Free Hell's Half Acre by Baer Will Christopher Page B

ever fucked a guy and studied the ugly contortions of his face, the face that he wants to hide from sight, then she knows the machinery behind his mouth and eyes and thereafter she always knows when he’s lying.
    Anyway.
    I shot up a few mailboxes when I was a kid, with a pellet gun and later a .22, a rifle meant for shooting squirrels. This hole came from a big gun, a serious gun. Miller has got Dirty Harry shooting at his mailbox and it’s none of my business.
    Not yet, says Miller.
    What? I say.
    It’s none of your business, he says. Yet.
    It is still not quite dark but the air is the color of blue plums. A black Mercedes rolls past with headlights off, eerily silent. It looks like a tank on a night mission. A white moth flickers past my face and I wave it away, distracted.
    Do you want to come in? says Miller. Have a drink?
    I sigh. Are you going to be doing a lot of that?
    What? he says.
    Oh, you know. Reading my mind and that sort of thing.
    Miller laughs. I can’t read your mind, man. I pretend that I can.
    Uh huh.
    It’s easy, he says. People aren’t very complex. You take a stab at what somebody is thinking. Then politely spit it out like a piece of gristle. And even if you’re wrong, it makes people nervous. There’s no better way to fuck with a snotty waiter, or a salesman. Try it sometime.
    Interesting, I say. Do I look like a salesman to you?
    Why, he says. Are you nervous?
    Miller pushes open the iron gate that opens onto a downward drive lined with gravel and heavy flat stones the color of cigarette ash. The front yard is a hillside, wild and dark with twisting rose bushes and exposed roots. The house is barely visible from the road. The white moth returns to strafe my face and I wonder if I’m glowing. I try to catch it in my fist, to kill it. But the little bastard is too fast for me and I clutch at the air like a spastic. I lower my head before it decides to fly down my throat. Miller starts down the slope and I follow him.
    The house of Miller is bewildering, and much larger than it looks from the outside. He gives me a rapid tour of the lower level, telling me there are nineteen rooms in all. The house is primarily constructed of stone, but some of the walls are made of glass. The house is cold and dark and I imagine it is cold and bright by day. There are three floors, or levels. The house is not vertical, but staggered. It clings to the hillside like a giant spider. Two massive trees come up through the back of it, like twin spines. A complex series of wood platforms is built around these trees, with rope ladders connecting the various levels. The kitchen door opens onto level two. I stand in the doorway, a goofy smile on my face.
    It’s like something out of a fairy tale, I say.
    Miller is pouring tall glasses of bourbon and soda.
    Yeah, he says. I think the guy who designed it was out of his mind, however.
    How’s that?
    Miller shrugs. You can feel it. There’s madness in the walls.
    Ah, yes. Madness in the walls. I hate it when that happens.
    Miller stirs our drinks with what appears to be a bright blue chopstick.
    Do you live alone? I say.
    Not exactly. He hands me a drink, very strong.
    The kitchen is black tile and bright steel. Harsh white light. Functional, cold, a surgical theater. I imagine myself laid out on the island with a mask over my face and tubes running in and out of my belly, surrounded by a crew of silent men in dark red gowns. I doubt there’s anything in the refrigerator but olives and French mustard and spare plasma.
    Come on, says Miller. Let’s go to the lizard room.
    A long, windowless room that glows from the light of twenty-two terrariums. These contain lizards, iguanas, chameleons, and various snakes. Obviously. I walk the perimeter and look them over. I am fond of reptiles, generally. Because they can sit on a rock for two days without moving. Because they are untroubled by the loss of a limb and more than likely will grow another one. Because they methodically