Night at the Demontorium
Series One
Naima Haviland
Copyright 2011 by Naima Haviland
Smashwords Edition
****
Table of Contents
It seems like yesterday that Téa carved a big circle out of her belly and tried to scoop her entrails into the toilet. Before starting, she’d put duct tape over her mouth so her screaming wouldn’t bother the neighbors.
Téa had everything. Talent, personality, and a handsome husband who adored her. She had cherry cola colored hair, dark red lips that smiled often, and long legs. Dressed up, she took your breath away. But even dressed down, she had an inner blaze that made people notice her.
No matter how many years we knew each other, no matter how many times a week we talked, she always announced who she was on the phone. When people said she looked like Anne Hathaway, she’d say "oh" with wide, polite eyes. The person always got a little uncomfortable, then said, "I meant that as a compliment," and Téa would brighten and thank them. "I don’t want to assume," she told me. They might not think Anne Hathaway was pretty.
People’s horizons don’t broaden, have you ever noticed that? Children’s do, because adults move them from group to group – from soccer to football, from gymnastics to band, and so on. But unless adults try different hobbies, the circle never widens. Who we know is how big our world is. It never changes. So a horrible death like Téa’s, all that blood on the bathroom floor, blows a big hole in the atmosphere. Changes the climate forever. Mutates the tiny universe. We went about our business. Life goes on, but it always seemed like yesterday since Téa died.
It wasn’t that the place was quiet without Téa. Our family was a big crowd of rambunctious overachievers. Family dinners took up two long tables with high chairs wedged between regular chairs and a children’s table off to the side. At the last minute Téa had always found me in a corner with my nose in a book. "You’re holding up grace," she’d tease quietly. Téa would pat the heads of the littlest kids, who were overshadowed by their older siblings because they couldn’t talk yet. Téa would take our great-grandmother’s arm as she hobbled quietly to the table, would sit down next to her and talk with her all through dinner. Téa once stopped rush hour traffic to rescue an injured cat. Téa got mad when her church froze a nerd out of its ranks, and got frozen out for her trouble. My uncle said she had a bigger heart than that of anyone he’d ever known.
Téa married him before I was born. We never met her real family. She just joined ours. She wasn’t like my other female relatives. She didn’t dress like them, had a Yankee accent, read a lot, voted Democrat. My mother and aunts were fleshy, unthinkingly sensual women. Their men were husky and athletic. Téa was thin from nervous energy that burned calories like dry brush. My other female relatives smoothed over unpleasantness. Aunt Téa would ruin a dinner party by challenging a genteel racist slur. She once argued against prayer in schools with a room full of Southern Baptists. Téa wrote letters to the editor. Téa cussed. Téa took people to small claims court. Téa was a big pain in the ass. Téa devastated us the day we found her hanging from a rope she’d strung through the rafters of an old barn.
My uncle’s body broke down with grief. I’d never before heard an infant’s abandoned cries deep-pitched and powered by adult lungs. I never wanted to hear that again. I never wanted to see him unable to stand.
None of Téa’s relatives showed up for the funeral, but on the edge of the crowd stood a group of older women we’d never seen before. Clinging to each other and crying, they looked even more torn up than we were. They made a visible contrast to the friends we did know about: women Téa’s age with funky clothes, carefully impeccable manners, and slightly wary attitudes. My uncle took every condolence with stiff formality. When the older women approached, he turned away and hid his face.
In the following days, the flesh fell off his bones. His eyes took a permanent downward slant. He blinked a lot. He didn’t come out of the house except to work. For no reason at all, he didn’t like us anymore. And he wouldn’t answer the phone.
Some people become addicted to alcohol, some to drugs. My family closed ranks against our only addict, a beautiful blonde cousin who couldn’t get her act together. They were relieved when she moved to California and showed every sign of staying there, near the beach and a methadone clinic. I didn’t know then what Téa had become addicted to. Most people just become addicted to the way things are. Damn Téa, with her violent, self-destructive death, changing everything.
Once, Téa flashed her ass at my uncle on the vast front lawn of our country club. G-string panties and flippy little skirts. That was my Aunt Téa. Téa danced with her feet fixed, hips swaying, arms undulating upwards. Téa tossed her long dark hair. Téa had a perky bosom she was proud of. Téa caressed my uncle’s back and had a way of looking at him that never failed to make him stammer and blush. Her sexuality had no conflict with her intense religiosity. Téa said communion was a commitment ceremony. She never missed a Sunday. But someone put a stop to her Sundays and every day thereafter. I was fifteen when a serial killer slaughtered her.
I don’t mean this in a bad way, I swear I don’t, but I like to think she finally got the big fight she always wanted. The house Téa shared with my uncle was smeared with blood upstairs and down, and much of it was not her own. That man was a mess when they found him. The deep scratches inflicted by Téa were festering. His right eye was blackened and the side of his face was swollen. I think of Téa, confronted with a situation where she was unequivocally in the right, flailing at him with unchecked rage. Maybe there was sad resignation in the end, when she was too tired to fight any longer. Maybe by then she didn’t notice her killer at all. Maybe she was humbly awaiting her final communion. Maybe she’d been waiting for it from the beginning. She'd always locked the door behind her when she came home from work, but not this time.
But life went on, even with its glitches. Even though the paper, when we called in her obituary, said, "What, are you kidding?" then screwed up by not even stating the date or cause of her death, just saying that her family missed her. Life went on.
I would die quickly. I didn’t even know what hit me. Later, I found out it was an Escalade. All that stuff about a peaceful feeling, reaching toward a light? There was darkness all around, except in front of me, where I watched my family’s grief. I watched my mom fall out of a chair in agony. I saw my dad stumble to her on his knees only to be pushed away. I saw my grandparents huddle in each other’s arms. I saw the wet, scared faces of my cousins and friends. I wanted to get some word to them that I was still alive, just not with them. If only I could tell them. My chest hurt. My throat ached. I know I cried. I hated it all.
Then it was over and dark all around. I felt like I was gliding, but in the total blackout. I didn’t know where or how fast. A glow from an unseen light cast over what looked like striped drapes. That was it. A low light on a draped corner, surrounded by darkness. My eyes adjusted and I saw Téa.
With her dark hair and maroon dress, she almost blended in. Her deep red lips were smiling. Her dark eyes sparkled. She crooked her finger.
I remembered the day of my death, how I’d been looking forward to that evening having dinner with Téa and my uncle. "You were alive. How –"
"Did I get here before you?" she interrupted. "It’s like anything else. If you practice enough you get faster."
"Huh?"
She took my arm and led me down a ramp. "I could take you outside and show you around if you want." Téa shrugged. "But I almost never go outside anymore."
Suddenly, a huge square of white light flashed out in front of us.
"It’s starting," Téa whispered excitedly, pulling me down by my sleeve. Falling down, I threw a look behind us and saw row after empty row of red theater seats.
"It’s my show," Téa whispered, her hand so tight on my wrist it hurt.
In the movie, people were at a funeral. I saw my family and for a moment, I thought it was my funeral. But then I saw older women I didn’t know. They clung to each other, crying. "She was so articulate," one of them said. "She would say things and I’d always felt exactly that way, but I never could say it the way she could."
Téa watched, transfixed, her face a glaze of tears. "Look how much they miss me."
"She was so honest," another said. "She wasn’t afraid to tell what her feelings were. She was so brave."
Téa’s mouth opened in wonder. She took a deep breath. Her eyebrows rose in disbelief and gratitude, as if unable to believe what she was hearing.
"She was an inspiration to me," another woman said.
"Really?" Téa whispered brokenly.
"Téa!" I shook her arm. She broke away from me, glaring and harassed.
"What’s going on?" I demanded. Multiple deaths flickered through my mind so fast I felt like I was having a seizure. She’d hung herself. No, there was that man. No. It was the first time. Téa with a big hole in her middle, naked and bloody on the bathroom floor. "I don’t understand!"
"The first time I died, I came back by accident." Téa spoke rapidly, her face fixed on the screen. "I was dead, and I saw how everyone was so torn up. I had no idea they would miss me that much. I was astounded. I didn’t know they loved me like –"
"Téa, God. Of course, we do!"
"I didn’t know! I just had no idea! It made me love them back so much. I wanted to be with them so bad and the next thing I knew I was back! I thought I was a ghost, but they saw me. It was so great. No one remembered. It was like it had never happened. We were so happy." Her smile faltered. "But coming back isn’t the same when they don’t know you’ve been gone …and absence makes the heart grow fonder …"
Now the friends her own age were talking about how funny Téa was. "You never knew what she was gonna say. That girl did the wildest things. Remember …"
Téa laughed as her friends reminisced, but her face was hungry and anxious. Her hand spasmodically squeezed the hem of her dress. "Oh," she breathed ecstatically. Her mouth trembled with faltering smiles.
Next I saw my family weeping. I couldn’t watch. I kept my eyes on Téa, who was hooked. I was furious. "Téa!"
Téa hissed. "Leave me alone! I only have one chance to watch. It never plays again."
"Why do you keep doing this?" I hissed. "Do you like hurting us?"
"No!" she cried. "I don’t want to hurt anybody. I don’t want to hurt myself. But there’s this thing inside me. People forget to show how much they love you if they see you every day. And there’s this thing. It always grows, like a big paper clip unbending, jabbing and poking. It shoots out of my heart, all the way through my arms. It hurts so much. I have to tear a place open just to get away from it. Then when I’m gone, I look back and see that people really do care."
My uncle now walked through the empty house he used to share with his wife. Beside me, Téa’s every muscle tightened.
He sat down, rubbed his knees repeatedly and suddenly raked his fingers into his hair. His body curled into itself. He groaned behind his arms. My heart turned over. Anguish filled me. Téa leaned forward, her face lifting toward the screen.
He fell sideways, crawling blindly for the comfort of an armrest. A howl rose out of him that upholstery couldn’t muffle.
"Oh," Téa gasped, enraptured.
"I want to go outside, Téa. Please? Where’s the door?"
Her nails scratched lightly through the hair on my arm. "He loved me so much. He loved me so much. Look at that."
“He’s depressed,” she said. Malcolm heard her voice through a thick polished wooden door, muffled as everything else was. Muffled, just as he wanted. Malcolm needed everything muffled, turned down, lowered, dulled. Malcolm felt keen colors and bright mornings and loud voices like ice picks to his ears and eyes. It was a bright morning now, but something in Malcolm dimmed it. Malcolm did not know how it had happened. But one day, something in him had turned over and smothered everything outside of him.
Malcolm remembered her voice through the door as he walked over the grounds now. All rolling hills and trimmed conifers and reflective, placid lakes. As immaculate as twenty gardeners could make it. The air was so crisp it stung his face. His nostrils thinned with the effort to breathe it. Malcolm walked over the grounds, shoulders hunched and neck bowed. Though twenty-seven, he looked to others who saw the back of him as if he must be eighty-seven. Surely someone should take his arm? (This was another thing Malcolm heard through closed wooden doors). Malcolm liked the cold air and the frigid park before him and disliked the immense rock behind him that was his house. The multi-windowed and elaborately pillared block that loomed over him. A few more steps and Malcolm would be out of its shadow. But Malcolm couldn’t resist looking back over his shoulder.