It was as if all the world held its breath, and only my next choice of phrase would allow her to breathe again. I could feel the dryness of my tongue pressing against my lips, heavy with the words I could not speak. My skin became flushed with a heat that sent an itch through my fingertips. I was trapped in my own indecision.
Perhaps if I simply pondered awhile, I would be able to recall exactly how all of this had come to be. Maybe there, in the tale of it, I would be able to determine how to react.
Could it only have been a matter of hours since I’d set the table? It seemed like the task had taken so long, perhaps a lifetime. I had never been one to find joy in the soft sheen of a spoon or the delicate flowers etched into a crystal platter. My usual evenings were filled with the sights and aromas of a solitary meal against the comforting din of a metal spoon scraping a tin plate. Nothing cumbersome for me, if I were to have any say in it. A single spoon and platter to rinse in a tepid spray while my thoughts wandered into the hours before retiring to bed. The unfortunate truth was that those hours were too long to fill for a man alone.
A book was too complete to focus on; the dusty pages transported me back to times I’d much rather forget. Besides, I could only bring myself to struggle through the preliminary chapters. I never wanted to learn how the dashing hero rescued his queen, or understand why she had to die so that her knight might live on.
Any man who has lost his queen knows that we don’t live on. We die in the arms of her heart, and its final breath marks our final day among the living. Our final day with full hours of laughter. Our first day facing a meal alone.
I had never assisted my other half in the arrangement of dinner parties. The glorious heirlooms of crystal and silver were her domain, and in truth I would not have dared touch them had she asked. Their delicate natures seemed fitting only for her gentle hands and caressing gaze. In truth, the entirety of the engagements filled me with a sense of foreboding. I preferred a simple meal for two, but her insistence overshadowed my constant craving for simplicity and intimacy.
How ironic it would be that in her second month of leaving me in absolute solitude I would finally decide to throw a dinner party of my own. I did not write up the elegant place cards that she once arranged, nor did I write a list of guests either. I could not bring myself to ask my few acquaintances from better times to join, if only to avoid her name on their lips. It had been a sweet sound in life; after her death the syllables rang at such a high pitch that even when whispered, her name caused me agony.
In an act of absolute absurdity, I placed a sign upon the oak door of my home. It read, in brutish scrawl, Any and All, Do Enter. Dinner at Seven O’Clock. The words were spelled out in a ghastly red, but it was the only ink I found in the short space of time that it took me to decide on a dinner party as proper festivity for that evening. As I observed the sign on the door, I could not help but convince myself that I had undergone a bout of complete insanity. Feeling exposed in the light of a street lamp, I shut the great oak door.
And then yes, I had indeed set the table. I did not have my woman’s eye for the placement of such things as doilies or forks, but I could assume that any proper gentleman would not dare to scoff at my failings, seeing as it was I who invited him into my little world for dinner. I could not imagine I would be seeing many people, but I went ahead and set for a great feast. Perhaps even one guest was wishful thinking, considering no one in their right mind would accept a stranger’s invitation nailed to a door. And in red of all things!
Red was a ghastly color, a hue that seeped into the dark and in it developed a life of its own. I tried not to concentrate on it, but the thought of the ink reminded me of her. At the thought, I found a horrible whistling sound wrestling into my heart, and I fought it back as I turned my gaze to the quaint kitchen window. Through the glass I could see the entire street. The houses, considered at one time lovely, now seemed dull and dark. Perhaps it was the insufferable street lamp, which flickered like the light of a possessed flame. In fact, the longer I looked at it, the more other-worldly it seemed. The curling lights inside were not flames at all to my eyes; the glow was a gruesome window through which the devil looked. If I turned my head just so, I could see the smoldering coals of his eyes staring back at me, right into me. The whistling grew louder, and with it my heart began to pound in time. Could he hear it too? Were those eyes seeing what I saw?
If I turned my head just so ….
As if by some miracle, a knock startled me out of my hellish trance. I refused to believe the disturbance was in response to my notice on the door. When the knock resounded once more, I knew whoever was out there darkening my stoop could only be here for an unexpected dinner party.
I squared my shoulders and proceeded to the entry way, breathing in the crisp air of an early evening. As the toll of the clock called five, I eased open the ancient wooden door.
Indeed, a man stood there, his face marred by bruise-like bags beneath his heavily lidded eyes. His mouth was drawn into a half-opened moan, as if he were buried beneath the weight of another world. However, he retained the decency to tip his somber hat in my direction.
Beside him stood another man, tall and fair, his only disconcerting attribute being an ornate cane, over which lay his swollen fingers. They seemed to be more like sausages than appendages, and over every joint were crammed rings of varying sizes. Most were better suited for a female, and one appeared to be fitted for a little girl, perhaps for a Christening.
The man with the tired face raised a hand in salutation. “Good evening, my friend,” he said. “We happened by your home and felt obliged to enter, seeing as you are inviting any and all to dinner.”
Hardly able to contain my equal doses of trepidation and exhilaration, I ushered them inside. In my haste, I neglected to take their coats.
When the first man spoke again, I mustered the decency to give him my full attention. “We are old acquaintances of yours, my friend.”
My eyes widened in surprise as I looked them over once more. “I say, I don’t recall either of you. Perhaps you could tell me where I would know you from?”
“Certainly,” the man replied. “I too sat on my porch as your father and mother moved their possessions from your estate. If you remember as I do, they were unwell and feeble in their age, but you, a man in your prime, could not be moved to take care of them. You sent them away, and away they went.”
I felt a sort of rush in my head as I relived that day through the man’s words. I could not bear to think of it again. A young man tries his hardest, but the realities of caring for those who can no longer care for themselves never brings out the best in people. My face colored with shame as I saw in those dark eyes the ache of my father’s joints and the true level of my disregard for his struggle.
“I do apologize for my display. I had hoped no one would ever know of that unfortunate situation.” I turned to the man with the rings. “And what say you, sir?”
The first man chuckled. “Forgive my companion. In his world, the only words worth hearing are his own. He will not trouble himself with yours. However, you would know him from years later. He was a simple clerk at the clinic in town. Your bride-to-be was carrying your child, but you were a young man in your prime, and did not want yet another soul to think about when you could hardly look beyond your own. You had the doctors cut it out, and cut they did.”
The rush hit me again, although this time much deeper and through my stomach. I could feel the wind rip through my innards, making my whole body rise and fall in a guilt-ridden wave. Not only had this man reminded me of a blight on my past, he had invoked her memory, and in it I could hear her calling to me, begging me for life in another time. I knew what her begging sounded like, and the whistling started again.
“Words do not express my discomfort. You simply cannot comprehend my hurt,” I stuttered, helpless at what to do. These men were privy to moments I had never hoped to hear of again.
The man nodded. “You can amend the situation with dinner, I suppose.”
Eager to put the past behind us, I allowed them to sit in the living area and proceeded to take their minds off such ghastly things. I regaled them with delightful stories, illustrated countless jokes, and simply made a fool of myself, as if to make up for the events they had witnessed. By the chime of six o’clock, I was sure I had won them over.
A rap at my door interrupted a tale from my youth, but I behaved as any gentleman would and excused myself from my current guests, who had said very little in our time together.
Once again, two men darkened my stoop. The closest of the pair was sporting a white shirt unbuttoned to the bottom of his ribcage, revealing a chest beaded with glistening drops of sweat. His shock of red hair was plastered back by a similar substance. His companion had an eye of glass that appeared off center, as if something to the right endlessly intrigued him.
The red-headed man spoke first. “A pleasure, as I’m sure it is for my companion. We are old friends of yours and decided to pay you a visit.”
The other spoke in a hushed tone. “You are still inviting any and all to dinner?”
Caught off guard, I wordlessly eased them into the hall, fighting back a look of disgust as the first man draped a coat over my arms. Its very fibers reeked of stale sweat, among other things.
I gave a pointed cough. “I do not have many friends, which makes it strange that I would forget the two of you. Do tell me from where I know you both.”
“Ah, yes,” the red-head sighed. “I could not have been too much older than you when I sat at the front desk of the Grand Hotel. You were fighting with your wife. It seemed she was upset about the loss of her child, but you were a young man in your prime and had little time for sympathy. You longed to slap her, and slap her you did.”
“Not long after the two of you met, I noticed you at your kitchen window,” the man with the glass eye whispered. “You watched the woman next door, and her scandalous attire made you forget the beauty next to you, cooking your meal. Your eyes ravaged her body, and not even a desperate plea from your wife could convince you of your desperate folly. You made her be quiet, and quiet she was.”
It was as if a man had balled his great fist and decked me, leaving me gasping for air that I could not grasp. The whistle rang through my left temple like that of a train, but just distant enough that I could not identify it. Surely it was some foul memory that plagued my senses, and yet the distraction of these guests kept me from examining it closer.
“Gentlemen do not think so badly of me! Can a single instance really equal the worth of a man?”
The two men counseled with each other before turning back to me. “Perhaps not,” the first man said. “You can amend the situation with dinner, I suppose.”
In half an hour’s time, two more men appeared at my door, claiming to be long lost friends. The first told me that he saw me on my anniversary, lost in the arms of another woman who was not my wife. Even though my wife now knew I was unfaithful, I could not be moved to stop myself. I begged for more, and more I received.
The second man reminded me of the moment when my wife begged for a divorce, convinced that I would be happy in the arms of the other woman. I did not see it in her light. I simply could not suffer such a blow to my pride as that. I decided to do nothing more than ignore her, and ignore her I did.
Mortified to the point of physical pain, from their words and the shrill sound I could not escape, I assured these acquaintances that they would be granted such a delightful roast for dinner that they would indeed forget all of their off-color perceptions of me. As I slid the roast from its position in the oven, I had managed to convince myself that I had succeeded.
Until the clock struck seven, and a knock fell on my door.
As if an invisible hand was at my back, I slowly edged toward it, and with equal trepidation I eased the great oak open.
Two men stood there, but the one furthest from me seemed cloaked in shadow, his face hidden by the dying light of the street lamp. The man directly in front of me shoved past me and into the hall, his lip busted open as if from a glorious fight.
An exclamation passed my lips. “And who do you think you are, to come busting through without a proper invitation?”
The man fixed me with a stare that chilled my very soul. “You invited any and all to dinner.”
I swallowed a lump of bile. “It is an action I am coming to regret, my friend.”
The man threw back his head and laughed, a truly monstrous sound to my ears. “Friend?” he scoffed. “I am no such man. I was there, friend, when you could no longer bare the nagging of your wife and the pressure she piled on you. I felt your disconnect with all reality when you raked your nails along her tender flesh. You needed to hurt her, rip her, kill her, and kill her you did.”
“No!” I cried. The abuses from earlier were no match for the slander this man dealt me. My vision was lost in red, a ghastly color. “You have no right to accuse me of such an action! She was my queen, and for the past two months I have thought only of her death. I cannot begin to impress on you the insult that you have paid me.” I fought for stronger words, but none would come.
“You can amend the situation with dinner, I suppose!” he snarled.
“Perhaps I may address you, good sir?” the other man whispered. Desperate to leave the clutches of my newest guest, I turned to him. I could not put my finger on it, but I felt a strangeness wrapped around him like a cloak. It was a veil that kept me from looking him in the eyes.
“I am friend to no one, and have seen nothing of you. I am no one, and yet I must still ask. Would I be permitted to cross your threshold, and join you for dinner?”
In that moment, I could have choked on the very air he breathed. It was as if every fiber of his being screamed caution to those perceiving him.
It was as if all the world held its breath, and only my next choice of phrase would allow her to breathe again. I could feel the dryness of my tongue pressing against my lips, heavy with the words I could not speak. My skin became flushed with a heat that sent an itch through my fingertips. In only a moment, I was trapped in my own indecision.
But as I pondered the evening in its entirety, I grew bolder in my actions. I lifted my chin and held my ground.
“This whole evening I’ve been pummeled with every distasteful situation I’ve ever been in. I am no saint, but I am not a killer, and I will have words with anyone who says otherwise.” In my high, I ripped the sign from the sturdy oak door. “I retract my invitation. I will dine with my friends out of simple obligation, but you are nothing to me. I have no reason to eat with you, and so you will be on your way. Good night, sir.”
I slammed the door in his face and made my way through the familiar entry hall. One glance into my living space revealed that my guests had retreated into the dining room. Dinner, it seemed, was to be served.
As I came upon the lovely table, I could not take in the lovely presentation of the silver spoons and crystal platters. Instead, I was glued to the spot from nauseating fear.
The man I had dismissed was sitting at the end of my table.
“I have known you to be lazy, selfish, lustful, jealous, greedy, prideful, and wrathful.” The man’s eyes suddenly locked with mine. “I just did not know you to be a liar.”
His burning eyes reminded me of the dying orb of the street lamp. In fact, the longer I looked at them, the more other-worldly they seemed. The curling lights inside were not flame at all to my eyes; the glow was a gruesome window through which the devil looked, and if I turned my head just so, I could see the smoldering coals of his eyes staring back at me, into me.
The devil’s window.
The devil’s eyes.
I sank into my chair, numb to the cruel world of my own creation. The frigid air seeped into my heart as I sliced the roast for my guests, the whistling sound in my head finally clarifying into a woman’s scream. F