Chapter 3: The Visitor
“You should have closed your windows, and got another dog
You should have chained up all your doors and switched out all the locks”
CHAPTER 3: The Visitor
It only took Cat a few weeks to fuck it all up the first time.
But Martha gave him another chance.
And then another, and another, and another. This was how it always went. Cat was pretty good at getting second chances; in a way, it was his life's sole ambition. Cat felt that second chances were how people showed you they cared. If you couldn't get away with hurting someone, real bad, at least a few times, the juice wasn't worth the squeeze.
But he realized he'd pushed it too far, and things with Martha were at their final end, one cold autumn day eight months after they met. When he found himself screaming at her over the telephone.
She was laughing at him. He hated being laughed at.
He'd fucked up, again, and she'd caught him, again. But this time, she wasn't quiet or sad or stern; she just told him that she knew what he'd done, and there would be a price to pay.
And then Martha laughed, and kept on laughing.
So he shouted at her to shut up. Then he screamed at her to shut up, then started making threats. Telling her she was crazy, that he'd call the cops if she ever tried speaking to him again, that he had friends in high places.
Anything to make her stop.
Martha just laughed harder — the long, deep laugh of a person who has seen a good joke play out and knows, without even hearing it aloud, the punchline.
When Cat hung up on her, she was still laughing.
KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK.
My wine, Cat thought. Finally.
He'd ordered the wine 45 minutes ago, through an app on his phone. The app performed his favorite magic trick: It made more booze appear on his front doorstep. Nothing but a wiggle of his thumbs and his debit-card number and POOF, a bottle of the corner store's cheapest red, costing approximately as much as good champagne after delivery fees and tip. To Cat — seasoned veteran of the drunk tank, liable to lose his license permanently if he did another tour of duty — it was worth every penny.
Normally, this little trick took less than 20 minutes. After a half hour, he felt the warm, silky heaviness of his good drunk begin to slip away. He was furiously sifting through empties, looking for one more swallow, when the knock came.
He lurched from the kitchen and towards the front door, pausing briefly to marvel that Doug remained curled, dozing, on the couch. An exceedingly high-strung terrier mix, Doug normally reacted to door-knocking like a pack of M-80s tossed on a bonfire. But tonight, the little white-and-brown dog just opened one eye and gazed serenely at Cat while he fumbled with the deadbolt.
He wrenched open the door, already stooping to snatch up the heavy brown paper bag from the doorstep.
It wasn't there.
Fucking worthless delivery assholes, Cat thought, and stepped out into the night. He heard Doug's paws softly hit the living-room floor behind him as he scanned the front yard for his wine delivery. The clouds were low and the wind was blowing hard, hurling dirt and trash and cottonwood leaves through the darkness.
The stupid prick probably let the bag blow over the edge of the porch, he thought.
But the wine wasn't there, either.
It also wasn't at the foot of the porch stairs, or outside the gate, or on top of his car, or at the end of his driveway. Furious now, Cat let the wind slam open his front door and shove him back into the house, jabbing viciously at the screen of his phone in an attempt to discover which of the delivery app's little icon buttons would provide him with someone to scream at.
"Good evening," said the figure at his table.
Cat felt the ground lurch from underneath him. He stumbled backwards, slamming the small of his back into the door handle. "FUCK!"
"Afraid not, chief," said the figure. "You're not my type."
The apparition leaned lazily back in Cat's own favorite chair, feet propped up on the tabletop. Cat fought back the urge to throw up. Hot pink and red sparks swam in his vision.
"Who— who the fuck are you? WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING IN MY HOUSE, ASSHOLE?" He swallowed hard against the sharp-edged, panicked sob rising painfully in his throat. "You know what, I don't care. Fuck you, just get out. I'm calling the fucking cops right now. I've got a gun, I've got fuckin' cameras —"
"No," replied his visitor, "you don't."
The figure wore all black — some kind of suit, with a formal velvet jacket and a loose-collared shirt with no tie. Heavy, worn-looking black boots left scuffs of dirt as they swung off the table. As the phantom stood, it raised the flat, wide brim of its hat, revealing a face masked from cheek to collarbone in a black bandana and, suddenly, a violent flash of electric violet-green.
Cat saw his own face, teary and wild-eyed, reflected back at him from mirrored purple lenses. Sunglasses, the big, cheap, round kind, like you saw in novelty shops.
He gazed at himself for a second and took a long, slow breath.
"I know you," Cat said. "From the bar."
The specter nodded, once, and gave a small bow.
"Nice outfit, asshole," Cat said. "What the fuck are you doing here, inside my house?"
"Your back door's unlocked, numbnuts," Reina replied evenly. "Answer your front door a little more quickly, and your visitors might not seek out alternate means of ingress."
Cat took another deep, ragged breath, looking away from his twin reflections in the ghoulish face.
"You didn't answer my question, and you better, or you're going to fucking jail," he muttered, trying to keep his voice level. "What the fuck are you doing here, and what made you think you had the right to walk in my house?"
He slipped into the vaguely Louisianan accent he always affected while drunk or trying to impress someone. It made him feel tougher, more worldly, more adult, somehow. His own grandfather spoke in a thick Cajun patois that only grew thicker with bourbon, and Cat had once watched his grandfather punch a hole through a glass door. He tried to summon up Granddad's spirit now — make himself big and scary, a stern Southern man who wasn't to be messed with.
"I don't appreciate you comin' up in my place without permission. It's time to get outta here."
The black bandana crinkled and broadened. A smile, Cat realized.
"Well, well, well, Mister Christian A. Tyler, I do declare," Reina drawled, in a syrupy Blanche Devereaux-style pantomime that was, Cat thought, offensively feminine. "I'm afraid we done got off on the wrong foot."
One arm hoisted a brown paper bag, clinking and heavy.
"I brought your wine."
The world came back into focus. Something in Cat's lizard brain, knocked wildly off-balance by the sudden appearance of this black-suited revenant, pulled itself to its feet. He snatched the bag from the apparition's grasp and pulled the bottle free, lodging the screw-top lid in his teeth and twisting it off with one hand. He spat the lid into the sink and drank from the bottle, long and deep.
"What's the A stand for, Mr. Christian A. Tyler?" asked Reina, reaching down to pet Doug, wiggling obsequiously at her feet.
"It stands for none of your fucking business," Cat said, wiping purple smears from his mouth. "Get away from my dog and get the fuck out."
"I'm afraid you aren't much but small-town Midwestern trash, whatever you might tell yourself," said Reina, continuing to scratch the little dog under the chin, "but I'm betting your mama was a proper Southern belle. I've known quite a few in my day, and I know how they think. I'd wager that A stands for Ashley."
"Fuck you," Cat said, spraying wine. The dark figure laughed.
"A shrink might ask if that's why you get a kick out of hurting women," she said. "But frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn."
There was a heavy silence.
"So that's why you're really here," Cat said, grimacing. "She sent you. Okay. Whatever it is you think you need to do, get it over with."
"Martie knows nothing about this," Reina replied. "This is what you might call a deus ex machina. I will be playing the role of God in this particular machine, and I'm here to do you a kindness, however undeserving you might be."
"She can believe what she wants," Cat said bitterly. "I didn't do one thing wrong."
"We all know exactly what you did, you vile little toad," Reina said. "All of it. Nebraska's one big small town. Everybody knows everybody one way or another, and everyone talks. That last girl you tried to hook up with — she drove out to the Swamp, in person, to show us those messages you sent her. Martie will forgive a lot, but she doesn't like being played for a fool, and she's protective of other people. Now you've forced her hand."
"It's not what it looks like," Cat protested. "I was just trying to get a beer with that chick —"
"You knew exactly what you were doing," Reina replied. "So did the girl. So does Martie."
Another long silence.
"So what the fuck do you want?" Cat said.
"I believe I just told you," Reina said. "I'm here to do you a kindness. This is the part of your little story where you get to choose your own adventure. I am here to advise you on how to best achieve a happy ending."
Cat glared at the dark figure.
"You need to make things right with Martie," Reina continued. "Soon. Very soon. Pick up a dozen roses and a nice bottle of booze, drive out to her place, and tell her you're sorry. Get on your knees if that's what it takes for her to let you inside the house. Cook her dinner, get her tipsy, and then sit down and come clean about everything. Be completely honest and, for the love of God, don't try to make excuses. Just ask her how you can make amends, and whatever she says, do it."
Cat sat down, slowly, at the table.
"I tried to tell her I was sorry," he said quietly.
"You tried to feed her the same line you just gave me," Reina replied. "Lying makes her real angry. You're gonna have to put actual work into this."
Cat threw up his hands.
"So it's over," he said. "I'm a real piece of shit, I get it. But what's the point? If it's done, it's done."
"I don't think you know Martie very well," Reina said. "She's not good at letting things go."
She walked into the kitchen area, pulling open the refrigerator door.
"I'm not here to help you win her back," Reina said, gazing intently into the fridge. She rifled a bit, then pulled out some club soda and a bottle of Seagram's Gin that Cat hadn't remembered being there. "Truth be told, I don't like you. I don't want you around. I just don't think you understand what you've gotten yourself into."
"What in hell are you trying to say?" asked Cat.
"You never really asked Martie much about herself, did you?" The dark figure reached into a nearby cabinet, extracted a clean glass, then filled it with a handful of ice from Cat's freezer. "About her past. Her previous relationships, how she grew up, all that. Do you even know exactly how old she is?"
Cat took another gulp of wine and shook his head.
"There's been one or two fellas involved with Martie who turned out to be very fine men," Reina continued, pouring a generous slosh of gin over the ice. "You're not gonna get any of her secrets out of them, though."
She topped the drink with club soda, then gave the glass a little shake.
"There's a couple others who weren't so fine but are still walking around, so to speak, even if they wish they weren't,” Reina said. “You wouldn't want to meet them. You could ask all the rest of Martie's former paramours what happens when you do her wrong, but you'll need a Ouija board if you want an answer."
Cat sat in shocked silence as she returned to the table.
"She's killed people?" he whispered, as Reina sat and took a drink.
"I wouldn't say that," the dark figure said. "Truth be told, I'm not exactly sure how it happens. But they ain't above ground."
"How many?" Cat said.
Reina gave him a long look.
"How do you think Big River's stayed the same size for a hundred years?" she asked. "Ask any hunter. Cull the excess males, and you keep the population down. Useless men make a lot of babies. You ought to know — by the looks of it, you've made at least three."
She lifted a framed picture off a nearby shelf. Cat bristled.
"Cute kids," Reina said, studying the photograph. She gestured around his small living space. "Can't help noticing they don't seem to be here."
"They're older now," Cat growled.
"Not old enough to be out of the house at 1 a.m. on a Tuesday," Reina chuckled. "I'd bet they don't live here, and I don't have to guess why. Your present condition and the condition of this house speak for themselves."
"I do what I want on my own time," Cat shot back. "Mind your fucking business, freak."
Reina gently handed him the photo.
"Did you ever really look at this picture, big daddy?"
It showed his children as they had been nine years ago, blond and grinning, three fresh-faced elementary-schoolers eating Sunday dinner. Reina tapped the glass, indicating something behind the trio. Cat rubbed his eyes, and looked closer.
The object in the background of the photo was his keys — lying at the end of the table, where he'd thrown them every day for two decades. On the key ring were three things: His house key, his car key, and a corkscrew.
The first of that night's corks was screwed on it. He still drank “good” wine, with a cork, back then.
"How many times did you get too drunk in front of these kids before someone decided enough was enough?" Reina's voice was soft now, and a little sad.
Cat threw the photo face down on the table.
"So you know the big secret," he said, before draining what was left of the wine bottle. "I'm an alcoholic. That's why I'm such a wreck. I drink, and I make bad decisions. Lucky you if you don't know what that's like."
Reina laughed then — a real laugh, long and loud, frightening in its intensity.
"Pray, if you're a praying man, that you are lucky enough to never learn most of the things I know," she said, slamming down her empty glass. Cat flinched. "We all make our own luck in this life, one way or another. I'll share a little piece with you. Consider it a gift."
She reached up and took off her broad-brimmed hat.
The gesture exposed dark hair tied in a pair of braids, which swung loose to frame Reina's masked face. Cat could see a thick, ugly scar that began somewhere behind the mirrored purple glasses, near her left eye, carving a dark road across her forehead and into her hairline.
With a flourish, Reina reached deep into the crown of the hat. She stared directly at Cat for a second, then withdrew her arm, smoothly producing a second bottle of wine.
"Nice trick," Cat said.
Reina held the wine aloft, letting the bottle catch the light.
"This is not a magic potion," she said. "It won't make you do anything you wouldn't otherwise do. It doesn't change who you are. It doesn't control you. It's just a choice. A choice you can decide to make, or not."
Reina dropped the bottle on the table in front of Cat, making him jump.
"You don't have a disease," she said. "You've just got a bad case of what we used to call 'junkie brain.' Junkie brain is what happens when you make nothing but easy choices for so long that you start believing they're your only choices."
She pointed at the full wine bottle in front of Cat.
"You don't have to drink that shit," she said. "You won't die if you don't. It's not your only choice — it's just the easiest one. If you stopped, you'd hurt for a while, and the hurting would be good for you. But you've got yourself convinced that a little honest suffering would be worse than what waits for you at the end of that bottle."
Cat glared at her, and unscrewed the top from the wine.
"You don't have to hurt people, either," Reina said. "You didn't have to hurt Martie. You chose to, because it was easy. Anything else might be too much work, eh?"
"Easy for you to say," Cat shot back. "You don't know anything about me, bitch. What's wrong with your fucking face?"
Reina laughed again, and put her hat back on.
"You’d be surprised how much you learn about people if you really listen, and ask the right questions," she said. "Instead of waiting for your next chance to run your mouth. I know plenty about you, boy. More than you might like."
"Such as?" Cat took a swallow of the freshly-opened wine, then fumbled the bottle and dropped it on the floor. He heard it roll, wetly, under the table.
"You ever heard the story of the Fisher King?" Reina asked.
"Yeah, great flick," Cat replied. "Robin Williams and Jeff Bridges."
Reina looked at him for a long moment.
"Not the movie, genius," she said. "The Arthurian legend."
Ignoring this, Cat felt around for the wine bottle with his foot.
"The Fisher King was a guardian of the Holy Grail," intoned Reina, rising with her empty glass and walking back to the fridge. "But he was injured, with a wound that wouldn't heal."
She added fresh ice to the glass.
"So all day long he sat next to a lake, fishing, and suffering from his wound. And because he was a king, the land suffered with him."
She grasped around in the fridge, retrieving the club soda.
"Many questing knights traveled to the Fisher King," Reina continued, "trying to relieve him of the Grail. But they never succeeded, because in order to release the Grail, the king first had to be healed of his wound. And in order to heal his wound, someone had to ask him a certain question. The correct question."
Cat watched her pour more gin over the ice, then returned to his quest for the wine bottle. He felt his foot hit something.
"So what was it?" he asked. "The correct question, I mean."
Reina sat back down at the table.
"I reckon that's what we're all put here to find out," she said.
Cat grasped at the floor, then ducked his head under the table. The bottle was just out of reach, held in the hands of a small boy crouched in a puddle of red wine.
Cat froze.
The boy looked at him solemnly, with dark hazel eyes as familiar as the back of Cat's hand. As familiar as his own face in the mirror.
Cat held his breath.
The child, wearing a LSU Tigers sweatshirt and crowned with a head of dark curls, reached out and grasped Reina's leg.
"Come on up here, sweetheart," she said.
When Cat rose to his feet, the boy had climbed up from underneath the table and was standing next to the dark figure. The child carefully placed the wine bottle on the tabletop, then nestled himself against Reina's shoulder — a gesture Cat recognized as something he would often do with his mother and grandmother when faced with a strange adult. Reina patted the boy on the back, a little stiffly, then looked at Cat.
"Inside you, there is a child with a wound that can't heal," she said, softly. "He can't heal because you won't ask the right questions, and because you need him to stay wounded."
The boy stared at Cat, an angry, sullen stare that became a smile when he spotted Doug peeking his doggy head over the couch.
"You need him to stay wounded, because you need someone to blame for all your easy choices," Reina continued, as the boy scampered away towards the dog. "As long as you've got this hurt child inside you, you've got an excuse for who you are and what you do. So he keeps on suffering, and so do you. Forever. Until you make the suffering yours alone, and learn to ask the right questions."
Cat, too baffled and frightened to turn around, collapsed into his chair.
"Fuck you," he muttered. "That's not me. I don't know what you put in this wine, but that's not me back there."
Reina threw up her hands with an exasperated sigh.
"Well, I tried," she said, sweeping the dirt left on the table by her boots into a small, round pile. "Take my advice, or don't. But don't blame me, or the bottle, or that boy" — she gestured at Cat's young doppelganger, playing on the couch with Doug — "for what happens next if you don't."
Suddenly, Cat's head felt very heavy. He was drained. Exhausted.
Reina poured a splash of her drink on the dirt pile, smearing the resulting mud in a wide circle on the tabletop.
"It's been a pleasure talking to you," she said, and knocked three times in the muddy circle.
KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK.
When Cat's head hit the table, he was already asleep.