The Black Train

CHAPTER TWO I

“You’re right,” Collier said to the old woman. He marveled over one of many glass display cases. “Your inn is like a mini-museum.” Below his gaze lay an array of Civil War-era implements. Each one was labeled. MESS PAN—1861, MORTISE TWIVEL—1859, .36-CALIBER SELF-COCKING STARR REVOLVER—1863.

“Just you take a look at the Gast Museum downtown and tell me what we got here ain’t a lot finer’n more interesting,” Mrs. Butler bragged.

The next case sported gloves, belts, and footgear. “Brogen?” he asked of the clunky black shoe.

“That was the standard combat boot back then. They were as important to a fella’s survival on the battlefield as his rifle.” She leaned, pointed to a different styled shoe. The gesture caused Collier to run his gaze across the sweep of her bosom, after which he blinked hard to sideswipe the distraction.

“But this ’un here,” she continued, “was the cream’a the shoe crop. The Jefferson shoe, or bootee as it was called. Mr. Collier, you could put that shoe on right now and it’d fit better than any fancified Gucci you might buy today.”

Collier looked at the high-top leather shoe. Save for a few scuffs, it looked in excellent condition. The label read: FEDERAL PATTERN JEFFERSON BOOTEE—1851—WORN BY MR. TAYLOR CUTTON, RAIL INSPECTOR FOR THE EAST TENNESSEE AND GEORGIA RAILROAD.

“Everything here was found on this premise at one time or another,” Mrs. Butler said. Now she stood back proudly, crossing her arms under her breasts, which made them appear even larger. “I get a tax break through the state historical commission by displayin’ it all…and by keepin’ that blasted portrait of Gast hangin’ up there.”

The most evil man to ever live here? Collier was amused. It was likely just promotion. “If this man was so evil,” he baited, “I suppose the house is haunted, huh?”

“Only by the memory of that low-down bastard,” came the strange response.

Collier changed the subject, back to the Jefferson shoe and its long-dead owner. “But I’ve never heard of this railroad. Was this prewar?”

“They started in 1857 and finished in 1862,” she said. “It was Gast’s railroad. He put down track from here to the middle’a Georgia, the perfect junction from the main roads that branched into town. He built it with a hundred slaves and fifty white men—not a bad feat for back then. That’s a lotta rail to lay.”

The notion impressed Collier. They had no machines to do it back then, just hard-muscled humans lugging iron rails and driving spikes with hammers. Five years…Collier suspected that the hardest labor he ever did was carrying groceries from the car to the house.

“And this?” he asked.

ASH CAKE—1858

“Ash cake is what they used for soap back then,” Mrs. Collier went on. “Weren’t no Ivory or Irish Spring, you can be sure.”

The grayish cake was the size of a hockey puck. “How was it made?”

“They throwed a bunch of animal fat in a barrel of boiling water. Horse fat, mostly. Never pork or beef ’cos them was good for eatin’. So they boil the fat and slowly add ashes—any kind: leaves, grass, plants. Boil some more, then add more ashes, boil some more, then add more ashes, like that all day long. By the time the water’s all cooked off, the fat’s broken down and mixed with the ashes. That’s when you cut your cakes and set ’em out to dry.” Her old finger tapped the glass. “Works as good as anything they make today in fancy factories. It’s rough but gets you cleaner than a whistle. See, people didn’t wash much back then, only every Saturday before the Sabbath, and not much at all during the winter—back then a bath could give you pneumonia. Ladies would clean themselves a bit more than fellas, though, with hip baths.”

“Hip baths?”

“Just a little tub with leg cutouts. You lower your privates into it. We’ve got one here—upstairs right next to your room’s a matter of fact. I’ll show it to ya.”

Collier couldn’t wait to see the hip bath.

“So much about the old days folks just got the wrong idea about. About the South in general.”

The next objects in the case seemed bizarre: six-inch-long metal implements with coiled springs on the end. NAUGHTY GIRL CLIPS—1841. “What on earth are these? They look like clothespins.”

Mrs. Butler smiled, and reached for the cabinet.

Collier’s eyes widened as she leaned forward. He just couldn’t keep his gaze off her bosom…

“Stick your finger out, Mr. Collier,” she instructed.

“What?”

“Go on. Stick it out.”

Collier chuckled and did so.

The tines squeezed down and began to hurt at once.

“See, when little girls were naughty, their daddies put one’a these on their finger.”

Only five seconds had passed and Collier was wincing.

“How long the clip’d stay on depended on how bad the little girl was, see? Say she didn’t do her mornin’ chores, for example; then she’d likely get the clip on for fifteen seconds.” The old lady’s eyes smiled. “Hurt yet, Mr. Collier?”

“Uh, yeah,” he admitted. It felt like pliers on his finger.

“Or say she stole a piece of rock candy from the general store; then she’d probably get a minute…”

Collier’s finger was throbbing in pain, and he’d only done twenty seconds so far.

“And if she ever dared talk back to her momma or daddy—two minutes at least.”

Collier chewed his lip a few seconds more, then insisted, “Take it off!”

Mrs. Butler complied, clearly amused. Collier’s crimped finger was red above the joint. “Aw, but you barely done thirty seconds, Mr. Collier.”

He wagged his hand. “That hurt like hell…”

“I’ll bet’cha it did. That’s why little girls didn’t act up much in the good old days. A couple minutes with the clip was all the discipline they needed. Wasn’t uncommon for a little girl to wear it five minutes for usin’ profanity, or gettin’ sent home from the schoolhouse.”

“Five minutes?” Collier objected. “In this day and age, they’d call that child torture.”

“Um-hmm. But I dare say, if our teachers used these clips in the schools today, we wouldn’t be havin’ all these problems we see on the news.” She put the bizarre clip back in the case. “I’m sure you agree.”

Collier couldn’t dredge a reply. “But those clips were only used on girls?”

“That’s right.”

“What about the boys?”

A self-assured snicker. “When boys misbehaved, their daddy’d simply take ’em out to the woodshed for a thrashin’.”

“Ah. Of course.” Collier rubbed his finger. He was a bit pissed by the history lesson. That hurt like hell! he wished he could bark at her. But her next gesture deleted the incident.

She unfastened her top button, then vigorously fanned the V of her blouse—which only revealed more of the awesome bosom.

“I keep forgettin’ to turn the a/c up higher this time of day,” she said. The sun was beating in through the high front windows. “Are you hot, Mr. Collier?”

Only below the belt, he thought. The image of the flesh of her bosom and the deep cleavage stoked him. “A little, now that you mention it.”

“I’ll take care of that presently.” She kept puffing the blouse; Collier could see a mist of sweat frosting the skin within.

Something else caught his eye in the last case: a pale gray slip of paper that looked like an old bank check. He squinted.

RECEIVED OF: Mr. N. P. Poltrock, AGENT OF THE EAST TENNESSEE AND GEORGIA RAILROAD COMPANY, Fifty DOLLARS.

“Wow,” Collier remarked when he noted the check’s handwritten date. Sept. 16, 1862. “What an old document, and it looks in perfect shape.”

Mrs. Butler stopped puffing air through her cleavage. Her expression soured. “A paycheck from Gast’s damned railroad. But, yes, it is quite old.”

Gast again. The very mention of anything related to him corrupted her disposition.

“It’s just terribly interesting, isn’t it?”

“What’s that, Mr. Collier?”

“A piece of paper signed by someone during the Civil War.”

“We prefer to call it the War of Northern Aggression,” she insisted.

“But wasn’t it Southern aggression that actually started the war?” Collier said and immediately thought better of it. “It was the Confederacy that bombarded Fort Sumter.”

“But it was the North, Mr. Collier, who begged for it by charging high tariffs on cotton exports,” she snapped.

“I see…” Collier looked at the check again, imagining it being signed nearly a hundred and fifty years ago, when the solidity of the nation was dangling by a thread.

“Where is that silly child with your bags?” she asked, frowning at the door.

“I better go help her. They’re pretty heavy—”

“No, no, please. Believe me, it’s a thrill for the poor thing. It’ll tickle her pink to carry a celebrity’s bags.”

Collier frowned when she wasn’t looking. I was a minor celebrity at best, and now I’m a has-been celebrity. He didn’t have the fortitude to tell her his show was being canceled. Then the myth would be shattered, and all I got is the myth…

The bell at the desk rang. Collier noticed two guests—a couple in their thirties. Tourists, he discerned. A camera slung around the man’s neck. He was nondescript in a tasteless striped short-sleeve shirt and beige Dockers strained at the waist. He held a finger up to Mrs. Butler.

“Oh, the Wisconsin folks,” she muttered. “They must want a tour brochure. I’ll be right back, Mr. Collier.”

“Sure.”

Some unknown force commanded Collier’s eyes to fix on her rump as she hurried to the desk. If she only had a face that wasn’t quite so…OLD! He felt prickly sweat at his brow…

He pretended to survey more oddments in the case: a hand-scraped burl bowl from the early 1700s, a debarking iron from a century later. The next item looked intimidating: a brass-hilted knife that had to be a foot and a half long. GEORGIA ARMORY SABER BAYONET—CIRCA 1860—OWNED BY MR. BEAUREGARD MORRIS OF THE EAST TENNESSEE AND GEORGIA RAILROAD COMPANY. The sheer size of the blade gave Collier a twinge. The blade looked almost new and didn’t show a speck of rust. I wonder if anyone was ever killed by that thing? the question blared into his mind.

He scanned more items as Mrs. Butler’s charming drawl engaged the new couple. She was passing them some local tour brochures…Now Collier was eyeing the tourist woman. A plain Jane with a little paunch but still shapely. Wide hips stretched her own beige slacks—also too tight, like the husband’s—and Collier’s vision focused at the bosom, and then an image barraged his mind: Collier pulling her top off and pressing his face between her breasts…

He winced until the dirty image was gone.

When he looked again, the woman was on her tiptoes, a great big white dental-bleached smile. She was waving at him.

“Pardon me, pardon me,” she was saying.

“Yes?”

“You’re Justin Collier, aren’t you?”

Collier tried not to sigh. “Why, yes.”

“Oh, we’re big fans! Look, honey, it’s the Prince of Beer!”

The husband waved, too. “Love your show, Mr. Collier.”

“Thanks.”

The wife: “Could we get your autograph?”

He could’ve groaned. “It would be my pleasure—” But then the vestibule doors opened, and in trod Lottie with his suitcase and laptop bag. Off the hook for the moment, Collier thought. “But let me catch you later today. I’m just now checking in.”

“Of course,” the giddy woman said. “Nice meeting you!”

“Last room on the stair hall, Mr. Collier,” the old lady added.

A fake smile; then he rushed to Lottie.

“Here, let me take one,” he said, but she just grinned and shook her head no.

The old lady’s right, she’s strong as a mule. She effortlessly hauled the cumbersome bags up the staircase. Lean legs took the steps two at a time. Collier wasn’t sure why at first—he deliberately lagged several stairs behind her—but then…

More pervert instinct, he assumed.

He was trying to look up her denim skirt. For only a second he caught white panties bunched up the crack of a delectable little rump.

What is WITH me today?

Maroon carpet took them down the main stair hall; over the rail Collier could hear Mrs. Butler’s jack-jawing with the Wisconsin couple. He fought the urge to look down, hoping for a cleavage view of both women but this time he gritted back the impulse. How come I’m suddenly obsessed with sex! he demanded of himself. When no answer came, he took to eyeing Lottie’s rump and the backs of her toned legs. He felt crazed by the imagery, and could imagine no reason why. Even her Achilles tendons and her bare heels seemed enticing, and the drab shanks of hair, the backs of her arms, her fingers wrapped around his suitcase handles seemed inexplicably erotic…

When she stopped and set the cases down, he stalled, then remembered he’d already been given his key. Last room on the stair hall, he’d been told. He put the key in—

Lottie tugged his arm, shaking her head. She pointed to the door she stood beside.

“I thought your mother said last room on the—”

She seemed to lip something he didn’t catch—

A strong male voice intervened, “What my mom meant is the last regular room.” A tall man, thirtyish, stepped up, wearing a confident smile and jeans, work boots, and a T-shirt. “Howdy, Mr. Collier. I’m Helen’s son, Jiff.”

Collier shook a toughened hand. “Hi, Jeff.”

“No, sir, that’s Jiff—you know, like the peanut butter?” The tight T-shirt sculpted a toned upper body; he had a blond buzz cut and similar drawl. “This room here ain’t yours. We don’t rent it out.” He pointed to the next door. “This one’s yours, and it’s our best.”

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Jiff.”

“Lemme take these bags from my little pipe cleaner of a sister, and get’cha set.”

Collier unlocked what was actually the second-to-last door, but he quickly noted that the third door stood more narrowly and sported a plaque, which read ORIGINAL GAST BATH AND WATER CLOSET. “So what’s this here, Jiff?”

Lottie glared as Jiff yanked the cases from her; she may have even mouthed Fucker!

“That room we never renovated ’cos a lot of tourist folks like to see what a real bathroom from the old days looked like. I’ll be happy to show it to ya, and give ya a tour of the whole house when you’re ready.”

“Thanks, I’d like a tour.”

Collier entered his room, and heard Jiff mutter “out’a my way, dopey!” to his sister behind him. They seemed to be fighting over Collier’s attention. “Yes, sir, I seen your show many times,” Jiff assured him. “It’s a real pleasure to have such a famous TV fella staying with us.”

Collier couldn’t have felt less genuine when he replied, “Thanks.”

“You here for anything to do with your TV show?”

“No, Jiff, actually I’m here to finish a book. Besides my Prince of Beer show I also write books about the art and craft of beer—” And then he quickly said, “Ah, perfect,” of an antique scroll-top desk, which sat before a broad window. “I can work on my laptop right there.”

Jiff put the laptop case on the desk. “I hope the room’s to your likin’.”

“It’ll do just fine.” Cozy, Collier thought. Heavy rust-colored carpet wall to wall, and furnishings of the expected post-Colonial bent. The four-poster bed sat unusually high. Gold and maroon wallpaper covered the half-paneled walls. “Oh, and let me check out this view your mother promised.” And he went through a pair of French doors out to an elaborately railed balcony. Jiff stepped out with him.

The second-story view showed him an impressive garden bisected by flagstone trails. “Beautiful garden,” Collier commented. The meld of fragrances reached him on a warm breeze.

Centered in a small cove at the end of the perimeter sat a crude chimney made of flat beige stones piled high and set with mortar. Several ducts seemed to exist in the structure’s body, and then Collier noticed a chained beam hanging on the side, attached to a large version of a fireplace bellows. A separate shed sat beside it all.

“What’s all that there, that chimney-looking thing?”

“Harwood Gast’s personal iron forge,” Jiff replied. “Any rich man had a forge and blacksmith on the property. Lotta tourists and historians come here just to see that one. It’s in perfect condition; only thing new on it is the leather for the bellows.”

This, like some of the artifacts downstairs, fascinated Collier. “And the shed next to it?”

“Fuel house. They used coal or charcoal; couldn’t use regular wood ’cos it wouldn’t get hot enough. One fella ran the whole show, pumpin’ the bellows, turnin’ the ore, then pullin’ out the blooms to knock the iron out of ’em. Tricky process. The smith’d have to shape the iron before it got too cold.” He pointed to a sawn tree stump that housed an anvil. “It was hard work but those fellas could damn near make anything, and they did it all with a hammer and molds.”

The sight made Collier realize how little he knew of the world. “I’d love to see that some time.”

“I’d be happy to show it to ya whenever you like,” Jiff said. Then he pointed beyond. “And there’s the mountain.”

Collier could still see it, even at this distance, its peaks and edges ghosted by mist that looked purple. But past the garden stretched an endless scrubland that wasn’t much for scenery. “How come no one farms all that land out there?”

“Used to be one of the biggest cotton plantations in the South,” Jiff said, “back before the war.”

“World War Two? Or do you mean—”

“The War of Northern Aggression, sir.”

Collier smiled. He struggled with more distraction when Lottie listlessly leaned over the rail and looked down, and was just able to resist overtly looking down the top of her denim frock. “So it’s just wasteland now? Surely it’s been farmed since then.”

“No, sir. Not a square foot.”

“A developer’s sitting on it?”

“No, sir.”

The deflection of the issue intrigued Collier. “Well then why not use all that valuable farmland?”

Lottie looked at him. She slowly shook her head.

“Folks think the land’s cursed is all, Mr. Collier,” Jiff informed. “Lotta old legends and ghost tales ’round here, but don’t pay ’em no mind. Man who used to own that land was Harwood Gast. The cotton his slaves harvested clothed most’a the Confederate army, and the soybeans he grew out there fed it. bet’cha didn’t know they had soybeans back then, did ya?”

“Actually…no.” But Collier delighted in ghost stories. “And why is the land supposedly cursed?”

Jiff crooked his head. “Aw, you don’t wanna hear that silly talk, sir. Oh, look, there’s them folks from Wisconsin.”

He sure changed that subject fast. Collier’s eyes darted down and, indeed, there walked the married couple he’d seen downstairs. The woman seemed to sense Collier’s eyes, and jerked around to wave.

“Can’t wait for that autograph, Mr. Collier!”

Jesus… Collier nodded and smiled. “Let’s go back inside.”

Lottie skipped ahead of him; he couldn’t take his gaze off the toned, gymnastlike legs. But then his loins surged when the spry girl leaned over for his suitcase. Jackpot! Collier thought. The action afforded only a glimpse, but as the top edge of the frock dipped from gravity, Collier noted breasts the size of peaches, and probably as firm. Good God…This sudden thrill of voyeurism left him mystified; it simply wasn’t like him. Nevertheless, the glimpse made him feel as though he’d received a wonderful surprise gift.

She hauled the suitcase atop the bed, opened it, and began to hang his clothes up in the wardrobe.

“Thanks, Lottie, but that’s really not necessary…”

“It’s our pleasure, Mr. Collier,” Jiff offered.

Next, Lottie grabbed a pair of shoes from the case, then turned and bent down to place them at the bottom of the wardrobe. Collier got an adrenaline jolt from a perfect shot of her white-pantied bottom.

Jiff gave her a hard smack. “Have some respect, girl! Mr. Collier don’t wanna look at your scrawny bee-hind!”

Yes I do! Yes I do! Collier objected. The girl stood straight, grinned sheepishly.

But it was just more incomprehension. Even the air seemed gorged with desire; he inhaled it like smoke. Collier had all but forgotten such sexual awareness, but all of a sudden…

His chest felt tight. He felt antsy.

“So what was that you was sayin’, Mr. Collier?” Jiff repaired the awkward moment. “You come here to work on a beer book?”

“Uh, yes, Jiff. I’m writing a book about classic old American beers, and the reason I’ve come to Gast is because I heard some fellow connoisseurs speaking particularly of a beer brewed in this town, at a place called—”

But Jiff was already nodding, arms crossed. “Cusher’s, ya mean. Next words out’a my mouth was gonna be how the Prince’a Beer surely must throw a few back at Cusher’s.”

“It’s a restaurant and tavern, right?”

“Sure is, and a fine one. Old-time vittles like they made in the old days, and some beers they make themselves right there in the place. I stop in myself every now and then. It’s right down on the corner of Number One Street.”

This was good fortune, and Collier didn’t like going to new places by himself, especially in a strange town. “That’s very helpful, Jiff. And if you’re not doing anything later, I’d love to take you and your sister there for dinner. My treat.”

Jiff and Lottie showed gushing grins. “That’s a right nice’a ya, Mr. Collier. I’d be a honored to go out with a celebrity such as yourself,” Jiff accepted, but then shot a scowl to his sister. “Unfortunately Lottie won’t be able to join us on account she’s still got all the guest linens to wash—”

“Oh, that’s too bad—”

Lottie’s lips pressed together, infuriated.

“Which she’d best get to doin’, like right now. Right, Lottie? Ma done told ya already.”

The girl’s eyes dampened with tears; she stormed out. Collier was fairly sure she’d mouthed Eat shit! to her brother upon exit.

Jiff shrugged. “Lottie—God love her—is a little off, Mr. Collier. It’s best she stay ’round the house. She gets all silly even after, like, one beer, and then she gets to cryin’ and all on account she can’t talk.”

Collier felt saddened by the cruel fact but then his mind served back up the glances he’d stolen. “Oh, I see…Anyway, how about seven o’clock?”

“Seven o’clock it is, Mr. Collier.” Jiff clapped his hands. “Ooo-eee! First time in my life I ever been out with a genuine celebrity!”

Collier sighed.

“You need anything durin’ your stay,” Jiff said and pointed, “just you let me know.”

“Thanks, Jiff.” When Collier tipped him a ten, the man’s eyes beamed. “See you at seven.”

Jiff left, whistling. Collier locked the door.

He set up his laptop but found himself contemplating the sudden and unlikely sexual awareness that seemed to envelop him since he’d arrived. Christ, what’s wrong with me? Since the minute I got here I’ve felt hornier than I’ve been in years. Yet, it had been six months at least since he and Evelyn had made love and probably as long since he’d had a potent sexual fantasy.

Why all this horniness now? he wondered.

It was a good question. Now that he thought about it, he realized his sex drive had been pretty much dead since the second season of the show. The spoiling marriage only killed it more. Job stress, stress at home, and just the stress of living in that California hellhole, he guessed. I NEVER think about sex anymore…until today. I walk into this place sweating a book deadline and suddenly I’ve got the sex drive of a seventeen-year-old. I’m going bonkers over an old lady with Jack Palance’s face and her redneck daughter who can’t talk.

So much for self-revelation.

He pulled the laptop power cord from its case but inadvertently dropped it. When he leaned down to retrieve it, he noticed something…

The gap under the bedroom door…

Somebody’s standing right outside my door—right now, he could see.

Bare toes showed in the gap. Must be Lottie, he guessed. She’d been barefoot, hadn’t she? Collier got on his hands and knees and crawled over. The toes were still there; they hadn’t budged. It occurred to him that he should stand up right now and open the door.

But he didn’t.

The keyhole…

The lock, knob, and keyhole were likely original: old, well-crafted brass. Collier held his breath and put his eye to the hole.

You’ve got to be shitting me…

A woman’s pubis was positioned directly on the other side of the keyhole. It was creamy white, freshly shaved—a beautiful, private triangle.

That’s what Collier saw when he looked through the keyhole.

He leaned back, blinked, and sighed. There’s a nude woman standing on the other side of this door, he resigned. But that was impossible, wasn’t it?

It must be a trick of light.

He looked again. The shaved pubis was still there. He noticed a detail now: a single freckle an inch above the clitoral hood.

All right…It was no trick of light; it was really there. He let his mind tick a moment, mulling choices, but there were really only two. I can ignore it, he knew. Or…I can open the door and see who it is.

However…

Who could it be?

It was almost as though she knew Collier would see.

Impossible.

He stood up and opened the door.

No one faced him in the doorway, just the open atrium beyond the railing of the stair hall. Collier looked quickly left, then right, and saw no woman, nude or otherwise, hurrying away.

This is screwed up, he thought. This is REALLY screwed up.

He sat on the bed and he considered the day in objective terms. He’d come to Tennessee in search of an obscure lager he thought might be worthy of inclusion in his book. The conservative sedan he’d booked at the car rental company hadn’t been available, so he got a preposterous lime-sherbet VW. What should’ve been a one-hour drive turned into a four-hour drive. After which Collier had arrived at this strange little bed-and-breakfast only to find his normally dead-in-the-water libido sent into the red zone by an old woman with a great body and her probably retarded daughter. In summation, all of the above aggregated into the most bizarre day of his life. And just when he thought it couldn’t get any more bizarre…

A woman flashed her shaved beaver in my keyhole…

Collier rubbed his temples.

I either saw it, or I had a hallucination.

Was there something wrong with him? Something clinical, perhaps?

It couldn’t be.

I know I’m not crazy…and I never took drugs so it couldn’t be some sort of a flashback.

And if it hadn’t been a hallucination, who was this discreet exhibitionist with the mystery pubis?

At first, the bare feet made him think of Lottie, but now that he thought of it, the hips seemed too wide and the flesh too plush for Lottie. Mrs. Butler, then? No, he thought crudely. There’s no way…

The woman from Wisconsin? There’s a thought. Collier thought of the groupie phenomenon, women who lose their inhibitions simply because a man’s a musician, a pro athlete, or…a TV personality. Collier had heard of such things, especially with the more flamboyant men on the channel. Like that Savannah Sammy asshole. Women mailed him their panties, for God’s sake. But as for Collier himself…

He’d never met a “TV groupie,” and doubted that any existed for the “Prince of Beer.”

He shook his head, bewildered to the point of headache.

Hallucination or not, something’s come over me. I’m hornier than I can ever remember, so what’s the reason?

But why think so negatively? Just that his sex drive had turned hyper didn’t mean there was necessarily anything wrong with him, did it? A healthy sex drive was…healthy. Something was resurfacing in him: a vigorous response to sexual attraction via the genetic urge to be reproductive…

That must be it.

Collier felt a lot better after coming to this conclusion, but in truth it was none of these things that were making him hornier than an ape in rut.

It was the house.