Living Dead, Offer Reish [classic novels for teens .TXT] 📗

It was the man from Paige's bedroom. I rolled down the passenger window and called out to him, but he didn't stop.

"Hey buddy! I want to ask you something. Hey!" I tried to sound as amiable as possible (and therefore to conceal my true feelings) but he'd already turned away from the sidewalk and was marching up the short brick path that led to Paige's house. And then I saw it. A little plastic bag dangling from his right hand, which swung naturally with his light step. He wasn't in the least bothered or in any way taken out of his composed mindset by my persistence and exigency, and he didn't even attempt to conceal the bag. I studied it closely through the opening of the passenger window, taking in the fine details that I had by then become something of an expert in recognizing. It was all there: the white powder, the glass pipe, the tears on the sides and the brown patch of grime that had already become an integral part of the bag just over the seal. There was no mistaking it: here was the man who'd brought the bag to our house. He was the man whose presence Lila had attempted to conceal, and with all likelihood one under whose spell she'd fallen just like Paige had done. One couldn't blame her for having poor taste, as even I in those moments of distress admired this mystery man's cool determination, not to mention his remarkable presence in Paige's bedroom, but as far as loyalty went she was a witch. But could I already confront her with the whole truth, or was it better to obtain some last touches on the whole picture and face her in full force? The former was perhaps the wiser choice, but- and I say this with great abashment which I mightn't have been willing to bear if I weren't at death's door- there was something fearful about the mystery man that I was afraid to face alone. It's a cowardly and somewhat childish reason, I'm fully aware of it, but it's embedded in my past and as such isn't changeable and best acknowledged.

I hurried home and with the least accusative demeanor I could assume confronted Lila with my findings. I expected her to resort to some less accepting measure than a full confession, but was astonished by her audacity. Without reservation or any sign of remorse she denied the whole thing.

"Who was the man that just left here?" I asked pointedly. If not loyal, my fiancée was at the very least a reasonable and realistic woman, and she must've realized I'd seen him leave. It was therefore completely insensible for her to raise any kind of doubt on this particular point. But she wasn't herself and claimed without flinching, blinking or stuttering that no man had been in the house that day. I was speechless, and she seemed to be on the verge of it as well. How does one cope with such a sudden, blatant, overwhelming transformation in a loved one? And what words does one use to convince another of what he already knows to be true? Lila couldn't have been such a plausible liar; somehow she seemed to believe in her impossible position. I didn't attempt to dissuade her, perhaps for fear of failing and being influenced by her conviction to doubt myself. Instead I grabbed her by the arm and, against her mild resistance, pulled her to Paige's house.

"Are you crazy? Why are we going to see her?" She protested, emphasizing the 'her' contemptuously. I was again confounded by the pliability with which she allowed me to lead her. If she knew she was going to be exposed, which I intended to happen, she should've struggled much more tenaciously. But other than the displeasure of meeting Paige she seemed to have no objection to it. I knocked on the door and waited impatiently. Soon there was a click on the inside and the door opened.

"Hello, neighbors; how lovely to see you", she said sarcastically. She was beautiful as always, but far less discontent to see us than usual.

"Who's the man in your house?" I demanded frantically.

Paige screwed her eyes at me and said nothing.

"I saw him walking to your house five minutes ago. Where is he?" I insisted.

Paige chuckled, thoroughly entertained. "If you want me to help you fool your little lady, we should go over it first."

Now I felt my blood start to boil. My blood normally has an exceedingly high boiling temperature, but something had heated it out of control. I attributed the inner frenzy that took over me to the jarring circumstances such as I'd never been exposed to before. I don't think I've ever felt my emotions so pure and overwhelming as they were in those moments.

"Nobody has been here in the last few days", Paige continued. Then, with a sly smile that accentuated her normal unique trait of tantalizing wickedness, she added: "except you." She had an obvious purpose in saying this, and her purpose was served when Lila eyed me suspiciously.

"Why were you here?" She asked.

"I wasn't", I bellowed, feeling my eyes flaming at the beautiful woman at the door. The volatile urge inside me was growing to such intensity that I felt my hands might at any moment shoot forward at Paige and strangle her until no heinous word could leave her lips again. But Paige didn't recognize my newfound explosiveness and knowing me for the harmless man I normally was she didn't show any signs of fear or retreat.

"Oh, right, you didn't want her to know. Well if I were you I wouldn't either", she said, still striking like a snake with venom glands that never depleted. She kept her eyes on Lila's, regaling at every twitch and squint that reflected Lila's distress. For a moment I took pity on my afflicted fiancée and for these lies that evidently hurt her as much as they would if they were true; then the urge in me took over again and I remembered that the seeds of this terrible scene had been sown by her. She who plays with fire will be burned; she who purposefully lights one where it shouldn't be lit deserves no sympathy when she is burnt. At this point my target wasn't to justify myself to Lila but to prove in a way that not even the two female foxes could dispute that I was in the right. And while I'm on the opposing side of the everlasting controversy of whether the end justifies the means, the demon the girls had unleashed in me wasn't. To me the only thing that mattered was that I achieved my purpose; an improper mean to that end didn't exist. And so I implemented the most moderate course of action that would guarantee the achievement of my purpose: rather than strangle Paige as I craved to do, I simply forced my way through her into the house. She was so light and I so doggedly determined that it felt I'd pushed her out of the way without even touching her.

"Hey! What do you think you're doing!" She called, fumes coming out of her mouth along with the words.

"Clancy!" Lila blurted out in astonishment. But I couldn't be stopped.

"Where is he?" I demanded menacingly. "Crackhead! Where are you?" I bellowed. But as Paige spouted more words of harsh admonition I scoured all three rooms of the house and turned up empty. Could he be hiding somewhere? No, I was convinced the man I'd seen would never hide from me even if I was carrying a weapon. If anything he would strike back; even in my current condition his bark was surely louder and more intimidating than mine. There was nobody in the house. When I stepped into the bedroom I noticed that the curtains of the opposite window were fully drawn. In fact they went well past the windowsill on both ends so that it would've been impossible to obtain a view of anything in the room. So he'd learned his lesson from the first time. I remember looking at the bed with its yellow covers and fancy headboard and being aroused by the thought that that's where the wave of passion had erupted from. Paige followed me into her bedroom, still ranting. Then she pressed herself against my back and whispered into my ear:

"So that's why you're here. You just want to get into my bedroom again. Next time do it right and maybe you'll get lucky. Now get out." Her whisper, as unique to her as her voice or her face, titillated me. Once again I seemed to fall under her spell and obediently left her house. I assumed she'd used the word 'again' to imply that she knew I'd spied on them from outside; how she knew she could master my rage with that sensual whisper was beyond me. But questions weren't asked and the door was shut behind Lila and me. Lila marched ahead of me and hurried home, never allowing me to overtake her, as women tend to do to express their displeasure with a man.

"He was here, I know it", I called after her, still holding on to some feeble hopes of extracting a confession from her. "And I saw him taking the plastic bag with the drugs. The same one he hides in our bedroom. Do you hear me? I don't need your confession, as I've seen it with my own eyes. If I ever catch him again I'll shove that whole bag up his nose."

This threat finally got hold of Lila's attention, and she came to a halt and turned to face me. There were tears in her eyes and her brows were curved downwards on the outside like a child's. Once again I found myself struggling between my instinctive empathy for this woman who for ten years had been more precious to me than anything else and my overbearing grudge against her deception. How does one fare with the sight of a face that embodies simultaneously those things that are for him the best and the worst in the world? It was impossible to fare with then, and it is the same now.

One would think that from such a low things could only improve, but it's not the case when the low isn't a coincidence but the result of conscious, purposeful actions. That onetime low became our ordinary condition, and there was nothing to be done (at least on my part) to bring the light back to where it'd once shone. How can a victim mollify the severity of the perpetrator's crime? But allow me to correct myself: the low we'd plunged to didn't quite become our standard. There came a slight dip that took us even lower. It happened about a week after the last harrowing events described above and only two weeks or so before this very day. You see, like all men, I'm typically slow to perceive aesthetic differences in my surroundings, including those in the woman I love. One mustn't resent this phenomenon, as we, men, were born this way and carry this handicap as one of our many inborn flaws. But as part of my continuing mistrust in my fiancée my eyes, ears and nose sharpened as if of their own accord in search of the next sign of betrayal. It was, I believe, my body's method of defending itself against an emotional threat whose consequences could be greater than any physical blow. It was by virtue of this heightened state of all my senses that I picked up on a small detail (some would say a blatant monstrosity) that would otherwise have evaded me (and had perhaps done so for who knows how long): Lila's bare left hand fourth finger. The finger that used to, and was still supposed to, be wearing the engagement ring I'd slipped onto her finger sixth month earlier.