Michael Flynn: House of Dreams

Ted had never been unfaithful to Sharon. He had never even seriously considered it. But if Ted did hard time and pounded his rocks, you’ll understand, whether you approve or not. It wasn’t being unfaithful. After all, Betsy was only a phantom, a paraphoton fantasy. What Ted did in the bed beside her was not betrayal.

But he didn’t turn the light off for a long time after—and that was.

The next day, Ted had the presence of mind to get the utilities connected and the Goodwill truck booked, and had the grace to feel a twinge of shame. The woman had been in grief, and he had used her like a centerfold. For his penance, he threw himself once more into prepping the house. When the phones became active, he even called Sharon long distance and told her he loved her and missed her. But as the day moved toward dusk, his thoughts dwelt more and more on the phantom woman.

Finally, he told himself that he had worked enough for one day, and climbed the stairs to the master bedroom. Hey, he wasn’t too tired to climb those stairs! He sat in the chair to one side of the bed, flipping the ghostlight on and off. He was hunting.

Most of the time, the sepia light revealed nothing. A room empty and abandoned, sometimes cobwebbed. One time, a pile of ruined clothing on the floor. Another, and the woman was playing with the two children. Still another, and a man leaned with his fists on the dresser, shoulders hunched, head bowed. An average kind of guy: a little paunchy, a little soft around the edges. He wasn’t Joe Sixpack; but he wasn’t Adonis, either.

Another glimpse of an empty room. Then, a child groping under the bed, withdrawing a ball, running from the room. Then, the man again, peeking sidewise through the window shade with a pistol in his hand.

The woman again. Standing in the center of the room, unbuttoning a long, pale dress with dark borders. The dress buttoned up the front, Ted noted—large, practical buttons hidden under those peculiar flaps. The cuffs and the neckline were tattered; the edging hung loose from the hem in two places. She undressed with stiff, deliberate motions, nearly yanking the buttons off. Her face was set in grim, straight lines. Ted settled back. The hunter had found his quarry.

At some point, the material must have torn. The stitching came loose or a button or something. It was an old dress. What do you expect? She looked for a moment at the rent; then, as if that had been a trigger, she gave the fabric a vicious tug and ripped it across. “Rending her garments”—that was the old Bible phrase, wasn’t it? She tore the rest of that dress off, sleeve to dart to pleat, and threw the scraps to the floor.

She didn’t peel down to the buff, just to socks and underwear; but that was enough for Ted. If nothing else convinced him that he was seeing a world that never was or would be, that underwear did the trick. Plain, serviceable, but unlike any he had ever seen. Baggy shorts with a loincloth panel that passed between the legs and tied in the back. A brassiere that consisted of twin slings and a bib that hung over the top and fastened with bows. The overall effect was odd—half Victorian, half Victoria’s Secret.

She crossed the room, looking more ghost-like than ever. Lovely, vulnerable, and inaccessible; suffering some nameless hurt—was anything better suited to elicit his sympathy or longing? Ted followed. He even reached a hand out to her shoulder. I don’t know what he expected. The walls of two universes rippled between them. His touch was insubstantial, not even a breath of air.

Hey, who’s the ghost here? Betsy or Ted?

But as his hand reached the lustrous curve of her shoulder, she turned sharply—lips parted, eyes wide—and pulled a knife.

People, that was a knife! I’m not talking your apple-peeling, fingernail-paring, prissy kind of knife. I’m talking an ugly serrated edge and hooked prong. A knife like that would rip a wound that would never close. It made you bleed just to look at it!

Ted certainly thought so, because he danced away as pretty as you please. He knew it couldn’t touch him; he knew she couldn’t see him. But why take chances? Only males think women enjoy being watched by men, and she held that knife like she knew how to use it.

The woman ran on cat’s feet into the darkness beyond the flashlight’s range. When Ted found her again, she was crouched by the bedroom door, peering down the hallway, shielding the knife blade from the light.

Wait a minute! Let’s back up here! Sweet Betsy was stripped to her skivvies, and that underwear didn’t do a very good job at hiding her, let alone an arsenal. Where had that shiv been lurking? That’s a puzzling question, all right; but, people, can’t we leave her some secrets?

Ted waited, helplessly aware of the rasping of his own breath, until, slowly, the woman relaxed and backed away from the doorway. No. She backed away; she never relaxed, though the knife did disappear. At the dresser once more, she pulled out a heavy, denim-like shirt and trousers.

Ted resumed his hunt. Hey, he knew what he was looking for, and you have to admire his persistence, if not his goal. He flicked that light until he found another tableau more to his liking: The man and the woman were coupling on the bed. Ted moved the chair a little to the side and settled in, cradling the flashlight in his left hand.

Hey, don’t be too hard on old Ted. You weren’t there, and his motives don’t matter any more. The whole situation was surreal; the woman, no more substantial than a photograph. How was it different from reading a skin mag or watching a triple-X flick? Ted wasn’t where he needed to be yet; but in his mind she had graduated from “phenomenon” to “sex object.” That was progress, sort of.

It was a slow, wary congress that he watched. Both were fully clothed, but had unfastened the panels in their clothing. Sweet Betsy’s long, embroidered dress was gathered up to her waist, exposing the sweet curve of her hips and thighs. He lay atop her, rising and falling while she rocked her hips against him. Her legs danced, caressed him with her heels. Her mouth was parted and, when the man was not exploring it with his own, moved as if she were speaking or crying out. There were no sounds, though; so Ted had to supply the panting and sighing on his own.

He did a good job, too. He was done before they were.

Well, the action was pretty erotic, all right—if you overlooked the pistols each held in their right hands. They never let go and they never closed their eyes. If Ted had been less focused on the matter in hand, he might have noticed, and pondered, that little point.

Look, this wasn’t like peeking into someone’s bedroom. It was his bedroom, and the woman was not real. She was someone who never was, or only might have been. But Ted felt badly enough that he turned the flashlight off and did not turn it on again until he had left the room to make his way downstairs to the kitchen. He had confidence now that the house was structurally identical in the ghostlight, though he was still wary when it came to the placement of furniture.

In the kitchen, he found the man and woman again. She wore a dark dress; he wore rough work clothes. He might have been going out to work on the garden, if it weren’t for the crossed bandoliers and the bolt-action rifle slung on his shoulder. Their arms enwrapped each other and they kissed like there was no tomorrow. Then—perhaps there was a knock at the kitchen door—the woman let three more men into the house.

You know those men. The mailman; the grocer; the truck driver down the corner. Ordinary joes. They were all dressed up for a hunting trip. Billed caps pulled down low; cartridges stuffed in pockets, bandoliers, pistol belts. A shotgun. A longbow. One of those funny-looking crossbows he had seen the woman use. They all looked nervous and scared, but determined. Hey, if this was a hunting trip, Bambi must be shooting back!