Audrey's Door Part 19

Infestation?

The photo showed 14B's den. Above where Audrey's floor was now rotted lay an indistinguishable pile of what looked like trash.

She recalled what she'd done this morning. Her clothes. Poor Jayne's hula girl. The scissors. The card. The ruined photo, her favorite, of her and Saraub. She picked it up now. "No," she whispered at their obliterated black faces. "Please make this not real."

Then, finally, she enlarged the photo. The carpet in the den was red s.h.a.g, and the walls were red-painted, too. The items in the pile were clearer now. She could make out their size and shape, and in some cases, what they'd once been: Tinker toys, hacked red velvet chairs, book spines, the broken top of a walnut dining-room table. She studied them for a long while, ran the permutations in her mind over and over again, and knew that the pile was not random. Each item was a jigsaw piece. She solved the puzzle of the large object that had buckled 14B's den.

Spalding's pulped ma.n.u.script suddenly made sense. She squeezed her hands into fists and tapped one, two, three, four times. Her nighttime construction was making sense, too. Before she died, Clara DeLea had built a door.

At last, she searched one more name. Looked at the image sidelong, afraid that it might peer back at her. Sharp nose and cheekbones. Tailored wool suit, three pieces. In his younger years, he'd been groomed, but by the 1880s, his long, s.h.a.ggy hair hung down to his shoulders. Edgar Schermerhorn and the bone-fingered man in the three-piece suit from her dreams were one and the same.

The image suddenly came closer, and Schermerhorn got bigger inside the frame. His smile widened. "Your red ants are showing, my dear."

29.

Lambs Taste Better Than Pigs With downtown flooded, the subway got stuck at Christopher Street. There weren't enough cabs, making Hurricane Erebus the great social equalizer. She and her fellow New Yorkers packed like sardines onto the M60 bus. The heavyset Mexican woman to her left wore an extra small T-s.h.i.+rt that read, BUY AMERICAN! She unscrewed a sludgy jar of pickled pigs' feet and tore the flesh with her teeth as she chewed. To her left, a businessman sporting sprayed-on black hair and a s.h.i.+ny Italian suit clung ferociously to the strap hanging from the ceiling. He seemed new to public transportation and wouldn't give anybody else enough room to share the strap.

Everybody was looking everybody else up and down. In her sweat suit and broken shoes, Audrey wanted to hide. She needn't have bothered; unwashed and greasy, n.o.body looked twice. But then, a skinny black man with working hands s.h.i.+fted his pink Conway plastic bag, and made room for her to sit. "Here," he said, and held his hand over the empty s.p.a.ce, so no one else could jump in and steal it. She smiled, grateful.

It was after midnight. As soon as she'd jumped up from her cube (Your red ants are showing!), (Your red ants are showing!), she'd hightailed it into reception, where security had politely evicted her because the office was closing. When she'd gotten out of the building, it had been raining too hard to do much planning save race for the subway. The doors to most homeless shelters closed by 10:00 P.M. She was out of cash until her paycheck cleared on Wednesday. The flight to Omaha and the Super 8 Motel bill had maxed out her credit card, so she couldn't afford another night at the Golden Nugget. Besides, her only currency was her Metrocard: she'd left her wallet at The Breviary. she'd hightailed it into reception, where security had politely evicted her because the office was closing. When she'd gotten out of the building, it had been raining too hard to do much planning save race for the subway. The doors to most homeless shelters closed by 10:00 P.M. She was out of cash until her paycheck cleared on Wednesday. The flight to Omaha and the Super 8 Motel bill had maxed out her credit card, so she couldn't afford another night at the Golden Nugget. Besides, her only currency was her Metrocard: she'd left her wallet at The Breviary.

As she'd stood inside the doorway to her office, rain pouring, she'd made a last-resort call on her cell phone: "Hi. It's me. The girl you loved and left. Thanks a lot. Sorry to do this, but I'm in trouble, and I need your help. Call me back. Like, now." When he returned the call, she planned to beg for the spare keys he kept at Sheila's place, so she could stay at his apartment while he was out of town. Tacky, yes. Unpleasant, without a doubt. But necessary, too.

As for tonight, her options were limited. It was raining too hard to walk the streets. She supposed, like Spalding, that she could pa.s.s the time in The Breviary's lobby. Though maybe that was what had gotten him in the end.

She could knock on Jayne's door, and ask, despite hula girl, if she could stay in 14E for the night. Sure, the whole building was probably haunted (or just as easily, she'd lost her wits), but at least she wouldn't be alone. And if that fell through, too, there was always Bellevue. Like mother, like daughter. The nice thing about the men with the b.u.t.terfly nets: they come to you.

The bus didn't arrive at 110th Street until after 1:00 A.M. She raced past the Haitian doorman in white gloves and shoulder ta.s.sels, who was reading what looked like a j.a.panese girly bondage magazine: two tweens in braids and short skirts, smooching. Along the ceiling of the raised lobby, which she now knew had been an altar, she spied about ten exposed, brown-stained supporting beams. The middle one was where Edgar Schermerhorn had tied his noose, she imagined. Because it was the focal point of the lobby, and he'd wanted everyone to see his body as they'd exited the lift.

Her mind made a picture: a dapper madman with s.h.a.ggy gray hair and a three-piece suit; a creaking rope that swung, got rubbed raw, and broke. He was looking down at her now, through the building's eyes. She could feel him.

And how did The Breviary know so much about her? The probe she'd swallowed that lived in her stomach, which had been listening all this time. Spalding Agnew had felt it, too. Maybe it got inside everyone who spent time here. The longer they stayed, the more of their person it devoured, and the more like The Breviary they became.

The elevator took an eternity to ascend. While she waited, she mentally packed: Wolverine, the box full of her mother's things, her wallet, and the soiled trousers, which she would rinse and wear tomorrow. Then she'd knock on Jayne's door. Do some begging, maybe apologize. Or, hang it, blame dead hula girl on freaky Mrs. Parker from 14C.

By the third floor she heard a low-level din. The voices got louder as the cage climbed. They sounded convivial: a party. By the fifth floor, she gleaned snippets of conversations: a woman's laugh, high-pitched and tinkling like a pinged crystal gla.s.s; "Baby, you're the greatest!" As she ascended the seventh floor, she saw a pair of feet, then trouser legs and a blazer, and finally, a plain, white mask: Galton. He reached out and grazed her metal cage with his fingers. There were three or four others who'd poured out into the hall. Their necks craned as she ascended. Pretty frocks and black tailcoats. From far away, all their eyes looked black, like the worms inside them had gotten fat. Like they weren't people anymore, but husks.

The talking resumed once she was out of sight. A man with a sandy smoker's voice shouted: -"There she goes, just like I told you."

-"If it doesn't work this time, I'm building it myself, you Harpy!"

-"Pow! Zoom! I'd like to see you try, whiskey d.i.c.k!" a woman answered.

Then they were all laughing. The sound got farther away the higher the metal cage climbed. By twelve, it was white noise again.

The doors opened on fourteen. This morning's glaring white bulb hallway had been replaced with soft pink. It gave the impression of a fancy Las Vegas bordello. Someone had poured Love My Carpet in a line all down the red carpet but forgotten to vacuum.

She didn't want to get out. Bellevue, the wet streets, the all-night Dunkin' Donuts, the frickin' subway tunnels with the mole people. Any of those would have been smarter than coming here. But she couldn't turn back now. Grown-ups don't run away from problems; they confront them. Besides, she wouldn't get far without her wallet.

When she debarked, she found Mrs. Parker in her gerbil-elbowed glory standing in front of 14B. At her feet were hula girl's gritty remains. When she noticed Audrey, her eyes bulged. "Eeek!" she shrieked like a surprised mouse, then grabbed the left center of her chest with both hands like her heart had cramped.

Audrey rushed to her side. "Are you okay?"

The woman clutched Audrey's upper arm with bony fingers, then leaned. She smelled like dead skin. "Oh, sweetie," she panted. "You startled me!"

"I'm so sorry."

The woman wore a 1990s, midthigh-length Diane Von Furstenberg v-neck wrap dress. Her knees were wrinkled baby rodents, and her lips were stained the color of blackberries. Dried blood? No, red wine. She blinked her cataract eyes a few times, still recovering, then muttered under her breath, "Sweat suit? Seen that before."

Mortified, Audrey looked down at her loose-fitting pants that smelled, she noticed for the first time, like stale beer, and were stained with what looked like hardened ice cream. "Laundry day," she said.

The woman c.o.c.ked her head like she didn't know what Audrey was talking about. Am I losing my mind? Am I losing my mind? Audrey wondered. "You pointed out this sweat suit, didn't you?" Audrey wondered. "You pointed out this sweat suit, didn't you?"

Loretta squinted, then smiled, like she thought maybe Audrey was high. "Why would I do that? Now, would you be a dear and give me a hand to the elevator? I've got to drop something off on seven. Loretta Parker, by the way. My family goes back to the American Revolution. I was born in The Breviary. So was my father, and his mother, too. Who are you?"

"Audrey Lucas. Pleased to meet you," she said. They didn't shake, and Audrey felt a little like somebody's homeless cleaning lady. She led Loretta by the arm, taking tiny baby steps. The hall light flickered. Everything appeared shadowy and new, like walking through a stranger's house and not knowing which doors lead to where.

"And how are you settling in?" Loretta asked.

"I don't like it here. I'm leaving. Tonight if I can," she said.

The woman made a tsk-tsking sound. "Oh, you haven't been reading the paper, have you? Not that bunk with that writer, Spalding Agnew?" Loretta's skin was s.h.i.+ny with cold cream, and so thin that it appeared blue.

Audrey nodded. "Agnew. And some other things, too."

Loretta waved her free hand like swatting a fly. "Don't believe half what you hear, and any of what you read. He was a pansy with all that whiny dead-sister bunk. Used to sit here all night and mumble to himself like he paid rent. Bad manners. You give it time, you'll love it here. Besides, The Breve loves you. I can tell."

"Mmm." Audrey took quarter steps alongside the woman's neon pink Cole Haan sneakers. Nice shoes, but not a great match for the outfit. Neither was her necklace-triple-wrapped red plastic beads that looked like they came from a supermarket gumball machine.

"How's your young man? Cuts such a das.h.i.+ng figure with that dark skin."

Another baby step. "Fine, I guess. He's not my young man anymore."

"You don't say?" she asked.

Audrey pressed the down arrow, and they waited. Her clothes itched. They smelled, too...whose were they?

"Well, then!" Loretta beamed. "You've got to start coming to movie night. A different apartment every week, always on Sundays. Been doing it as long as I can remember. We watch the cla.s.sics. They don't make them like they used to. Tonight was my pick: The original Disney Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. What pretty songs! I'd almost forgotten. When you think about it, bluebirds really do sing. You can't help but feel bad for the Queen, though. How was she supposed to eat a pig's heart? A lamb's is much better." What pretty songs! I'd almost forgotten. When you think about it, bluebirds really do sing. You can't help but feel bad for the Queen, though. How was she supposed to eat a pig's heart? A lamb's is much better."

The elevator pinged. Audrey hadn't been listening. She'd been thinking about this woman's bony fingers that squeezed too tight, just like Betty. She'd been imagining lopping them off from the wrist and watching her howl in shock, then feeling bad about that, and blinking her eyes to make the image disappear.

"What about a lamb?" Audrey asked.

The metal door pulled back. "Well, then I'll see you soon." Loretta dropped her slow-gait routine, and leaped, spry as a disco fiend, into the elevator. She smiled at Audrey like she'd gotten away with something as she pulled the metal cage shut. "Buh-bye!"

30.

I Hate You!

Audrey turned toward 14B and shook her head, as if cleaning it out: what had just happened? The carpet beneath her wobbled. No sleep last night and pills today. Had the lithium precipitated an hallucination? Had that Agnew article existed at all? She was so tired she was dizzy.

She trod over hula girl, poor hula girl. Even her lightbulb was smashed. The door opened without a key. The The light that shone through its crack made two triangles inside the hall, dark and bright, juxtaposed against each other. light that shone through its crack made two triangles inside the hall, dark and bright, juxtaposed against each other.

She squinted. Hadn't she locked it? She couldn't remember. But she always always locked her doors. She lingered over the threshold. A part of her was tempted to sit in the common hall and wait for morning. But Clara's sweatpants-she had to change out of them. And Wolverine needed water. And her wallet. She took a breath, and plunged in. locked her doors. She lingered over the threshold. A part of her was tempted to sit in the common hall and wait for morning. But Clara's sweatpants-she had to change out of them. And Wolverine needed water. And her wallet. She took a breath, and plunged in.

Her broken ballet flats tap-tapped tap-tapped along the fifty-foot hall. She slipped them off as she walked and noticed for the first time why her feet had been so cold all day. Rainwater had seeped through the hula-girl slashes in her shoes. along the fifty-foot hall. She slipped them off as she walked and noticed for the first time why her feet had been so cold all day. Rainwater had seeped through the hula-girl slashes in her shoes.

In the den, everything was how she'd left it. The clothes a loose carpet. The air mattress deflated. The piano shone prettily, and she immediately thought of Saraub singing an off-key "Heart and Soul": I fell in love with you madly! I fell in love with you madly! Silly man, he'd sang it like a joke, but he'd meant it for real. Silly man, he'd sang it like a joke, but he'd meant it for real.

She went to the turret first. Out the window, the M63 opened its doors. Half past one on a stormy Tuesday morning. Pa.s.sengers spilled out, and umbrellas blossomed like funereal flowers in the swelling rain. She pressed her nose against the stained gla.s.s. What if this place wasn't haunted at all, and this specter she was running from was herself?

"It's-after-us-Lamb!" Betty had cried that afternoon in Hinton almost twenty years ago. Her hands had dripped blood on the white diamond kitchen floor. In Audrey's memory, the perfect version of herself, she'd been at school all day. But the truth was, she'd been drinking stolen Canadian Mist behind the restaurant where she washed dishes, then she'd stumbled through town on rubbery legs. When she found Betty with that knife, she'd still been drunk. Not so surprising that Betty hadn't seemed to recognize her at first, given how different she must have looked from that clean-cut little girl she'd once been in Wilmette.

Would the doctors put her in a straitjacket if she checked into Bellevue? She'd be trapped, just like Betty? Would Bethy from the office find out and spread the news like holy-roller gospel: "Audrey Lucas is NUTS!" Her eyes watered at the thought. Bellevue was surrender. She didn't want to live if it meant sharing Betty's fate. Because the damage in that CAT scan hadn't happened overnight. No, it had taken years for the meds to bore those holes into her mother's mind. And the thing is, if you lose your soul that slowly, does it still belong to you?

She decided then. She'd pack her things and leave tonight. She'd take care of herself, like always. If this was all in her head, well, time would tell. But the first step to finding that out was leaving The Breviary.

That was when she noticed that the turret ledge was bare. Where was Wolverine? She surveyed the room. The thing that caught her eye was too disturbing to decipher, so she focused instead on the torn clothes rustling near the heat duct like pigeons' feathers. At the edge of the air mattress, two pairs of shoes lined up like waltz partners, perfectly even. Her soiled pants, which she'd forgotten to soak or even fold, lay on the floor. A three-foot-long rebar with red gristle caught in its wires leaned against the piano. After looking at these things, her gaze returned to its original object: the door. the door.

Since she'd left this morning, someone had taken it out of the closet and propped it against the wall behind the piano. It was bigger than when she'd last seen it, before Nebraska. All the loose extra boxes had been taped to its now six-foot-by-eight-foot body, and its handle had been fitted with the hot-water handle from her bathtub. Four rounded spokes like a cross with the letter H in the center.

But the faucet wasn't the most perverse part of all this. Nor the magically appearing rebar with its gristle, nor the door that she'd clearly improved upon during the night, nor even the realization, as she mapped the distances between apartments and elevator in her mind, that Loretta hadn't been startled at all. She'd jumped because Audrey had caught her leaving 14B, where she'd pulled the door from the closet and deposited a rebar. Probably, she'd been the one to put Clara's sweat suit and gla.s.ses in the bureau while Audrey had been out of town, too.

But no, that wasn't the worst. The worst was this: at the door's center were two overlapping piles of wet, green mash shaped like oblong wings. They were adhered to the cardboard by tiny, p.r.i.c.kling spines. She didn't want to think it. Oh, how she hoped it was not true. But she remembered now, as if from a dream, what Schermerhorn had told her last night as she'd worked: you have to make your door with things you love, or it will never open.

Her sore p.r.i.c.ked fingers suddenly made sense. "Oh, Wolverine, I'm so sorry."

She saw now how she'd failed. It was the same old tune that had played her whole life though she only realized it now. The Breviary was haunted. The tenants were in on it, perhaps even possessed by it. From the moment she'd set foot in this building, she'd been in danger. She wasn't crazy and never had been. Just damaged, like everybody else in the world. She'd known these things all along, just like she'd known twenty years ago that she had to leave Betty and start a life of her own. But she'd never trusted herself enough to follow those instincts, and because of that, she'd made a lot of really stupid mistakes.

It was time to leave this place and never look back.

That was when the wall she was leaning against began to hum. The low pitch carried a syncopation that sounded like Schermerhorn's voice: Audrey, Audrey, it whispered. it whispered.

She did not take stock, or wait for another word, or wonder if she was imagining, or even search for her shoes. She ran for the door. Her third step, she tripped over the air mattress, then crab-walked backward out of the den.

The floors and walls hummed soft and soothing. The tickle diffused through her skin, up her bloodstream, and into her chest and mind, where it woke the wriggling worm. Shhh, Audrey. Don't leave us, Shhh, Audrey. Don't leave us, he chided. he chided. Stop running away for once in your life. Stop running away for once in your life. The accent wasn't British like she'd thought, just old-fas.h.i.+oned and sophisticated, like he'd been educated on the Continent in the 1840s. The accent wasn't British like she'd thought, just old-fas.h.i.+oned and sophisticated, like he'd been educated on the Continent in the 1840s.

She moved fast. And then the floors rumbled: Audrey, darling. Audrey, darling. This time it wasn't just Schermerhorn, but Clara, the children (Keith! Olivia! Kurt! Deirdre!), Loretta Parker, Martin Hearst, Evvie Waugh, and Francis Galton. The other tenants, dead and living, too. All different pitches, so dissonant as to be harmonious, but none quite human. It reminded her of the summertime language of locusts. This time it wasn't just Schermerhorn, but Clara, the children (Keith! Olivia! Kurt! Deirdre!), Loretta Parker, Martin Hearst, Evvie Waugh, and Francis Galton. The other tenants, dead and living, too. All different pitches, so dissonant as to be harmonious, but none quite human. It reminded her of the summertime language of locusts.

She scooted faster. Vibrations roared through the floor, met the tips of her fingers and traveled back to her chest. Hot and terrible. The worm chewed. She felt it climb up her gut and expand in her chest, wriggling.

And then, in the den, projector lights flickered. Against the cardboard door, a black-and-white film still shone. The picture showed a split-level ranch house and broken picket fence. A blond man and pretty woman with long, dark hair and dimples. They held a mewing infant in their arms.

Audrey stopped to look. The image shook slightly, but she knew what it contained. Her family before it got broken. Audrey, Audrey, a voice called through the walls and floors and even the air of 14B, only this time, its sound offered comfort. Tears came to her eyes. This time it was Betty. a voice called through the walls and floors and even the air of 14B, only this time, its sound offered comfort. Tears came to her eyes. This time it was Betty.

"Momma?" Audrey asked. The black-and-white image zoomed in on the woman and child. The man disappeared. So did the house, with its broken picket fence. In the picture, tiny red ants crawled across the baby's skin.

Finish the door, Audrey, so we can always be together. The vibrations murmured through the floors, caressing her hands and knees like a warm blanket, while against the door, Betty's image was mute. Only her eyes moved. They followed Audrey like a Ches.h.i.+re Cat clock. The vibrations murmured through the floors, caressing her hands and knees like a warm blanket, while against the door, Betty's image was mute. Only her eyes moved. They followed Audrey like a Ches.h.i.+re Cat clock.

The worm gnawed on her organs, tiny little bites. "You're not my mother. Betty's gone. She abandoned me," Audrey sniffled.

You forgot your promise, but I didn't. I kept that second-grade picture. You and me, forever. You betrayed me, Lamb. You left me alone in that terrible place. But I forgive you. Finish the door, Betty answered. Betty answered.

The hall light flickered, then went out. Everything got dark, except for the image of Betty holding a baby. The camera zoomed closer. Pretty dimples, vacant smile. Audrey remembered the CAT scan, and the black wings, and that red-ant day in Hinton, when her whole life changed.

"It was your madness chasing us. It was never after me, Momma, because I'm not crazy," Audrey whispered.

It was you, Audrey, the walls echoed with Betty's voice. the walls echoed with Betty's voice.

She remembered that day twenty years ago. There was more to the story than she'd always allowed herself to believe.

Betty's knife against her throat. Beads of blood. "Shhhh, Momma," drunken young Audrey had whispered, when she'd finally mustered the courage to speak. "Shhhhh. It's your Audrey."

Betty had lowered the knife a little, but not far enough. So Audrey had put her fingers between the blade and her skin, then eased down until she'd knelt over the broken floor. "I'll help, Momma," she'd said. "Look. We'll work together." And so, she'd lifted a clump of dirt. She'd put holes in her own house, just to pacify her maniac mother.

"Look! There's the monster!" Betty had cried twenty years ago, only it hadn't been a monster-but an ant hive, from which an angry swarm had risen. Biting. Biting. They'd flooded the white tiles. Audrey had stamped her feet until the floor was red while Betty had fled. When it was over, the floor was a mess of gore, as if Audrey had done murder.

The cop that showed up hadn't just told her to wear turtlenecks, either. He'd written down the number for a children's shelter. But like always, she'd stayed, and cleaned up the mess, and when Betty returned six weeks later sporting an oozing Playboy Bunny tattooed to her shoulder and a bad case of hep C in the making, she'd cleaned that up, too.

"That's why we always ran, Momma. The ants were always chasing your holes. It had nothing to do with me," Audrey now said as she changed direction, and crawled knee over knee back into the den. Betty's Ches.h.i.+re eyes went left, then right. Left, then right.

I miss you baby, the walls answered in Betty's voice as the camera zoomed closer. From the bottom of the black and white image tiny insects began to crawl. The baby squealed. the walls answered in Betty's voice as the camera zoomed closer. From the bottom of the black and white image tiny insects began to crawl. The baby squealed.

"You were sick, Momma. You were no good to me or anybody else," she said, because she wished she'd said it back then instead of always playing along to keep the peace. Always pretending things were okay, even while her wrists had made a bathtub pink.

The ants covered the baby's swollen face as it raged. The image was still, but the sound carried through the floors and walls. A weeping, furious wail.

We're trapped in here, Lamb. Get us out, Betty said as the image zoomed, and the baby disappeared. Betty said as the image zoomed, and the baby disappeared. If you build the door, we'll go back to Wilmette, before the red ants came. Just you and me. We'll live there forever, and you can always be my baby. Build the door. If you build the door, we'll go back to Wilmette, before the red ants came. Just you and me. We'll live there forever, and you can always be my baby. Build the door.

Sobbing, Audrey covered her ears. The camera zoomed closer. Now it was only Betty, thirty-four years ago. Pretty, with the world at her feet. Against the still frame, an ant darted across the white of her eye, and her skin wriggled.

Audrey touched the image against cardboard. It was soft, like her mother's skin. With her free hand, she lifted the rebar. A steel pole wrapped inside tense, sharp wire. Its opposite end was clogged with fleshy chunks of what looked like rust.

n.o.body loves you like we do. n.o.body ever will. They'll leave you, everyone one of them. Saraub. Jill. Even Jayne is already gone. But we're here, Lamb of mine.

If she smashed the rebar against the piano, she could use the wood to build a st.u.r.dy frame. But they'd known that, hadn't they? Loretta and the inhabitants of The Breviary. That's why they'd left her this b.l.o.o.d.y present. That's why they'd asked her about Saraub; they'd wanted to make sure she was alone. That's why they'd let her live here for so cheap, and why Edgardo was missing: he'd warned her.