Flowers in a Dumpster (23 page)

When Steve came down from the attic, he paused in the second floor hallway. He stood by the window and looked out over the street below. Nothing moved this morning. The world was still and deserted—a post-apocalyptic landscape devoid of life. But Steve knew that somewhere out there life did indeed go on. People led their normal lives, going about their regular routines, with no idea of the otherworldly happenings going on right under their noses. Steve envied them their ignorance.

He sighed and placed his hands in the pockets of the oversized jeans he wore, cinched tight with a leather belt to keep them from falling to his knees. He headed down the curving staircase. A thick layer of dust coated the banister, but Steve was not motivated to clean it. This wasn’t his house, after all, no matter how many years he’d spent here, and he wasn’t going to lift a finger in maintenance of it.

Steve found Al in the living room, reclining on the sofa by the bay window, wearing a pair of sweatpants and a too-tight T-shirt, reading a worn paperback copy of Grisham’s
The Firm
. Steve stood on the threshold between the foyer and living room, leaning against the archway, but Al did not acknowledge his presence.

“Isn’t this about the third time you’ve read that book?” Steve finally asked.

Al looked up, annoyance stamped on his face like a tattoo. “Well, considering that most of the shelves in the library are bare and there are only about a dozen books in the house, it’s either reread them over and over or read nothing at all. Unless you plan to give up that stupid journal of yours and write some new novels for me to read. Is that what you’re planning?”

“Forget I even said anything.”

“Gladly,” Al said, returning to the book.

Steve turned away and headed down the hall. Things had been strained between him and Al for some time now. Sometimes he thought their relationship started to disintegrate the second they stepped through the door to this house. For the past six months, they had barely been able to stay in the same room without sniping and arguing. They had long since stopped sharing a bed, Steve having moved into one of the guest bedrooms. The love they had felt for one another dried up over the years, until not even the memory of it existed. He was pretty sure Al hated him, in some way blaming Steve for the situation in which they found themselves. As for Steve, he didn’t hate Al; he felt nothing for the man. And yet they were stuck here together, incapable of separating any farther than a few rooms.

Steve went into the library and sat down at the roll-top secretary’s desk. He opened the bottom right drawer and pulled out a small ledger with a faded red cover.

He had happened across a stash of ledgers and notebooks in the main bedroom’s closet about a week after their initial arrival at the house. He couldn’t believe that none of the other occupants had ever written in them, but perhaps they had
appeared
, like the food in the refrigerator and cabinets.

Opening the ledger to the first fresh page, about a third of the way through, he grabbed a pen from the penholder. He didn’t write in the journal every day. Some months he only made one or two entries, others almost a dozen. Al made fun of him for keeping the journal, and Steve had to admit he wasn’t sure why he did it. He just figured there should be some type of record of what was happening here, a memorial to the events that had led them to be in this house.

Steve put the date, his best estimate, in the upper right corner, the pen point making a pleasant
scritch-scritch
on the thick paper. It had been almost a month since his last entry in the journal. It was hard to come up with new things to write when everyday was a variation of the one before it, but writing to some unknown reader, a reader that only existed in his imagination, made Steve feel he had some tenuous connection with the world outside.

Bending over the ledger, Steve started his latest entry.

***

Al and I have been here for approximately five years now, stuck in this house. Trapped. Prisoners. Since the day our car broke down across the street and we came to the door of this house, seeking assistance. Sometimes it seems like it happened only yesterday, that the past five years have sped by so quickly. Other times it feels like we’ve been here forever, that we should have long white beards by now. Today it feels like the latter. When I try to think of what my life was before I came here, before these walls became a tomb for the living, all I can get are wisps of memories, insubstantial pieces that are jumbled and fuzzy. That other life no longer seems real.

For the first year I believed that the house could be beaten, that there must be some loophole, and if I only searched diligently enough, I would find the way out. But what the previous occupants—prisoners—of the house told us proved to be true.

The house will not let us go.

The windows will not break, not even after I spent hours banging on them. The thresholds of the front and back doors cannot be crossed; an invisible barrier preventing exit. Even when I see people outside, passing by on the street, I am invisible to them. I stand at the open door, screaming until my lungs burn. I wave my hands to get their attention until my arms feel like they might fall off. But it is as if I’m not even there. No one seems to hear or see me.

The second year, my quest for escape became more sporadic. Months would pass in complacency, then for weeks I would systematically test the house for weaknesses. After I had exhausted myself in futile attempts at freedom, I would sink once again into apathy.

By the third year, I stopped trying altogether.

Al’s reaction to the situation surprised me. He drew into himself immediately, taking on a fatalistic attitude. He would watch as I tried to penetrate the house’s confines, not bothering to offer any help, and tell me it was hopeless and that I was wasting my time. I couldn’t understand how he could give up so completely without at least
trying
. Maybe it was because he was such a fan of horror movies. He accepted the supernatural component of our predicament more easily. In any case, he recognized the truth long before I did.

There is only one way out of this house. Someone has to take our place.

The people before us had been trapped in the house for two and a half years before Al and I showed up on the doorstep. Once we walked inside, they were freed and we were imprisoned. Our only hope is for someone to come to the door and step over the threshold of his or her free will. That would release us and ensnare whoever was unlucky enough to happen across this hell house.

The idea of condemning someone to the torment I now know is unthinkable, but is it as unthinkable as spending the rest of my life in this house?

I’m not sure.

***

Steve was in the kitchen when the doorbell rang.

Al had gone up to take a nap an hour before and Steve decided to make a sandwich and possibly write some more in his journal. With no television, stereo, video games, or computer, there was a distinct lack of ways to pass the time. On the top shelf of a hall closet were a dozen or so board games, but Al and Steve couldn’t stand to be around one another long enough to play a full game anymore. Steve sat at the counter, his half-eaten roast beef sandwich in his hand as he contemplated a new hobby to fill up the endless hours. The doorbell rang, an unfamiliar
ding-dong
that did not compute after the persistent silence.
Ding-dong.
By the second ring, he sprung to his feet quickly, the barstool clattering on the floor. Several minutes passed like tiny eternities, and he was beginning to believe that he had in fact imagined it when the doorbell rang a third time.

Steve was out of the kitchen and headed down the hall before he even realized he was moving. The implications of the doorbell were not lost on him, but they were simply too great for his mind to encompass at the moment. This could be his very freedom at the door, but he couldn’t think about that. His body acted on pure instinct, operating on autopilot as he came into the foyer and pulled open the front door. He stared straight ahead, when his eyesight adjusted, he dropped his gaze down.

A young boy stood on the doorstep, surely no older than twelve years old, holding a box of chocolate bars. “Hi,” he said, wearing a bright smile. “My name’s Evan. I’m going around the neighborhood selling candy bars. All the money goes to buy new uniforms for my little league team.”

Steve didn’t say anything,
couldn’t
say anything. His mind was in a fog, unable to fight through it to form a coherent thought.

The boy shifted uncomfortably outside the door. He glanced over his shoulder at the street then back at Steve. “They’re a dollar a piece. Do you want any?”

“Um, how much are they?”

“A dollar a piece,” the boy said again. “Maybe this is a bad time.”

“Maybe,” Steve said softly, his voice without inflection. “Maybe you ought to go now.”

“What’s going on?” Al asked, coming down the staircase. He paused halfway to the bottom, his jaw going slack upon seeing the boy on the doorstep. He recovered from his shock quickly, faster than Steve, and hurried the rest of the way down the stairs. “Do we have a visitor?”

“He was just leaving.”

“What? Don’t be silly. What have you got there, boy? Candy?”

“Yes, sir. I’m selling them to raise money for new uniforms for my little league team.”

Al peered into the box in the boy’s hands. He was certainly playing it cool. Steve had to admire his level-headedness. He knew that Al must be dying to get the boy to walk over the threshold, but he was maintaining his composure to keep from frightening the boy away.

“I could certainly go for some chocolate right about now,” Al said. “I’ll tell you what, how about if I take about ten or so of those bars off your hands.”

The boy’s eyes widened. “Ten? That would be awesome, mister. The kid who sells the most candy bars gets a brand new baseball mitt.”

“Really? In that case, maybe I should buy fifteen.”

“Oh man, I’d really appreciate that.”

“Well, I have to get my money. Why don’t you come on in and—”

“Wait!” Steve said suddenly, the fog finally lifting from his brain as he realized what was about to happen. “Al, can I talk to you for a minute?”

Al shot Steve such a sharp look that Steve was surprised it didn’t draw blood. “Can’t it wait?”

“No, it can’t.” Without waiting for further argument, Steve grabbed Al by the arm and dragged him through the archway into the living room, leaving the boy standing on the doorstep.

“What the hell’s the matter with you?” Al hissed, keeping his voice low.

“We can’t do this.”

“Do what? Get the hell out of here? Of course we can. It’s what we’ve been hoping for every single day for the last five years.”

“Al, he’s a kid.”

“So? Are you saying we somehow
deserve
to be here and he doesn’t?”

“No, that’s not what I’m saying. It’s just that—”

“I’m sick of being here,” Al said with such vehemence that his entire body trembled. “And I know you are, too. This is it, our ‘Get out of Jail Free’ card. We have to take it.”

“I understand how you feel, I really do, but he’s a kid. We can’t leave a kid trapped in this house by himself. It wouldn’t be right.”

“Nothing about this situation is right. Nothing about this is fair.”

“Could you really live with yourself if you walked away and left the kid here?”

“Yes.”

Steve looked into the other man’s eyes and realized he meant it. Al had become a stranger, and it frightened him.

“You can play the martyr if you want,” Al said, “but I’m taking this opportunity and getting the fuck out of this house. This may be the last chance we have.”

“Al, please, listen to me for a—”

“Excuse me, are you guys gonna buy any candy bars or what?”

Steve and Al turned to find the boy standing in the foyer, outside the archway. While they had been arguing, the boy had walked into the house, dooming himself. Steve felt his heart shudder in his chest and hot tears filled his eyes.

Al let out a whoop of laughter, pushed roughly past the boy and stood before the open door. He reached out a hand, slowly, cautiously. He seemed to hesitate then plunged his arm through the doorway. It passed through easily and unobstructed. A sob erupted from his throat like a belch. Al followed his arm through the doorway until he was standing outside on the stoop. He sagged against the outside wall of the house, a mixture of laughter and tears tearing through him.

Steve stepped up to the doorway. He wanted to reach through it as Al had done, but he resisted the urge.

“Steve, come on,” Al said, taking an uncertain step away from the house, as if he didn’t quite trust his newfound freedom. “Come with me. Hurry. The barrier may only be gone for a short time.”

Steve stood where he was, just inside the doorway. He wanted to go, he wanted to leap outside and run hand-in-hand with Al down the street. He wanted to find other people, touch them, talk to them. But he couldn’t.

“I’m staying,” Steve said in a quavering voice.

Al sputtered a laugh. “You’re shitting me, right?”