J. Gonzalez - They

Vince blinked. Expecting him? He didn’t even know this old fuck. When did Brian get a butler? “Who…” be began.

“We’ve been waiting a long time for you to come home,” the man said, the barest hint of a smile playing along his lips. “Please. Come in.”

The man’s voice had a commanding tone. It propelled Vince up the step and through the threshold where he stood in the foyer, staring up at the vast high ceiling.

“This way, please.” The elderly man with the black suit began walking down the entry hall toward the rear of the house. Vince followed him.

Vince took everything in quickly; the polished mahogany of the woodwork, the stained glass windows, the furnishings; it was all the trappings of wealth and prestige. He’d been to Brian’s home numerous times in the past, but for some reason had never really paused to notice the details of Brian’s home. Had Vince taken Brian’s wealth for granted? Perhaps. But still—

The elderly man stepped aside just as they crested the entrance to the lavish den. Vince stepped through the doorway into the room and his eyes flew open, a gasp escaped him.

The den was large, with a cathedral ceiling. The rear of the room, which made up the rear wing of the home, was composed of plate glass that stretched to the ceiling. He was very familiar with this section of the home. These windows looked out onto the back deck, which, in turn, held a commanding view of south Orange County. The room was furnished with plush sofas and chairs, a cherry coffee table. A large marble hearth occupied a good portion of the south wall. Two large oil paintings hung in gold frames, flanking the hearth, their subjects dark and strange. Vince frowned; he’d never seen these paintings before.

The people gathered in the den turned to greet his entry.

The room was filled with two-dozen people dressed elegantly in suits, sport coats, blazers, vests, dresses, skirts, patent leather shoes and high heels, silk shirts and blouses. Most of them appeared to be older than Vince, in their forties and fifties, but there were a few elderly people as well. They were all looking at Vince, most of them smiling, as if watching a long lost loved one step off an airplane.

There were a couple of people in the room around Vince’s age. One of them was smiling at him, his eyes warm, friendly. He was easily recognizable. “Brian?” Vince asked.

Vince Walter’s best friend Brian Dennison smiled, his face alive with pride. “Vince, my man! So good to see you come home !”

“What’s this all about?” Vince said, his heart pounding. Brian’s wife, Kimberly, was standing beside her husband and for the first time Vince noticed something different about them. He’d known Brian and Kimberly for over ten years, had been to their home, had shared laughter and good times with them. He’d become tight with them, and as familiar as they were to him the moment he walked in, there was something subtly different about his friends. It was as if he’d just discovered they’d been wearing masks the whole time he’d known them, and that this mask had slipped over their countenance, ever so slightly, revealing their true faces.

“It’s all about welcoming you home, Andrew,” Brian said.

Vince started, blinking. Andrew? How could Brian know that the name his mother had given him when he was born was—

He was suddenly able to recognize other people in the room. A middle-aged couple, the woman demure and proper, the man resembling a line-backer; seeing him brought back memories of a California childhood when Vince used to play with his daughter, Nellie. Now he looked older, wiser, more confident. Another middle-aged couple stood near them, the man tall, powerfully built, with brown hair that was turning silver; the woman looked like she might be a power broker for a large corporation. She was dressed in a conservative business suit and her black hair was speckled with flecks of gray. He recognized those eyes as he looked into them and he saw Frank Black in her facial features. He blinked, their younger images molding perfectly with the older couple now staring back at him, faint smiles on their faces. “Gladys and Tom,” he whispered.

“Hello, Andrew.”

Vince turned toward the source of the voice. It came from an old man who was sitting in a red velvet chair with a large ornate back; more like a throne than an actual chair. The man looked to be well over eighty. He was dressed in a black suit, black slacks, a white shirt, a black tie knotted snuggly at his wrinkled neck. Two large gold rings sat on the ring fingers of both hands. His thinning white hair was combed back over his liver-spotted scalp. Despite his age, there was nothing about his demeanor or the sound of his voice to suggest he was frail. If anything he looked strong, powerful.

Vince recognized the old man immediately. “Samuel Garrison,” he said.

“Welcome home, Andrew,” the old man said. His features beamed a radiance that could only be described as pride.

Vince looked around at the sea of faces again. He recognized another face in the crowd, this one standing with the middle-aged couple. She was about his age, with blonde hair, wearing a black dress. She reminded Vince of a suburban housewife and the minute he saw her he was transported instantly back to his childhood, when he was eight years old, playing with his childhood friends as his parents visited with the parents of his friends. “Nellie,” he whispered.

Another woman stepped forward and when Vince cast his eyes on her his heart leaped in his chest. He stepped back in shock, unable to believe what he was seeing. “Tracy!”

Tracy Harris stood in front of the throng of people that had gathered in the immaculate den to greet him. She’d changed into a revealing outfit designed for evening wear; a one-piece black dress with a short skirt, plunging neckline, black stockings, high heels. Her auburn hair fell on her shoulders, and as she stepped toward Vince he saw the remarkable resemblance between Tracy and Diana Roberts, the girl he’d dated over ten years ago. “Tracy,” Vince said, taking a step back.

“It’s okay, Andrew,” Tracy said, her voice soothing, calm. “There’s no reason to be afraid.”

Vince was taking rapid steps back and he stopped when he heard the door behind him close. He glanced back quickly; the double doors to the den had been shut and now he heard the click of a lock. He whirled around to Tracy, who’d stopped her advancement. She was looking at him with a mixture of wonder, awe, and love. Vince’s hands were shaking; he was too scared to do anything except stand there, numb with fright. “What’s going on here?” he said, his voice taking on a squealing pitch.

“It’s okay, Andrew,” Tracy said, her voice soothing, musical. “These are your friends. Your family. We’ve waited so long for this.”

Vince looked around, his eyes darting around the room. Despite the fact that the room they were in was so huge, he was beginning to feel claustrophobic. He felt a tightness in his chest, a burning in his throat that could only be fear. As he tried to take everything in, the people that were gathered in the den rose to their feet. Vince jumped back, deathly afraid. “What’s going on?” he shouted, panicked.

The old man stepped forward, his stride steady with a sense of purpose. “There’s no reason to be fearful, Andrew. Relax. You’re home now.”

“Home?” Vince cried, feeling the tightness constrict his chest. “What are you talking about?”

“You haven’t guessed already?” The man that Vince had known as Uncle Sammy regarded him with an amused glint in his eye and Vince whirled around, searching for a way out. As his wandering gaze searched for an exit, they rested upon the paintings he’d glimpsed upon entering the den.