Who’s here, baby? Is anybody else here?”

He left her sitting there, crept into the kitchen and turned right into the living room. Enough ambient light leaked in through the windows that, after standing there for a moment, he could be reasonably sure it was empty. But the door to the bedroom loomed beyond it, and no light intruded there.

Will clicked on a lamp in the living room. Shadows leaped and scattered, settling immediately into a picture of order and familiarity. The couch, the TV, the framed film stills Carrie prized so much. Light wedged into the bedroom.

“If anybody’s in there, you need to come out right now. I swear to God, man. This is no joke.”

When no one stepped forth, Will crossed the bedroom’s threshold, peering in. The bed was unmade and the sheets were rumpled, which was typical. Neither of them had ever gotten into the habit of making it. A small pile of dirty laundry coiled in one corner of the room, spilling from a full basket. A comic book lay on the floor near his side of the bed, stacked notebooks and textbooks on hers. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary.

He flicked on the light switch, then knelt down and peered under the bed.

The apartment was empty.

Will sat on the bed, the tension unspooling from him in a long, shaky exhalation. He thought of Carrie sitting there still, in a puddle of her own urine, staring at that stupid loop on her computer. He thought of her sending him these pictures. Maybe she was losing her mind. He thought he recalled her mentioning that one of her grandmothers had suffered from some kind of mental breakdown, living out a lonely end in a mental institution. Maybe that kind of thing ran in the family. He didn’t know.

A terrible, gaping sadness opened in him, and he put his thumb and forefinger to his eyes to stifle the sudden tears.

The title of the book she’d been looking for floated across his thoughts, unbidden and unwelcome:
The Second Translation of Wounds.

His phone chimed in his pocket, startling him so badly he jumped.

Garrett’s name was on the screen.

“Hello?”

That voice seeped out again: a shard of bone pushed through a throat. A welling of blood. Was it Garrett himself? The thing that had ripped out his teeth? Or something that had crawled out of him? Will listened with tears spilling from his eyes.

C
ARRIE COULD NOT
be coaxed from her chair until he shut her computer down, eliciting from her a small sound of loss. Her eyes, bloodshot and dry, finally closed. She sagged into him, utterly exhausted, and he held her head to his shoulder, wrestling to maintain his own outward calm. Inside, it felt as though pieces of himself were sliding away, like an iceberg calving into the sea. He was hunched behind a panic wall; just beyond it, he knew, must be a correct response. Something simple and easy. But there was also a howling chaos there, a black tumble of fear, and he couldn’t face that just yet. He knew, in a distant way, that he was in shock, but he didn’t know how to find his way out of it.

The first order of business was to restore sanity to his own home.

He lifted Carrie from her chair, heedless of the urine, and carried her calmly to the bedroom. She did not protest; he thought she had fallen asleep, until he glanced down and saw her eyes were open and unfixed. He laid her on the bed, next to where he’d left his cell phone. He knocked it to the floor with an angry flick of the wrist, as though it were a cockroach that had crawled into their sheets. He ran hot water into the bath, and in moments he had her undressed and submerged to her shoulders. He talked to her while he bathed her, saying nothing in particular – just maintaining what he hoped was a steady, calming flow of speech.

Once the water began to cool, he drained it and guided her out of the bathroom. She seemed to have recovered something of herself. She unhooked her robe from the door and shrugged into it, binding it tightly around her waist. Then she sat on the bed and sighed deeply, still staring at the floor. But she was present this time; she had come back.

Will sat beside her and for a time neither of them said anything. He tried to imagine what might be going through her head, but couldn’t do it. His phone, its screen now cracked, blinked at him from the floor. Three missed calls. All from the bar. He didn’t even want to imagine what was going on over there. He took it for granted that the job was lost.