The Chosen

^{CHAPTER EIGHTEEN}

Ah, Christ, Paul thought. What’s her name?

The hostess looked up, lissome and trim in the tight pink-sequined dress. Paul knew he’d met her—he’d met all of Vera’s friends and employees at one time—but for the life of him he couldn’t remember her name. Cement-head!

“Hi, you may remember me. I’m—”

Her expression hardened very quickly, the pretty face going cold. “Paul,” she acknowledged. “I know you.”

The look said it all. My name’s not Paul, Paul realized. It’s mud.

“You don’t have a reservation,” the hostess curtly pointed out. “So why don’t you just leave?”

“Look,” Paul said, and stepped forward. “I need help.”

“You sure do. You need to have your head examined. How could you do something like that to Vera?”

“I—” But what could he say? Should he lie? Deny it? That would be useless. Women could always tell when a guy was lying about something like that. “There are always things you don’t understand,” he said instead. “I just want to know where she is. Please, give me her address, her new number, anything.”

“I hope you’re happy. Vera’s a great girl, and you really hurt her. And this restaurant’s gone downhill since she left. Last week two waitresses were laid off, and I’m getting my hours cut back. Thanks. Now why don’t you get out of here before I call the police.”

Paul felt forged in flint. He groped for something to say. “It’s a misunderstanding. I just need to talk to her, to clear things up. Look—” He reached into his pocket, withdrew a one hundred dollar bill. “I’ll pay you to tell me where she is.”

“I don’t know where she is,” the hostess said.

“All right, then. Tell me who does.”

She contemplated this, her big bright blue eyes fluttering. She picked up the phone, turned her back to him, and began whispering. Paul couldn’t quite make out what she was saying. Then she hung up, refaced him, and snapped the bill out of his hand.

Money always talks, Paul thought, relieved. Women are so corruptible.

“Go back into the kitchen,” she said, not even looking at him. “Ask for Georgie. He’ll tell you where Vera is.”

“Thank you,” Paul said.

“And don’t ever come back here again.”

Don’t worry, I won’t. Paul skirted the reservation desk. A quick glance at the book showed him it was barely a third full. Then another glance around the subdued dining room showed only a trickle of the turnout The Emerald Room was used to. Had Vera’s mystic departure crimped business this bad?

He pushed through the swingdoors to the kitchen, into blazing fluorescent light. Dead silence greeted him, not the usual busy kitchen clamor. A lone guy with a bad complexion tended to a single order of Veal Chesapeake at the range. He wore not a chef’s cap but an old-fashioned black derby.

“You Georgie?” Paul inquired.

The guy turned, grinning. “That’s right. And you must be Paul, the scumbag motherfucker who shit all over Vera.” Georgie walked around the hot line. “And she was so upset, you know what she did, brother? She just up and left town, and she took the chef with her, and our best waitress and dishman. You got any idea how bad business crashed? You got any idea how hard it is to find a restaurant manager on no notice?”

“Uh, well, no,” Paul answered.

“We’re down thirty percent on our dinners, thanks to you.”

“Look, it’s not my fault that—”

“Hey, Dim,” Georgie called out behind him. “He’s here.”

A shadow emerged from beyond the cold line, a great big blushy fat guy with long greasy hair and a mole on his face. His grin looked pressed into his lips.

“Welly welly welly well,” this Dim fellow said, and stepped up to Paul’s side, mixing a bucket of whiskey cream sauce. “How goes, lover?”

Lover? Paul nodded. He didn’t like the look of this.

Georgie went on, “See, me and Dim here gotta practically run the whole kitchen ourselves now, on account of poor business since Vera left. It’s part of the new way. How would you like to have to do twice as much work for less money?”

“Look,” Paul said. “The girl out front said you’d tell me where Vera is.”

“Oh, right, brother, and I will. You wanna know where Vera is?”

“Yes,” Paul said.

“Well, we’ll tell you where Vera is, right, Dim?”

“Righty right,” Dim exclaimed.

“Not here,” Georgie said. “That’s where she is. Not here.”

Paul should have known. Before he could even flinch, the bucket of whiskey cream was deftly plopped onto his head by this Dim fellow. Then somebody punched the bucket, amid a flutter of chuckles. Paul felt his head snap back. A second fist sent the bucket flying, leaving Paul’s head ladled in cream. Georgie, huffing laughter, put Paul in a full nelson, propping him up. “Let ’er rip, Dim!”

Paul could only half-see through the sheen of cream. Dim stepped up, brandishing fists that were the size of croquet balls, and probably as hard. And it was these fists that were next soundly rocketed, time and time again, into Paul’s rather soft journalist’s abdominal wall.

Each blow—and there were many—knocked the wind out of him and bulged his eyes, as whiskey cream flew in darts off his head.

“Evening is the great time, eh, brother?” Georgie questioned, still pinning Paul up like a moth on a board. “Had enough, have you?”

“Yes!” Paul wheezed.

“Give him one in the balls, if he’s got any balls.”

Dim’s big combat-booted foot socked up surely as a punter’s, and caught Paul between the legs. Paul collapsed.

Chuckles fluttered overhead, like bats. Paul’s pain drew him into a fetal position. He couldn’t move. But it was only a moment longer before Dim’s big hands grasped him by the back of the collar and the back of the belt. Paul had a pretty good idea that he was going to be escorted out.

“What luck, huh Dim?” Georgie jested. “That our fine guest here should pay us a visit on garbage night?”

“Righty right,” Dim responded. Paul was then lifted aloft and carried out to the loading dock, while Georgie held the door.

“See you next time, brother. And have a good evening!”

Paul was heaved, turning in the fetid air. He landed in a great BFI dumpster half-full of slimy refuse.

The back door slammed shut.

Paul lay atop the garbage for a time, reflecting that he’d had better nights. When the crushing pain in his groin became managable, he crawled out of the dumpster. He stumbled back out to West Street, shaking himself off as best he could. It was so cold out, the whiskey cream turned to frost on his face. He passed the closed office of The Voice, the smaller city newspaper. They’d purchased his singles bar series, and the editor agreed to take him on as a contributing writer, so at least he was still writing and getting paid. Not that he felt all too ebullient at this given moment, reeking of garbage and still thrumming in the dull pain of Dim’s mason-jar-sized fists. Do I deserve this? he asked the moon, looking up. Do I deserve to be beaten up by rogues and thrown into a dumpster?

Yes, the moon seemed to answer him.

It seemed like part of his brain had shut off that night. He couldn’t remember much of what happened, but he remembered enough. Kaggie’s, that infernal dance club. He’d been there to research his singles bar piece. He’d gotten drunk. He’d picked up two girls. He’d—

God almighty, he thought. He had to stop, leaning against the most machine at the corner of Calvert, trying to shake the awful images which rattled in his head like broken glass. There was no denying it. I did it, he realized. He was nearly crying. I really did it. I cheated on Vera.

That he had, and in grand style. The jagged memories made him sick, even sicker than the laced dope he’d taken. Insecurities were one thing, but when you were so insecure that you’d do something like that, you were in trouble. He didn’t deserve Vera, he knew that. She’d actually walked in on them, hadn’t she? Paul didn’t even want to think about how hurt she must have been. That skanky, skinny blonde had been bad enough, but the redhead…

Boy, Paul, when you cheat on a girl, you don’t cut corners.

West Street stretched on in desolate cold and eldritch yellow light. He trod on, like a condemned man on his way to the gallows. I might as well be, he thought. Without Vera—and knowing now what he’d done to lose her—Paul Kirby didn’t see a whole lot worth living for. Beyond the great dome of the State House, the moon seemed to scowl at him. An unmarked city police car prowled by, a featureless face behind dark glass eyeing his shambling steps. Probably thinks I’m a bum, Paul considered. Shit, I am a bum.

A couple stood arguing in front of the Undercroft, a good-looking blonde in a long brown overcoat, and some wan-faced guy wearing a blue shirt and bleached pants with a rip in the knee. Apparently the guy was getting the sack, and not taking it too well. Paul picked up fragments of their outburst: “You led me on!” “Oh, I did not!” “You said we could get back together!” “Oh, I did not!” “Why did you tell me to call?” “Just go back in the bar!” “What, I’m an asshole for—” “Yes, you’re an asshole!” The blonde drove off, leaving the guy to stare off with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth.

It reminded Paul of his own plight, the end result: destruction. Love chopped up like raw meat on a butcher block. The universe was an extraordinary butcher. Why did these things happen? How could people love each other one minute and hate each other the next? Where was the line of demarcation?

The heart, Paul answered himself. Vera gave me her heart, and I threw it back in her face.

He went in the back way, and cleaned himself up as best he could in the John. Not to be born is best, someone had written on the wall. Paul washed his face off and got all the garbage off him. From the back room someone could be heard doing Dice Clay imitations: “… a fuckin’ tree trunk!” Paul went downstairs and pulled up a stool at the bar.

Craig, the ’Croft’s most infamous barkeep, was juggling shot glasses around the lit Marlboro Light in his mouth. “Long time no see, Paul. Where ya been?”

“Sick,” Paul said. It was no lie. That stepped-on crap he’d snorted with those girls had rocked him pretty bad. “Newcastle. A pint.”

Craig poured the beer from the line of ten taps, slid it to him. Paul and Craig were good friends, but Paul was not surprised to see the barkeep’s back turn to him. “So you’re giving me the cold shoulder too, huh?”

Craig shrugged, sliding clean Pilsner glasses into the rack. “I’ve been hearing some pretty shitty things about you. They true?”

“N—” Paul began. He stared into the depths of his beer. Then he said: “Yes. I guess they are.”

“Vera really catch you in bed with two girls?”

Paul nodded. Only one of ’em wasn’t really a girl. “She tell you that?”

“No, she disappeared. Just something I’ve been hearing. You know how word gets around downtown. That’s not like you, man. And coke? Since when do you do drugs?”

“Never,” Paul said. Never in my life. “I don’t know what came over me. Got shitfaced, met two girls, next thing I know I’m in bed with both of them. I’ve never been so out of control in my life.”

“I heard one of the girls was Daisy Traynor.”

Paul squinted. “Never heard of her. In fact, I never seen either of these girls before.”

“Daisy Traynor’s a hooker. They call her ‘Daisy Train,’ on account of she pulls trains—you know, gangbangs. You’re out of your mind going anywhere near that. She’s a crack addict. Every now and then she’ll stumble in here real late, all fucked up on cocaine, and I’ll just throw her right the fuck out. Last summer me and Luce hear about this big party going down at Cruiser’s Creek, near the water off of Bestgate, so we check it out. Some party. When the kegs went dry some of the locals started passing around coke and PCP, so me and Luce leave. But before we’re out of there, we see Daisy back in the woods behind some guy’s house, doing a whole motorcycle gang. She’s pure scum, man. Probably got every disease in the book.”

Paul groaned. Once he’d gotten his shit together, he’d gone to the doctor’s for blood tests. Thank God they’d been negative. “What’s this Daisy look like?”

“Skinny, short blond hair, ragged-out. She’s like twenty-two but looks ten years older. She’s got a little cross tattooed in the pit of her throat.”

“That’s her,” Paul lamented. He remembered that much. And the redhead, the guy/girl, must’ve been one of her friends. Days later, when he’d snapped out of it, he’d found his wallet cleaned out, his watch and other valuables gone. Bitches, he thought. Goddamn whores. That’s how they worked. Get a guy all fucked up, and then rip him blind. You got no one to blame but yourself, asshole, he thought.

Craig stepped hesitantly closer when refilling Paul’s glass. “No offense, man, but you kind of smell like garbage. And…” Craig sniffed, scrunching his nose. “Whiskey cream?”

“Don’t ask,” Paul said. “I gotta find Vera. You know where she is?”

“Naw, all I heard was she took some new job out of town. Bunch of people from The Emerald Room come in here after they close, and they’re bitching up a storm.

Seems Vera took all their best people with her, and the restaurant’s going downhill.”

“Couple guys named Georgie and Dim have already made me well aware of that fact,” Paul said. “There’s got to be someone who knows where this new job is.”

“Talk to the owner, that fat guy. Wherever she went, she must’ve left a forwarding address for her W-2 and any vacation pay she’s got coming. Ask him. McCracken, I think his name is.”

McGowen, Paul thought. I gotta talk to him. Vera had mentioned him from time to time, said he was a fat slob who liked to put the make on the waitresses. He probably wouldn’t be too keen on meeting the guy who’d caused his manager to leave town, but Paul couldn’t think of any alternatives. He’d have to give it a shot.

“Haven’t seen your byline in the paper lately,” Craig remarked, shaking up an order of Windex shooters for some rowdies at the other end of the bar.

“And you won’t, not in the City Sun, anyway. Tate fired me.”

Craig just shook his head, pouring the shooters. “You want some friendly advice, Paul?”

“No, but I have a feeling I’m going to get it anyway.”

“Get your act together, and do it fast. Look at yourself. A month ago, you had a great job, a great fiancée, and a great life. You had it all.”

“I know,” Paul muttered.

“When you were with Vera, you were going places.” Craig looked at him, almost disgusted. “But you ain’t going nowhere now but down.”

Paul paid his tab and left. There were tears in his eyes. The moon’s bright scowling face now seemed to smile in hilarity. Down, down, down, Paul thought. Craig was right. The dark streets were all he understood now, and the bracing cold and brittle light. He was alone, and he deserved to be. I deserve nothing, he thought.

His tears turned to ice on his face. How could I have fucked up my life so bad?

««—»»

“When are you going to talk about it?” Donna asked, rather meekly. She dawdled about her open dresser, fishing through her lingerie.

“Talk about what?” Vera asked.

“You know. Paul.”

The name caused her to fidget on the cushioned settee. After their shift, she’d come up to Donna and Dan B.’s room, to borrow the book about haunted mansions. She thumbed through it now, not even seeing its words. Paul, she thought.

“I don’t know. I’m thinking that I should probably never talk about it. Why remind myself of something…like that?”

Donna continued to dawdle, inspecting the frilly garments. “Well, sometimes it’s good to talk about things that hurt. If you keep them bottled up, they can explode.”

This was true—sometimes, at least. But Vera felt differently in this case. Simply hearing his name gave her a flexing, negative spasm in her soul. Not only did it hurt, it embarrassed her, for it was embarrassing, to be with someone that long, and then to find out what kind of person he really was. It made her feel stupid, as though she possessed no manner of adult judgment at all.

Yes, the less she heard about Paul, and talked about him, the better. I’ll erase him from my memory, she vowed. I’ll banish him from my mind. Goddamn him anyway, I’m gonna pretend that he was never even born.

At least that’s what she hoped.

“What do you think?”

Vera looked up and nearly gasped. While she’d been pondering over Paul, Donna had changed into black garters and stockings, and a see-through black camisole, which left little of Donna’s bodily features to the imagination.

“Dan B.’ll have a heart attack when he sees you in that,” Vera exclaimed.

“More like a hard attack,” Donna laughed. “And that’s the idea, isn’t it?” She twirled around, giggling, then stood to appraise herself in a carven-framed wall mirror. “Yeah, this one’s really going to set him off.”

Donna’s body, Vera couldn’t help but notice, seemed as bright and robust as her newfound happiness. She was a little overweight, but in a healthy, attractive way, and the extra weight left her better proportioned with her five feet, three inches. Vera remembered how awful Donna had looked—how ragged, scrawny, and malnourished—back in the days of her alcoholism. Sobriety not only embellished her appearance but it also gave her life, energy, love. It was wonderful to see her so happy.

How happy am I? Vera thought in a sudden doldrum. Was she jealous? Donna had surfaced from the abyss, and now had quite a bit to show for it. Moreover, she had love, and a good man who loved her. And a sex life, Vera reminded herself.

Why can’t I have those things?

She frowned then, at her selfishness. She was feeling sorry for herself, and that nearly disgusted her. It was weakness. Too often it was easy to want more—there was always more—but the fact remained: she was a healthy, successful woman in a free state, and she must never forget that. Quit complaining, Vera. Most women in the world would give their right arms to have what you have. So stop being a baby.

“Do you think he’d like this better?” Donna now inquired. She held up a cupless red-leather corset lined with gold zippers and pin-stitches.

“It looks like something Marquis de Sade would want his women to wear,” Vera pointed out. “Stick with the camisole. It’s obscene but at least it’s elegant.”

“You’re such a prude, Vera,” Donna laughed. “It’s the nineteen nineties, not the eighteen nineties. You really should lighten up. Cut loose a little.”

“That’s easy for you to say. You’re married, you have someone to cut loose with.”

“You don’t have to be married to have a little fun. You’re a free woman now, Vera. Take advantage of it.” Donna adjusted the little black bow at the camisole’s bosom, eyeing herself more closely in the mirror. “You’re too reserved, you know that? What you ought to do, Vera, is just pick up a guy and have a down-and-dirty one night stand.”

“Just pick up a guy, huh?” Vera didn’t know whether to laugh or smirk. “I can see me now, driving into downtown Waynesville in a brand-new Lamborghini, then pulling up a stool at the ever-sophisticated Waterin’ Hole, and putting the make on hayseeds.”

“What an awful stereotype,” Donna remarked. Now she was adjusting the frilled hem, which descended about two millimeters past her crotch. “There’re probably some nice guys down there—so what if they’re not stockbrokers? And of course”—Donna’s reflection grinned back—“there’s always Kyle.”

Vera wanted to shout. “The other day you were telling me to stay away from him, now you’re saying that I should—”

“I meant that you should be careful around him, Vera. That doesn’t mean you can’t have a little fun. What’s the harm?”

“He’s conceited, arrogant, malicious,” Vera reeled off, “shifty, two-faced, self-centered—”

“And cute,” Donna reminded. “Admit it, Vera. You’re attracted to the guy.”

“I am n—” Her next acknowledgement fell like an ax on her words. Talk about hypocrites, she scolded herself. Last night I was actually hoping that he’d…What? Make love to me? She mustn’t lie to herself. I wanted him to screw the daylights out of me. “Well, sure, I’m attracted to him,” she then admitted. She didn’t dare tell Donna about late-night swim and back rub; that would only make her sound more hypocritical. “But I just can’t ever picture me getting involved with someone like Kyle.”

“You are so hard-headed I can’t believe it,” Donna nearly exclaimed. “I’m not telling you to get involved with him, for God’s sake. But that doesn’t mean you can’t go a couple of rounds with him, you know.”

“I’m not into sex for the sake of sex.” But how honest a comment was that, considering her fantasies, her dreams, and what she’d wished had taken place last night? She’d always believed that sex was something that should only happen between two people who loved each other, or at least had feelings for each other. But now?

“Vera, Mother Nature gave you a sex drive for a reason.”

“Yeah, to have babies, and I’m not ready to have babies.”

“That’s why Father Pharmacy invented the pill. You’re supposed to want to have sex, it’s human nature. It’s unhealthy to repress your natural desires, and I certainly don’t see anything wrong with a little harmless no-strings fooling around. And can I say something, as a friend?”

“Of course,” Vera said.

“You’re not going to get mad, right? You’re not going to be offended?”

“I’m not going to be offended. What, I have bad breath?”

“No, but sometimes you’re in a bad mood.”

Vera’s mouth screwed up in speculation. “What do you mean?”

“What I mean is, since we’ve come here, you’ve been a little bitchy, that’s all.”

“Thanks,” Vera said.

“See, I knew you’d be offended.”

“I’m really bitchy?” Vera asked.

“Well, sometimes, and you were never that way before. I think it’s probably stress-related, sexual stress.”

“Come on.” Well, there had been some occasions when she’d gotten down on Dan B. and Lee for horsing around with the gross jokes. And maybe once or twice she had been a little snippy with Donna for not memorizing the wine list and specials. But that was her job. She was their boss.

Or maybe Donna’s right, she considered now. Maybe I have been a little hard on them sometimes. Maybe I have taken some things out on them. “In other words, you saying that I’m in a bad mood because I’m not getting laid regularly?”

“Well…yeah,” Donna answered. “I don’t know how you stand it. If I don’t get it twice a night, I turn into the biggest bitch this side of the Mason-Dixon line.” Now Donna was dabbing herself with perfume. “Remember when Dan B. went to that east coast chef’s convention in Chicago last fall? I was climbing the walls. You should’ve seen how much I spent on batteries for my vibrator.”

“Donna!” Vera exclaimed. “You don’t have a v—”

“Sure, I do, several, as a matter of fact.” Now Donna was applying some final touches, donning a thin gold waist chain and an ankle bracelet. “Boy, was this a bad subject. Look, Vera, all I’m saying is that a couple of rolls in the hay would do you good. Trust me. And Kyle seems a pretty good candidate. Who knows. Maybe he’s hung.”

“Donna!” Vera exclaimed again. “Why don’t you skedaddle now?” Donna requested. “Dan B.’s going to be coming up soon. I want to be ready for him.” Then she turned, placing her hands on her hips as if frustrated. “And I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“I’m not offended, Donna,” Vera said, and headed for the door. And she honestly wasn’t. It was good to have a friend who’d point things out to her, especially things about herself. “And thanks for the book.”

“You’re not going to take my advice, are you?”

“What, hunt Kyle down and ball his brains out? No.”

“Okay, then. Suit yourself. Any time you want to borrow one of my vibrators, just let me know.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I would never—”

“Sure, I know… Say, I hate to sound rude, but—”

“I’m going,” Vera assured her, rolling her eyes. “Don’t wear Dan B. out tonight. We have six reservations tomorrow.”

Donna said good night and closed the door. Yeah, she’s in a hurry, all right, Vera thought. Romantic enthusiasm was one thing, but this was romantic fervor.

I guess I’m just envious, Vera considered. Her own bedroom felt expanded in its plush, well-furnished emptiness. She skipped the usual nightcap or two that she’d grown accustomed to before bed, and took a quick shower instead of a bubble bath. Suddenly she felt desperate for something to divert her. She sat up in bed, turned on her reading lamp, and opened the book…

The Complete Compendium of Haunted American Mansions

by

Richard Long