THE TUB
Richard Laymon
Hello?”
“Guess who, Kenny.” She spoke into the phone using her most sultry voice, which, she knew, was exceedingly sultry. “All right!” “Whacha doin’?”
“Nothing much. Hanging around. How about you?” “I’m languishing in bed.”
“Yeah?” Joyce heard his husky laugh. “You sick?”
“I’m sure running a fever,” she said. “I’m hot. I’m just so hot I had to strip myself stark naked. I don’t know what could be the matter with me.”
“How high is your temperature?”
“I just don’t know, Kenny. I don’t have the strength to get up and fetch the thermometer. Why don’t you come over and bring yours? That big one you’ve got between your legs.”
Silence for a moment. Then Ken asked, “What about Harold?”
“Oh, don’t you worry about him.”
“That’s what you said the last time, and he almost caught us at it.”
“Well, it’s absolutely safe tonight. I can guarantee it. He went off to New York, New York, and he won’t be back till Sunday evening.”
“When did he leave?”
“You are a nervous nelly.”
“I just don’t want any trouble.”
“Well, he left this morning. And you needn’t worry that he missed his flight. He phoned me just a few minutes ago from his room at the Marriott. He’s three thousand miles away, so I’m sure there’s no danger whatsoever of him popping in on us.”
“How do you know he didn’t call from a pay phone a mile away and say he’s at the New York Marriott? Maybe he’s at the Brentwood Chevron.”
“My, aren’t we paranoid?”
“Why don’t you phone the hotel? Just make sure he actually did check in, then call me back. If he’s there, like he says, I’ll come right over.”
Joyce sighed. “Well, if I must, I must.”
“I’ll wait right here.”
After hanging up, she rolled sideways, cradled the telephone, swung her legs off the bed and sat up. What a nuisance.
Harold was in New York, just as he’d said. He had been nominated for a Bram Stoker award for that disgusting novel of his, and he certainly wouldn’t miss his chance to bask in the glory. Tonight, he would be sopping up liquor in the hospitality suite with Joe and Gary and Chet and Rick and the others, yukking it up and having a ball. Joyce would be the farthest thing from his mind.
Even if he did have his suspicions about her—even if he didn’t care a whit about chumming around with those other writers, even if he weren’t nominated—he still wouldn’t have the balls to pretend he’d gone to New York so that he could sneak back to the house and catch her with Ken.
Such a gutless wonder.
Such a wimp that even if he walked in on her by accident and caught her in full rut with Ken, he would probably do no more than blush, say nothing, and walk away.
Silly of Ken to worry about him at all.
What did he think, Harold might shoot him? Harold was terrified of guns. He probably wouldn’t use one to save his own life, much less to blow away his wife’s lover. And without a gun, Harold wouldn’t stand a chance against Ken.
Ken, a 290-pound giant, all hard bulging muscles, could take care of little Harold without breaking a sweat.
She waited a while longer, then picked up the telephone and tapped Ken’s number. He answered after the first ring.
“Hello?”
“Hello yourself, big man.” “Is he there?”
“According to the front desk, he checked in at six o’clock this evening.” “All right. I’m on my way.”
“I’ll leave the front door unlocked. Just come right in and see if you can find me.” “Ciao,” he said.
“Yuck. Don’t say that. That’s what Harold always says. It’s so pretentious.” “See you in ten minutes.” “Much better. See you then.”
She hung up, stepped to the closet and reached for her satin robe. Then she decided not to bother with it. She was feeling hot. Though she would have to walk past windows to reach the front door, it was unlikely that anyone would see her. There were no other houses adjacent to their own, and hedges made it impossible for anyone to see her house from the road.
She left the bedroom, walking swiftly, enjoying the soft feel of the air stirring against her skin and the way her breasts jiggled just a little when she trotted down the stairs.
At the bottom, she saw her dark reflection in the window beside the front door.
She imagined a peeping Tom gazing in at her and felt a small tremor. Not a tremor of fear, she realized. For the benefit of the imaginary voyeur, she brushed her thumbs across the jutting tips of her nipples. The touch made her breath tremble.
She unlocked the door.
Her heart thumped and she trembled even more as she considered opening the door and stepping out onto the stoop. Waiting there for Ken. In the moonlight, in the open, the warm night breezes licking at her.
Some other time. Maybe later tonight, they could go outside together. But not now. She had already decided how to greet Ken, and she didn’t have much time.
She hurried about, turning off all the downstairs lights before rushing upstairs again, where she shut off the hallway lights. Now the entire house was dark except for the master bedroom.
She entered, flicked a switch to kill the bedside lamps, then made her way carefully over the carpet to the bathroom. She put its lights on, but only for the moment she needed to find the matchbook and strike a match.
She shut the door and fingered the switch down. Then she touched the flame to the wick of the first candle. That was enough for now. She shook out the match. The single remaining flame was caught by the mirrors that covered every wall and the ceiling. The bathroom shimmered with fluttering, soft light.
Joyce smiled.
Harold has his damned tub, I have my lovely mirrors.
When they’d remodeled the bathroom, she had wanted a spacious sunken tub. Harold had insisted on his white elephant. It was a hideous ancient thing that stood on tiger feet in the middle of the floor. Like a showpiece. And he did enjoy showing it. He would bring his friends upstairs to the master bathroom so they could admire the monstrosity while he told them the whole long boring story of how he’d gotten it at an estate sale in Hollywood. Some bimbo actress from the silent-screen days had supposedly slit her wrists while she was in the thing. Cashed in her chips, Harold liked to say. In this very tub.
What a schmuck, Joyce thought as she bent over the tub and turned on its faucets. Water gushed from its spout. When it felt good and hot, she plugged the drain with the rubber stopper. She straightened up and wiped her wet hand on her thigh.
At least I got my mirrors out of the deal, she thought.
She had let him have the stupid haunted tub, and he’d let her have the mirrors.
She admired herself in them as she made her way around the bathroom, lighting more candles.
The wavering mellow glow made her eyes shine, her russet hair sparkle and gleam. Her skin looked dusky and golden. When the last candle was burning, she set down the matches and stretched, turning slowly, arms high.
She was surrounded by Joyces, all of them shimmering and mysterious. She gazed at their sleek, arched backs curving down to the perfect mounds of their buttocks. She gazed at the velvety backs of their thighs, legs tapering down to soft calves and delicate ankles. Still turning slowly, she lowered her arms and interlaced her fingers behind her head. All the Joyces did the same. They had such long, elegant necks. Shadows were pooled in the hollows of their throats and above the bows of their collar bones. Their breasts were high, the color of honey, tipped a deeper hue of gold. Below them, the rib cages were maybe a little too prominent. Harold certainly thought so. “Why don’t you eat?”
The bastard.
I’m perfect the way I am.
She brought her hands down, savoring their touch, excited by the sight of all the Joyces caressing their breasts, gently squeezing their nipples, sliding their hands down their ribs (which are just fine, thank you), down the slim smoothness of their bellies, lower until their thumbs pushed into soft, gleaming coils of hair.
If Ken walks in and sees me like this, she thought, he’ll never let me make it to the tub.
She hurried over to it. The water was high. She shut off the faucets and listened, wondering if he might already be in the house. She heard only her own quick heartbeat, her own ragged breathing, and quiet plops of water dripping from the spout.
Ken could be just outside the bathroom door.
Gripping the high rim of the tub, she swung a leg over. Hot water engulfed her foot. It was almost too hot. In the mirrors, she watched other Joyces climb into the tub, hold on to both sides, and slowly lower themselves. Then only their heads and the tops of their shoulders were visible.
Joyce slid herself forward. Her rump squeaked once against the porcelain as she leaned back. When she was submerged to the chin, she stopped her slide by raising her knees and pressing her feet flat against the bottom of the tub.
The damned thing was too long. She could never just stretch out in it, feet against the far end to keep her head out of the water. Which meant she could never truly relax. She had to keep her feet planted. Either that or prop herself up by spreading her legs wide enough to brace against the sides of the tub.
A real pain.
But this is one damned cloud with a silver lining, she told herself. The fucking tub’s just the right size for fucking. Big Ken would be able to fit right in.
“Gonna do it right in your precious tub,” she muttered. “How do you like them apples, Harold?”
She waited, savoring the water’s heat, caressing herself. The ceiling mirrors reflected candlelight down into the tub. She watched her hands move, her body writhe as she squirmed with pleasure.
She flinched at the sound of a floorboard creaking.
He’s here!
In the bedroom?
She scooted backward, sliding herself up until she was sitting. She rested her arms on the sides of the tub. She wanted to look just right when he entered, and the mirrors showed that she did. Water covered her like an iridescent mist from the belly down. Her arms, shoulders, and chest were wet and shiny.
She turned her eyes to the bathroom door.
What’s taking him so long? she wondered. And then she heard a faint, muffled footstep.
Definitely a footstep.
What if it isn’t Ken?
A shiver crawled up Joyce’s body. She felt her skin tighten and tingle with goosebumps. Anybody might’ve walked into the house. But it has to be Ken. It doesn’t have to be.
But if it’s a stranger out there, maybe he thinks the house is deserted. Maybe he won’t find me. Maybe … The door flew open. Joyce gasped and flinched.
Ken strode into the bathroom as if parading onto the stage at a body-building contest. He had removed his clothes. He had oiled his skin. “It’s you,” she whispered.
He began to pose. He turned this way and that, moving and pausing and flexing with slow, graceful elegance. His muscles bulged and rippled. Joyce watched, breathless. She had seen him do all this before, but never in the fluttering gold of candlelight.
He looked magnificent and strange. A gorgeous, hairless monster of dancing mounds and slabs.
When he strutted to the rear of the tub, Joyce didn’t have to turn her head. She watched him in a mirror, watched him bend and reach down and slip his hands around her breasts. They touched her only for a moment. Then he pranced backward, curling his arms and twisting his torso.
He twirled around. With coy glances over his shoulder, he came to the side of the tub. He raised his arms and flexed, displaying the bands of muscle crisscrossing his back, the hard mounds of his rump. Joyce smiled when he made his buttocks bounce. One side at a time. She reached up and stroked one slick cheek.
He gently swatted her hand away as if offended, strutted away from the tub, then whirled around and sashayed back to her. Hands on hips, he bent his knees. His rigid penis, inches from her face, jerked up and down. He hopped closer. Joyce twisted toward him, rolling onto one hip, clutching the rim of the tub with both hands. Her breasts pushed against the cool porcelain wall. She opened her mouth. He brushed against her lips, teasing her, not entering. Then he pranced backward.
“Quit it,” she gasped. “Get in here. I want you in me.”
He returned to the tub. Peering down at her, he whispered, “You look delicious.”
“You look pretty good yourself.”
“You seriously want me in the tub?”
“There’s plenty of room.”
“The bed would be more comfortable.”
“But not as exciting.”
He shrugged his massive shoulders. Bending over, he clutched the side of the tub and climbed in. He stood at her feet, glanced down at her, then turned his head slowly, surveying his images in the mirrors.
“Quit admiring yourself and fuck me.”
He sank slowly to his knees, flinching a bit when the hot water met his scrotum. Joyce slipped down into the warmth. As it engulfed her to the neck, her feet met the slippery skin of Ken’s thighs.
“You don’t want me on top, do you?”
“Of course I do.”
“You want to drown?”
“I want to be crushed.” She lifted a foot out of the water and stroked him. “I want to feel you on me, that whole gorgeous body pounding me senseless.”
He moaned. He nodded. He muttered, “Let’s lose the water.”
“Hurry. Just hurry.”
He reached down behind his rump. Joyce heard a quick sucking gurgle, then the soft rush of water flowing down the drainpipe.
She spread her legs. Ken crawled forward slowly. His hands glided up her thighs, caressed her hips and belly, moved up the slope to her rib cage. They cupped her breasts. As they squeezed, she lifted a hand out of the water and curled her fingers around his penis.
“In,” she whispered.
His hands slid away and down her sides. Bracing himself above her, he lowered his face into the water. His tongue flicked her right nipple, swirled and pressed. His mouth opened, and she felt his lips around her breast. He sucked. He sucked it deep into his mouth.
“God!” she cried out. She let go of his penis and clutched his back.
He let go. He came up gasping. His dripping face smiled at her, then plunged down again. She felt lips on her other breast. They were like a soft, pliant ring encircling her nipple, making a tight seal. This time, they didn’t suck. They blew. Blew like a kid making fart sounds on his arm. Lips and air and water vibrated against her nipple. Bubbles erupted on the surface.
Gasping, she pushed his head away.
“Did it hurt?” he asked.
“No. Just … quit it and fuck me … now!”
He struggled, trying to reposition himself. Joyce realized that their differences in size were causing him problems. That and the water. He was still worried about drowning her.
Suddenly, he reared back onto his haunches, dragging her up out of the water by the armpits, lifting her, planting her down on him, impaling her.
A club shoving high up into her.
She cried out and shuddered and clamped herself tight to his chest as spasms quaked through her body. Spasms also quaked Ken.
He dropped forward, driving her down. Her back splashed, then slammed the bottom of the tub. Her head snapped down and thunked. Lights exploded in her vision as water rained down on her face.
When the exploding lights went away, she realized she was sprawled beneath Ken, her chin resting against the top of his shoulder.
“Christ,” she gasped. “You hurt me.” He didn’t apologize. He didn’t say a thing.
She realized that he couldn’t. His head, next to her own, was facedown in the water. The level was lowering, but slowly. The heat enclosed Joyce’s head like a warm hood. Only the front of her face was in the air.
So Ken’s face had to be submerged.
He’s going to drown!
“Ken!”
He didn’t stir.
He wasn’t making bubbles. He wasn’t breathing.
His chest was mashed tight against Joyce’s chest. She felt her raging heartbeat. Whether his was beating, she couldn’t tell.
Though she was pinned down by his weight, her arms were free. They’d been around him at the moment of the fall. So she made fists and pounded on his back.
“Ken! Ken, wake up!”
He’s not sleeping, you idiot.
“Ken! Get your head up! Ken!”
She kept hammering her fists down against his back. They made meaty thuds. She had no idea whether pounding on him would do any good, but she’d seen it done on doctor shows. Also, in a way, it felt good. Each blow sent quick little tremors through his body. Like rapping a watermelon at the grocery store. The tremors made him vibrate on top of her. They gave Joyce a tingle.
The blows even jostled his penis a little.
It was still buried in her. Still erect.
“I know you’re faking,” she said. “Now, come on. Dead guys don’t have boners.”
He didn’t move.
“Come on, Ken. This isn’t funny. I bumped my damned head. Besides, you scared me. I thought you were dead or something.”
He still didn’t move.
“All right. You’re asking for it.” She jabbed the long nail of her forefinger into his back. She felt it pop into his skin. He didn’t flinch.
A sick, icy chill snaked through her bowels.
“Oh, my God,” she muttered.
She nudged his head with the side of her face. It moved easily. She bumped her cheekbone against his ear. His head swung away, then flopped back and hit her as if trading blows.
“Shit!”
He’s dead! The bastard’s dead!
Joyce squirmed under his terrible weight.
This won’t be easy, she thought.
She took a deep breath, then attacked. She bucked, she twisted, she shoved and tugged at Ken, she kicked and thrust at the bottom of the tub with her feet, she clawed at the sides with her hands. But she couldn’t roll him off. She couldn’t lift him. She couldn’t writhe her way out from under him.
All her efforts hardly moved him at all.
Finally, she was too exhausted to continue the struggle. She lay beneath him, limp and sweaty, arms at her sides, fighting to breathe.
Calm down, she told herself.
Right. Calm down. I’ve got a fucking stiff on top of me. Not to mention … Don’t even think about that. There has got to be a way out of this. A way out of it fast! Use your head, use your head.
The problem—the major problem—is the damn tub. The way it’s holding us in. Of course.
If only we’d done it on the bed! I could’ve just rolled him off me …
If only. A lot of good that’ll do you.
If only he hadn’t fallen on me, that’s what.
What happened to him? A heart attack? An aneurysm? Who knows? Who cares? The jerk was pumped up with steroids, probably fucked up his system.
And now I‘m the one who’s fucked.
For the first time since she’d landed on her back under Ken, Joyce noticed the overhead mirror. She stared up at it.
No wonder she was trapped. She could hardly see herself. Only her face and legs were visible. The rest of her was hidden beneath Ken’s massive body. She raised her arms. They came up into view below Ken’s armpits. They looked so small.
Her legs looked useless. Beautiful, useless legs, with their knees in the air—legs spread wide and painfully apart and jammed against the walls of the tub by Ken’s thick thighs.
She tested them. She was able to unbend her knees. She could straighten her legs, lower them, and raise them high.
When she moved her legs at all, Ken seemed to shift position deep inside her, probing and exploring.
She didn’t let that stop her. She watched her legs in the mirror and kept on testing their maneuverability. She found that she could kick around pretty well, but mostly just from the knees down. What she couldn’t do was bring her legs together. Though she tried, they remained tight against the walls of the tub.
Maybe …
She lifted her right leg high, hooked its calf over the edge of the tub, shoved her right elbow against the bottom, and struggled to raise and turn herself, hoping to roll Ken off. She couldn’t budge him.
Okay. This doesn’t work. Something has to work.
She lowered her leg. She tried to relax.
I can’t actually be stuck here.
But I’m certainly being stuck.
At least I should be able to do something about that, she thought.
She slid her open right hand into the tight crevice between her belly and Ken’s. His skin was slippery against the back of her hand. She shoved downward. Their pelvises, locked together, stopped her fingertips. She tried getting to him from the side of her groin. No way.
“Great,” she muttered.
Then she screamed and kicked and pushed and twisted and squirmed, determined to get him off her, out of her, knowing she could do it—she had to do it and she could— mothers picked up cars, didn’t they, when they had a kid trapped under a wheel? She could lift Ken. She would. She would hurl him aside and scamper out of the tub.
When she found that she couldn’t, she wept.
Sometime later, the candles began to die. One by one, they fluttered, flared brightly and went out. She was left in darkness.
Just as well, she thought at first. Nothing to look at, anyway, but a dead guy pinning me down. She didn’t feel that way for long. Terror began creeping through her. A dead guy. A corpse. I’m trapped by a corpse. What if it starts to move?
It’s only Ken, she told herself. It’s not any fucking ghoul or zombie or spook, it’s just Ken. And he’s dead, kaput. He isn’t about to start moving.
But suppose he does? Suppose he wants revenge? I’m the one who killed him.
He had a heart attack or something. Wasn’t my fault.
Maybe he doesn’t see it that way.
Shit! He doesn’t see anything. He’s dead! Besides, he died happy. What a way to go, right? He came and went. She heard a laugh. It sounded a trifle mad. He didn’t come, she reminded herself. Coitus interruptus croakus. She laughed again.
She went silent, the sound of her laughter frozen in her throat as she imagined Ken lifting his head, kissing her mouth with his dead lips, whispering, “I’ve got some unfinished business,” and starting to thrust.
It took the light of morning to ease her terror. She slept.
She woke up aching and sweaty, her rump numb, her legs lifeless. She flexed her muscles, kicked and squirmed as much as she could. Soon, circulation came back. Her buttocks and legs burned. They felt as if they were being pricked by thousands of needles.
When she felt better, she noticed the odor.
The overhead mirror revealed its cause. Down between Ken’s feet, a turd was hanging over the edge of the drain.
“Shit,” she muttered.
She closed her eyes.
Don’t sweat the small stuff, she told herself. Think, think.
Okay, it’s Saturday. If he doesn’t miss his flight or something, Harold will be getting back tomorrow evening. Around seven. That gives me better than a full day to get out of here. Or hubby’ll get the surprise of his life.
How’s this for a horror story, Harold? Write this one up, why don’t you? Maybe you’ll win a fucking award!
Won’t happen. I’ll be out of this mess long before he gets home.
Right.
How?
I can float Ken off me!
She thought about that for a while. If she filled the tub, wouldn’t the rising water lift him? Sure it would.
I might drown in the process.
But if I can hold my breath long enough …
She raised her legs, stretched them out, tried to squeeze them closer together … and came nowhere near the bathtub’s faucets.
So much for great ideas.
There has to be a way. There …
“Get off me!” she shrieked, and fought the body. It was rigid with rigor mortis. It felt even heavier than before. Finally, exhaustion made her quit.
There is no way, she realized.
I’m gonna be trapped under this goddamned stiff until Harold gets home. After that, she spent a long time crying. Later, she dozed. When she woke up, her butt and legs were numb again, but she no longer felt the horrible desperation. She felt resigned.
“When rape is inevitable,” she muttered, “relax and enjoy it.” What asshole thought up that one? she wondered.
This isn’t the end of the world, she told herself. It may be the end of my marriage, but that’s no great loss. Harold will come home tomorrow and get me out of this.
It’s awful and disgusting, but I’m not going to die from it.
Later in the day, the stench got worse as her own excretions joined Ken’s.
When darkness returned, so did her terror.
She lay motionless, hardly daring to breathe, waiting for Ken to stir. Or to speak.
Joyce.
What?
I’m hunnnngry.
She imagined his head turning, nuzzling down against the side of her neck, biting.
When she finally did feel him move, she shrieked. She screamed until her throat felt raw and burning.
Later, she convinced herself that Ken hadn’t come back to life. The motion had probably been caused by something natural. Like decomposition. Shifting gases. Tendons or muscles turning soft. Gross. Disgusting. But he wasn’t coming back to life. He wasn’t going to start talking to her. He wasn’t going to bite her. He wasn’t going to start humping her.
Just make it through the night.
Later, as she was starting to drift off, Ken moaned.
Joyce gasped. She went rigid, goosebumps squirming over her skin.
It’s just escaping gases, she told herself.
He did it again, and she whimpered.
“Stop it,” she whined. “Stop it. Get off me. Please.”
She exploded into another frenzy of struggles, then lay sobbing under his bulk and prayed for daylight.
When the first gray light of dawn came into the bathroom, Joyce’s panic subsided and she closed her eyes.
It’s Sunday.
Harold will come. He’ll be here around seven. Before dark.
There won’t be another night under Ken.
Exhausted, she drifted into sleep.
The jangle of the telephone startled her awake.
Who is it? Maybe someone had heard her screams in the night and was calling to check on her. When I don’t answer …
Fat chance.
Nobody had heard the screams. Probably just a friend calling to chat. Or a salesman. The ringing stopped.
Or Harold. Harold calling to say he’d missed his flight, or he’d been bumped, or he’d decided to stay on another day or two in New York to meet with his agent, his editor.
“No,” she murmured. “No, please. Harold, get back here. You’ve got to.”
I can’t go through another night.
It’s all right, she told herself. He’ll come. He’ll come.
A few more hours, and he’ll be here.
She wondered if Harold would be able to get her out from under Ken. Probably not. Such a weakling. He might have to call the fire department. I hate to bother you folks, but I’m afraid my wife is stuck in the bathtub. It seems she was screwing this muscle-man and the fellow pitched a coronary or something.
The idea of it made her laugh. The laughing made her chest hurt. Worse, it jostled her insides and jiggled Ken’s penis.
She groaned.
There’s nothing funny about this, she thought.
But if Harold can’t get me out, the fire department. will It’ll be a little embarrassing, but so what? I’ll be free.
She imagined herself running down the corridor, buck naked, the firemen gaping in shock and maybe just a bit turned on. Running to the other bathroom, the one with a shower.
First, she would drink cold water. Fill her parched mouth with it. Drink till her belly bloated. Then she would take the longest shower in history. Sudsing and scrubbing until there was not a trace left of Ken’s foul dead touch. Douching, too. Getting rid of his death.
Afterward, cocktails. Vodka and tonic. Ice clinking in her glass. A twist of lemon. Drinking until her head was full of soft, cozy cotton.
Then, a steak dinner. A thick slab of rare filet mignon, charcoal broiled.
I’ll have to broil it myself, she thought. Harold isn’t likely to be in any mood to cook for me. If he sticks around at all.
Thinking about the steak, her mouth watered. Her stomach growled.
I’ll be eating soon, she told herself. In just a few more hours … if that wasn’t Harold on the phone, calling to say he wouldn’t be home.
It wasn’t.
Please, it wasn’t.
He’ll be here. He’ll come.
He came.
Joyce, lost in daydreams about his arrival, heard nothing until the bathroom door swung open. “Harold!” “Joyce?”
She heard his quick footsteps. Then he was gazing down at her, at Ken. His face turned a shade of gray almost the same color as Ken’s back. His mouth drooped open.
“Get me out of here!” He frowned.
“My God, quick! I’ve been pinned under him since Friday night!”
“You can’t get up?”
“Would I be here if I could?”
“Jeez, Joyce.”
“Get your thumb out of your ass and get me out of here!”
He kept staring down into the tub, shaking his head slowly from side to side.
“Harold! Get me out of here!”
“Uh-huh. Right.”
He turned and walked away.
“Ciao,” he said. The bathroom door bumped shut.
Harold flew to Maui and spent a week relaxing on the beach, reading horror novels written by his friends, dining at fine restaurants. He ogled some beautiful women, but he stayed away from them. He didn’t need any more traitorous bitches in his life.
Upon his return, he stepped into the house and called out, “Joyce, I’m home.”
She didn’t answer.
Grinning, Harold trotted upstairs.
The smell was not good. It made him gag. It made his eyes water. With a handkerchief over his nose and mouth, he hurried across the bedroom and entered the bathroom.
He went numb.
He dropped the handkerchief.
He stared.
The tile floor near the bathtub was strewn with body parts.
A bloody orb that he recognized as a head. Part of a head, anyway. It was missing its jaw. The ragged stump of its neck looked chewed.
He saw an arm. Another arm. Big, muscular things. So much missing from around their tops. The knobby ends of the humerus bones looked as if they’d been licked clean.
The floor was littered with other pieces. Curving slats of rib bones. Chunks of flesh. Slabs of stringy muscle. Slimy gobs that might have been interior organs—parts of lungs, maybe, or kidneys—who knows?
Harold did recognize a heart among the assortment of litter.
Over the rim of the tub hung coils of intestines. Harold threw up.
When he was done, he approached the tub, careful not to step on any mess. Joyce wasn’t in it.
Her boyfriend was. Some of him. From the ass down, he appeared to be in fine shape. Excellent shape.
Most of his torso, however, had been hollowed out. He was an armless, headless husk sprawled in a swamp of blood and puke and floating bits of God-knows-what.
“Welcome home, honey.”
Harold whirled around.
Standing in the bathroom doorway was Joyce. Clean and fresh and smiling. Wearing her red satin robe.
“My God,” was all he could say.
She grinned and clacked her teeth together. Then she brought her right hand around from behind her back. It was holding a jawbone. “Ken has good, sharp teeth. He was of enormous benefit.”
“My God,” Harold muttered.
She tossed the jawbone, caught it with her forefinger behind the front teeth, and twirled it. “Let’s talk settlement,” she said. “I get the house. The tub is yours.”