Free As Dog Is My Witness by JEFFREY COHEN

Karen’s living room. I love being dependable,
while people like Rezenbach just assume you’ll be available at their convenience.
    Karen’s house was lovely. A small Victorian, it had
been detailed within an inch of its life by whoever painted it
last, and was a tasteful combination of blue, aqua, and white, with
a white railing on the wrap-around porch and plants hanging from
the exposed beams on the screened-in section of the porch,
insulated now by glass so the plants were actually alive and well.
This contrasted with my house, where any plant that enters during
any season might just as well abandon all hope.
    Rezenbach answered the door himself, which surprised
me. I figured he’d have minions with him, since these guys always
have minions. I also figured out that one of them would handle the
more mundane tasks, like opening doors. But there he was, showing
off his turning and pulling skills like a real pro.
    The room I entered was not atypical in this part of
New Jersey. Long before television, it was built to be a living
room, where people would gather, perhaps sip a little brandy, and
generally wish someone would invent television so they could stop
being so damn bored. Today, of course, a large-screen TV dominated
the room, with a cabinet for the corresponding audio system (we
used to call them “stereos” in my day, which was October 2, 1978).
A sofa and two wing chairs served the god of television
entertainment quietly and subserviently.
    This room, while not demonstrably different than
most, was, without qualification, better. The paint job was
a little more detailed, the carpet a tad softer, the furnishings
chosen and arranged more ergonomically, but with perfect placement
to create the homey-yet-elegant effect. Paintings—not framed
prints, but real paintings on real canvasses—were hung on the walls
in just the spots where paintings should be hung. The fireplace was
brick, and designed to be warm and inviting, not spectacular and
intimidating.
    It was, in short, a perfect room, but not in a Martha
Stewart-anal-retentive-magazine-layout sort of way. It was a room
that invited you in, asked you to sit, be comfortable, enjoy
yourself, and share in the entertainment offered. It was not
something that shouted about its superiority, but spoke calmly
about days gone by.
    Normally, all that perfection would have sent me into
the night screaming for my mommy, but here, somehow, it worked
perfectly. I didn’t want to run away at top speed.
    Rezenbach, a thin, bony man who would have done well
in auditions for the role of Death, merely nodded his head at me
when I entered, foregoing the traditional handshake. No doubt he
was worried that my sub-zero grip from the arctic winds outside
would warm up his own hand too much, and he’d have to go back to
his tomb to reach his natural body temperature of 23 degrees
Fahrenheit.
    “Mr. Tucker?” he asked, as if someone would actually pretend to be me. I assured him I hadn’t been abducted, then
replaced with an exact replica. His voice, which hadn’t actually
been booming to begin with, dropped to something between a whisper
and a hush.
    “Karen is in the bedroom,” he said. “I’d like to ask
you to go easy on her.”
    “I wasn’t planning on pulling out the bright lights
and the rubberhose, Mr. Rezenbach. I realize what she’s been
through.”
    Though unappreciative of the imagery, he nodded, and
walked down a corridor to what must have been the master bedroom. I
did not follow. From somewhere nearby, toward the entrance to the
attached garage, I heard something.
    Growling.
    It wasn’t the kind of sound that set one’s mind at
ease, but I didn’t have the time to consider it. Rezenbach
returned, holding the hand of a woman about ten years younger than
I am. She was dark blonde, with a fit, athletic body, concealed in
a too-formal dress that wasn’t exactly black, but was pretending to
be. Her eyes, normally blue, registered mostly red.
    I don’t know