M Sellars - The End Of Desire

“Well, I guess now we’re gettin’ the flip side,” my friend huffed. “‘Cause I’d say manic is a pretty good description of the whole hair thing. Not ta’ mention the whole mood thing. Did ya’ see the way she just kept smilin’ when we were arguin’? She wasn’t about ta’ give in, but she never got mad about it.”

“Yeah, I noticed that.”

“Well? Was that weird or what?”

I nodded. “A little. But she does tend to grin when she feels like she’s won an argument, and in her mind, she had that one conquered from the outset. So, all I really saw was my wife feeling like she had the upper hand. Maybe I’m just too close to her to see.”

“She told ya’ Lewis deserved to die,” he repeated in a half questioning tone.

“Yeah,” I said with a nod. “But, I don’t think she really believes that. That was the problem. She knew she was supposed to be upset. She just couldn’t make herself feel the remorse.”

“I’m tellin’ ya’, Row, that’s fucked up. She’s actin’ flaky.”

“Maybe so, but I also think we need to cut her some slack. Like I said, Helen expected some type of odd behavior from her when the effects of the stress bubbled to the surface. I doubt you could come up with a better trigger for it than the package today combined with the visit from Lewis yesterday.”

“Yeah, well speakin’ of Helen, what I think is that Firehair needs ta’ have a sit down with ‘er. Right away.”

“I don’t disagree with you there, but I can’t force her to do it.”

“I bet we can. I got handcuffs.”

“She’d just use them on you if she got the chance,” I told him with a half-hearted chuckle.

“Jeez, let’s not go there, ‘kay?”

“You brought it up.”

“Yeah, you’re right. My bad.”

“Seriously, though. She’ll talk to Helen when she’s ready.”

“Yeah, well let’s hope she’s ready before she shaves ‘er head or somethin’.”

“You know, Ben, I get the feeling you’re even more disturbed by her change of appearance than anything else.”

“It ain’t right. She looks like one of those goth chicks or somethin’,” he replied then tucked his cigar into his mouth and puffed. After a second unproductive draw, he pulled it out and inspected the end. “Damn. Went out. Lemme see your lighter.”

I dug the device out of my pocket and handed it to him. “Actually, with it dyed black, it’s more of a Bettie Page look.”

“Who’s Bettie Page?”

“She’s a pinup model from the fifties.”

“Pinup model, huh?”

“Yeah. Her claim to fame was cheesecake bondage and fetish photos.”

“Awww, Jeez…” He mumbled, casting me a sideways glance as he re-ignited his cigar. “I shoulda known.”

“Uh-huh,” I grunted, accepting the lighter back. “But, as shocking as the change is, I have to admit it still looks good on her.”

“Well, yeah,” he agreed. “Never said it looked bad. It just don’t look right ta’ me. I mean it’s Firehair. She’s s’posed ta’ have red hair.”

“I guess you’ll just have to call her something else for a while.”

“Yeah. I’m workin’ on that, but I got a feelin’ she ain’t gonna like Blackhead.”

“I think you’re probably right about that.”

I took a puff off my own cigar then rolled the smoke around on my tongue before blowing it out in a long stream on the cold air. The cloud of condensed breath quickly dissipated, leaving behind only the thin, blue-white haze lofting on a gentle breeze.

Looking out into the night, I stared at the neighborhood. It was relatively peaceful and pretty much always had been. Up until a few years ago, that is. But, everything that happened to shatter that quiet seemed to center around this house-and me. We’d never had any sort of close relationship with any of our neighbors, but these days they weren’t even interested in waving to us from across the street.

I sighed as thoughts of pulling up stakes and moving crossed my mind once again. Finally, I looked over at my friend and asked, “Do you really think Annalise is going to come here?”

“Dunno,” he grunted after a moment of thought. “But, she’s been here at least once already.”

“You don’t know that for a fact,” I countered.

“Gut feelin’,” he told me. “She was here.”

I didn’t refute what he said. I’d learned to trust his instincts just as much as he trusted mine. After a moment I mused aloud, “Why does this sort of thing always get so out of hand?”

My friend huffed out what passed for an apathetic chuckle then replied, “Just lucky, I guess.”

I was getting ready to tell him that his answer didn’t make me feel any better, but as I opened my mouth to speak, I heard a distant echo that sounded almost like my name being called. I left my comment unspoken and cocked my head to the side, listening intently.

A second later, I heard it again, louder. This time it wasn’t only my name but Ben’s too. And, the voice was recognizable, even through the panic in which it was encased. I looked up at my friend whose expression was a mirror image of my own. A heartbeat later we were both in motion. The only reason we didn’t collide was that I started for the door a split second sooner than he.

Felicity was already topping the basement stairs and coming into the hall as we entered through the front door. The look on her face instantly bolstered the rush of anxiety that was already tightening my chest.

“What’s wrong?!” I asked, continuing toward her.

“She called,” she replied, her eyes wide and face even paler than usual.

“Devereaux?” Ben asked.

“Aye,” she replied. “Just now.”

“You talked to her?” I asked.

She shook her head. “No. She called my business line, and I just let the answering machine pick it up.”

“Did you save the message?” Ben pressed.

“I was sitting there when she called. I haven’t played it back yet.”

My friend pressed past us and headed downward. We followed only a step or two behind. Hitting the bottom of the stairs, we veered immediately left, past Felicity’s darkroom, and then hooked around the corner into her actual office. The answering machine was perched on the corner of her desk, where it always sat, and the message light was winking on and off, demanding attention.

Ben reached over and pressed the play button. The device was digital, so it instantly chirped and an electronic voice announced, “You have one new message. Received… December four…teenth… at… nine thir… ty-two P. M…”

The machine-generated voice was then replaced by the hiss of telephone static and the sound of a single, heavily exhaled breath. On the heels of the sigh, a sweet, Southern-accented voice issued from the speaker.

“Hello, Felicity,” it said. “I’m so sorry I missed you. I was just calling to see if you enjoyed the gift. You know, mat was just dying to be under them.” The voice snickered as if amused at the sick joke. A second later it continued, a stern tone affecting its cadence, “He never should have called me by your name. But, I don’t guess we need to worry about him making that mistake again, do we?”

There was a thick pause, and we could hear her breathing, then Annalise spoke again, her words harsh and demanding, “It isn’t yours, chienne! It belongs to me, and I won’t let her give it to you!”

With that, the line clicked and went dead, only to be replaced a moment later by an electro-mechanical announcement saying, “End new messages.”

We all stared at the machine for what seemed like a full minute, none of us saying a word. Finally, Ben sighed then reached up to massage the back of his neck.

Leveling his gaze on my wife, he said, “Wanna reconsider your decision ta’ stay here now?”