35. Envy of God-Eric (revised short story)




• Heide straddles the edge of the steamy bathtub, humming a Joni Mitchell tune with the radio. One foot is submerged in the gurgling bathwater, the other rests on the plush, red floor rug. A single white candle flickers on the sink next to a small radio and empty prescription bottles. She digs a switchblade into her leg, running it up in a crisscross pattern.
  
  With each turn of the knife her eyes crease and she bites and purses her lips, draining the pink from them. But she doesn’t make a sound, not so much as a sigh. Creamy white scars web the length of her legs and thigh. She scoops up the trickles of blood that run down her leg into the tub with the edge of the blade, and licks it.
  
  She tosses the blade on the rug and closes the curtain.
  
  Her loft apartment is a famished hut, hastily thrown together like a last ditch effort for shelter on a deserted island before a storm. Dusty books sit on a jerry-rigged bookcase that lines the cheap, wood paneled walls. Large charcoal sketches of a tormented man sit on an easel under a standing lamp. His mouth is agape and his eyes are alive with the haunting knowledge that he is about to die.
  
  The lamp highlights particles of dust that try to escape, but spiral downward toward the iodine brown rug. Heide stops and touches an old framed check written out to her for $750, it reads: Jerand Studios. She gives the framed check a look of muted neutrality, as if it were a customer she were done chatting with and politely wishes were gone. She grabs her keys and walks out of the apartment down the black, skeletal railing and hops into her rusty, beige Volvo.
  
  Her apartment is nestled on an empty valley among bare wire trees and brown slush that show the last vestige of winter. Puffs of smoke rise over the chimney tops of the town. She drives slowly down her gravel driveway onto the main road.
  
  
  Heide drives down a long, paved driveway that winds around through woods. Skylights flicker on as she approaches. She finally pulls up to a large mansion and exits the car, holding her guitar case in one hand and cradling the bundle of booklets under the other arm.
  
  The moon is an orange amber color, bathing her in its faint aura. Her breath rises up like plumes of smoke as she makes her way to the portico of the mansion. She uses the gold knocker and a moment later, an Italian looking man dressed in a black suit answers. He has a striking resemblance to the man in the charcoal drawing.
  
  He stands in the doorway, leaving it half cracked. His brow rises, and he is unaware that his mouth slowly sags open. Finally he looks down at the guitar case and peers around the door. He feigns a smile and waves her in.
  
  In the foyer, the black and white marble tile gleams with a polished look. The guest room is decorated with large, beige, fur sofas and gold vases. Several nude busts and gold lamps on cherry inn tables surround the room. Candles tease the room and the tile with their faint glow. A few Warhol lithographs hang on the walls among other black and white photos.
  
  Kevin walks behind her nervously, like a glass of water that is about to fall over the edge of a table. She walks to the fur sofa and sits down, resting her guitar against it. She places the bundle of booklets behind her, out of view.
  
  Kevin’s eyes betray the fact that his lips aren’t really smiling. He walks to the bar, and reaches for a large butcher knife. He looks at her and places it on the counter. He fetches a silver canister full of ice. The gold foil of a champagne bottle peeks out of the top. He fills two glasses and remains standing, looking as if he were about to pace the room in front of Heide. A faint, coy smile curtains her cheeks.
  
  Finally, she says, “Wow, it’s been…too long.”
  
  Kevin pretends to occupy himself with his balcony view, overlooking a faintly lighted river.
  
  “Yeah…it seems…forever,” he says, with a British brogue.
  
  “Are you, are you still with Bria-” she says.
  
  Kevin begins pacing, attacking his champagne glass with sips. He finally stops and shakes his head.
  
  “No. And you know it doesn’t make a difference who I’m with. It’s not going to change me. We’re not even supposed to be talking about this, our deal remember?”
  
  “Well, everything feels so right for us, so perfect. Until you start talking like that. It makes me feel like a little girl surrounded by these huge bouquets. And I’m trying to peek my head over them to steal one last look at my mother before they close the casket. But I can’t see for the flowers.”
  
  “You still talking to your therapist?”
  
  She smiles at him and looks at a black and white photo of a young, handsome man with slick black hair. She shakes her head mockingly and says, “I see you’re still buying from Jerand. When are you actually going to start making your own instead of buying everyone else’s?”
  
  “You wouldn’t have even gotten a job there if it weren’t for me you crazy…Look, Heide. You know what? I’m not going to get mad for you, that’s what you want. But don’t get any ideas, I’m not going to let you kid yourself either.”
  
  Heide sighs, her eyes tug down at their edges. She stands up and walks toward an old gramophone. She puts a record on. Soft female vocals evaporate from it.
  
  “Why don’t we just relax,” she says, extending her hand.
  
  “Brian was right, you do look exactly like the Black Dahlia.”
  
  They begin dancing under a clay red moon into the early morning.
  
  
  The sun rises, bouncing a huckleberry red off the river. Heide and Kevin sit at opposite edges of the sofa. Red pasta stains his undershirt and his hair is a mess. His suit coat lies on the cherry inn next to several empty bottles of champagne and wine.
  
  Heide pulls her guitar out of its case and begins plucking, crooning a soft tune. Kevin looks behind her at the pile of booklets. The top book reads Human Instruments by Trent Niedly.
  
  He picks up the book, eyeing it. When Heide notices, she quickly snatches it from his hands. He looks startled.
  
  “Wow, that good? You’re secret diary or something?”
  
  When she doesn’t respond he says, “Heide, this has really been a great evening. It looks like you’re getting better too. I haven’t danced til sunup since I don’t know when. But I’m tired now. I’m going to fetch some sheets and blankets. Pour us another glass while I’m gone?”
  
  Heide nods as Kevin leaves to a back room. She quickly tucks the booklets under the sofa and pours two glass of champagne. She pulls a small, folded piece of paper out of her bra. She stands up and unfolds it, emptying its crystal white contents into one glass.
  
  Kevin returns carrying bedding. He unfolds them and adjusts them to fit the sofa. Heide hands him the spiked glass of champagne.
  
  “You’re the only one I know who sleeps on a sofa when there’re ten other guest rooms with queen-sized beds. But I know, I know, you feel suffocated in bedrooms.”
  
  When he is finished with the bedding, they both sit down on opposite ends of the sofa. He looks away from her and empties his glass, ending it with a sigh.
  
  “Ahh, this never gets-”
  
  Kevin begins choking. He runs, staggering to the kitchen, holding his throat. He reaches for the butcher knife but falls, bashing his head on the edge of the counter.
  
  
  The bathroom is dimly lit with candles. Kevin leans on the toilet naked, casting a strange silhouette on the closed shower curtain. Muffled bird chirps outside the foggy window are drowned out by the gurgle of running bathwater. The bathroom is a mist of steam. Heide begins humming, then stops.
  
  “You know what you’re problem is, Kevin. You believe people. You believed Brian. He told you that you couldn’t change, and you believed him. He just didn’t want to let you go and you believed him. And you believed the doctor’s death sentence. You believe peoples’ lies and you let it stop your whole life.”
  
  Kevin does not respond. She pulls back the shower curtain, revealing the Jacuzzi tub full of blood; she is bathing in it. A steaming pile of fillet flesh sits on a plate next to an ashtray. A cigarette smolders in it.
  
  Kevin is shriveled clam meat. Wrinkles run the entire course of his body like thin tributaries. His filmed eyes bulge out of their sockets, devoid of any spark.
  
  Heide shrugs, and closes the shower curtain. She hums while running the shower. When she is finished she drags Kevin to a guestroom and inexpertly hoists him on a bed. She turns off the overhead light and switches on a lamp. She crawls into bed with him and leafs her fingers through his dark hair.
  
  “You said I shouldn’t kid myself. But you’ve been kidding yourself for forty-five years, pretending you’re an artist. But just because you’re rich and you surround yourself with artists, doesn’t make you one. But don’t worry, after I make love to you I’m going to do something for you that you could never do yourself. That’s how much I love you.”
  
  
  The evening sun sinks over the edge of the river. Headlights blare through the foyer as the Volvo slows over the gravel. Heide walks in with several plastic bags and carries them to the guestroom. She returns to the car and opens the trunk, grabbing more bags.
  
  In the guestroom she meticulously empties the contents of the bags: metal cans of varnish and glue, a ball peen hammer, several plastic boxes of nails, a small handsaw, slats of wood, and shiny, brass guitar strings. She opens the book Human Intruments, and begins reading.
  
  “We’re going to be the envy of the world, even God. He can’t compose the most saddest, beautiful melodies because he can’t be sad.”
  
  She closes the book, and says, “We’re going to make music that only the dead can sing, and those who’ve lost love. But I won’t ever lose you again, now, will I?”
  
  She begins carefully slicing Kevin’s chest open.
  
  “You’re probably in Queen heaven right now, floating with angels on gossamer strings. I know you’re going to look down on me when I’m done and be so proud of me. You’re finally going to be something. Everyone is going to envy you for a change. Us together.”
  
  
  Morning birds whistle through the halls, accompanying a beautiful melody from a den.
  
  Kevin’s legs have been removed and his chest has been completely hallowed out. His chest is a square box of paneled wood slats. Shiny silver tuning pegs protrude from his face. Strings run from his hallowed throat to a fixture in his pelvis.
  
  Heide leans over and inside of him, plucking a melody on his strings. Her head is raised in rapture, slowly swaying to the music.