Paul Cleave - The Laughterhouse

Hell, maybe it’s even better this way. This way he has tomorrow to decide what he’s going to do about Ariel Chancellor. He can still see her standing on the street corner, her dress short, the car pulling up beside her. .

He changes direction, heading away from the judge’s house and going north. He turns on the radio and listens to the news. The fourth body has been found but no name has been released. That’s good. The longer they keep that information to themselves, the less chance there is of somebody from seventeen years ago figuring it out. Twice he finds himself nodding off, the first time falling asleep for less than a second and veering toward a lamppost, the second time for a little longer and almost hitting a tree. Then there is a sudden stench from the baby that doesn’t disappear, even when he winds down the window. It helps keep him awake.

It takes twenty minutes to get to the slaughterhouse. It’s been fifteen years since he came here. The night is wrapped tightly around it, letting go only where the headlights wash across the front of the building. He parks outside what used to be the office door. He has to step carefully to avoid twisting an ankle. He unloads the bag first, taking it deep inside where his footfalls echo through the rooms. It’s colder in here than outside. He lays down the blankets in the corner of one of the offices, then heads back out to the car. The air has that wet early morning feel to it that you get in April. Every day for the next few weeks can either remind you of summer or remind you of winter.

“There’s your bathroom,” he tells Melanie, cutting her binds and nodding toward the edge of the driveway where Melanie can choose from one of dozens of trees, “and make sure you don’t get lost. The forest is a week’s walk in every direction,” he says, not that it’s true. “And if you get lost I’ll end up punishing your family.”

She reaches up and pulls the duct tape off her mouth. “How am I supposed to see anything?”

He hands her a flashlight.

“Why can’t I use one of the bathrooms inside?”

“They don’t work.”

“There’s no. .” her voice catches in her throat, then she manages to get herself under control. “There’s no toilet paper,” she tells him, her voice firm. “You think of that too?”

“You’ll have to do without it.”

“But that’s gross.”

“No, what’s gross is what might happen later if you don’t go now. This is going to be your last chance for a while.”

“Are you going to watch?”

“Why would I do that?”

“I don’t know, maybe because you’re some kind of perv. That’s why you got us tied up right? For that kind of thing and worse.”

He shakes his head, wondering, What the hell is wrong with people these days? “Just hurry up before I lose my patience.”

She points the flashlight ahead and rushes over to the trees and behind one. It takes her two minutes and then she returns. He leads her inside and hands her the blankets.

“Make yourself comfortable,” he says.

“What? On the floor? You have to be kidding.”

“Just hurry up.”

“No.”

“What?”

“I’m not sleeping on the floor.”

“There’s nowhere else.”

“Yes there is. There’s my house. Take us back there,” she says, frowning. “And what happened to your face? Why’s it all gross?”

“Tell you what, Mel, do you mind if I call you Mel?” he asks, and he shows her the knife. “I know you’re a brave girl, and I think you understand things are quite bad for you and your family right now. I know you’re trying to be tough, and I respect that. The thing is, if you don’t shut up I’m going to hurt Katy. You get me?”

Melanie’s frown disappears and her mouth sags at the edges. “You wouldn’t,” she says, but she doesn’t sound sure.

Caleb nods. “Of course I would,” he says, annoyed at her, “and it’ll be your fault. The floor,” he says, “get yourself comfortable.”

She gets bedded down, and then he secures her with plastic ties and puts duct tape over her mouth. He goes back to the car and frees Katy. He tells her the same things and she asks the same questions and they come to the same understanding, the only difference is her face is covered in tears. She goes to the same tree and is gone a similar amount of time, and when she comes back her face is covered in flecks of dirt. He hands her her teddy bear, then puts fresh duct tape over her mouth. Her eyes are wide and both girls are looking scared and still there is nothing, no humanity, only the memory of Jessica, his daughter, bloody and torn on the same floor these girls are lying on.

“Don’t try to escape,” he tells them. “It will only make things worse.”

They can’t answer him, only with their tears. He leaves them a battery-powered camping lantern, the light turned low enough to make the edges of the room dark.

He goes out to the car and picks up Octavia. He twists his face and holds her away from him at arm’s length and carries her inside. She has woken up and is smiling and laughing.

“What’s so funny?” he asks her.

“Hello,” she says.

“Why are you laughing?”

“Hello, hello,” she says.

“Hello,” he answers. “Do you know how to be quiet, Octavia?”

“Hello-zies.”

He leaves her on the floor and goes back for the car seat, and when he comes back she’s bum-hopped herself to the other side of the room and is playing with a rusty nail. He snatches it off her and throws it deeper into the slaughterhouse.

“Goddamn it,” he says to the other girls. “Why the hell would you let her play with that?”

The girls can’t answer, and of course it’s not their fault. They couldn’t have stopped Octavia playing. He should have left one of them untied to look after her. He looks down at the baby, who’s starting to cry.

“Don’t,” he tells her, but it does no good. “Great,” he says, and then lays her down on the blanket.

God, it’s been ages since he’s done this.

He holds his breath, looks away, and undoes her diaper. Changing his own daughter’s diaper was bad enough, but changing somebody else’s. . he sees what’s in her diaper, gags, then looks away. He gags again, then has to jump to his feet. He makes it to the door to the office, leans out, retches once, twice, then throws up into the dark. He should have gotten one of the sisters to do it. Next time he will. When he comes back he can’t even look at Octavia. He pulls the diaper away and stuffs it into a plastic bag, then uses some wipes to clean her up while looking in the opposite direction. She stops crying.

“I should have stayed in jail,” he says, then stuffs the wipes into the plastic bag with the diaper. He swings it around and knots it, then throws it in the same direction he threw the nail, decides it’s not far enough, then goes and retrieves it. He puts it outside instead.

He puts a fresh diaper on Octavia, pulls her pajama bottoms back up, then sets her back in the car seat and clips the straps into place.

He puts her between her sisters. “Hello,” she says again.

He gets the duct tape and cuts a strip for her mouth and finds he can’t bring himself to place it.

“Bufwiffy,” she says, then giggles. If she doesn’t fall asleep soon, he’ll have to duct tape her. Then her little face scrunches up, turns red, and then she smiles again. The room smells.

“Goddamn it,” he says.

“Bufwiffy.”

He reaches into the bag and grabs another diaper along with the duct tape.

John Morgan is awake and has a coffee ready for me in his lounge. The smell perks me up a little, which is a bit of a surprise because I hadn’t realized I was starting to fade. I apologize for having to interview him so early, but he doesn’t seem to mind. We sit down in opposite couches with a coffee table between us with magazines squared up in a pile in the center, a mixture of fashion and architecture topped off with a TV Guide, which has recently been used as a coaster. His wife is in bed, either asleep or trying to fall asleep. The coffee is hot and pretty good and couldn’t be any more appreciated. Morgan’s salt-and-pepper hair is sticking up on one side from hours buried in a pillow and his right sideburn is bushier than his left for that same reason. He’s wearing a robe with pajamas underneath.