The Atrocity Artist

11.

Skad rips the receiver from its cradle. The ring stops mid-peel, the metallic vibration of the bell lingers. Skad says into the mouthpiece, "Go fuck yourself."

The voice on the other end surprises him by not being his own. It sounds amused. "As charming as ever, I see."

Recognition takes a second, then his anger deflates into a dull annoyance, "What the hell do you want, Ed?"

"Just calling to see how you're doing. You were pretty broken-up at the funeral."

"What the fuck are you talking about? I wasn't crying."

"No, you weren't. Heaven forbid you shed a tear for your own son. Pops might think less of you. No. I didn't say you were crying. You looked shook. I almost thought it was your funeral."

Of course Ed had fixated on his appearance. So prissy and delicately groomed with his bespoke black suit and dainty manicured nails. "Well, thank you. Are you calling to invite me on a spa date? Or perhaps a makeover?"

"Can you give it a rest, Bob. Admit the boy's death affected you." Skad's answer began as a growl in the back of his throat, but Ed cut it off. "I'm really worried about you."

"And this brotherly concern has nothing to do with trying to weasel money out of me, does it?"

"Not everyone has an ulterior motive."

"You're right. Only people with a brain have one. You're too dimwitted to conceal your thoughts."

Ed's sigh emerges from the wall phone after traveling through miles of wire all the way from the other side of the country. In his home of San Francisco, the sun hasn't yet risen.

"What are you doing up so early?" Skad asks. "Your debts keeping you awake?"

"About to go for my run. You know, I jog before work."

How the hell was he supposed to know that? Maybe Ed had mentioned it, but his comings and going were of no concern. He couldn't be expected to waste a thought on Ed's mundane routine.

"Why do you have to be so hard to talk to. We're the only family each of us has. We should be there for each other. I want to be there for you. And you spending time at the old house worries me."

Why did it worry him? Did he know what was happening? The strange calls? The visions?

"What's wrong with being here?"

"You couldn't wait to leave. You left mom and me— and that poor girl high and dry, and now it's what? A vacation destination? I don't buy it. Being there isn't healthy."

That poor girl.

Could he know about Angie's nocturnal visits? Impossible.

Skad can't say anything about it either. Even if he wanted to. Even if telling someone would help relieve the burden and exorcise the ghosts bouncing around his head. If he so much as hinted at it, Ed would be laughing and clapping his hands with glee, for certain. He'd have Skad locked up in the nuthouse before they got off the phone. And while he was at the drooling academia, good ol' benevolent Ed would be looting his bank account. Oh yes, it was plain to see.

"Not healthy. Fuck you, Ed? Not healthy. What kind of new-age crap is that?"

"Whenever you're at the house I keep expected the call?"

"What call?"

"The call telling me you've hurt yourself."

"Hurt myself? What the goddamn do you mean? I'm no coward."

"All I can think of is of you up there all alone dwelling on the past. It seems so morbid. Do you still have dad's gun? I imagine you in our bedroom with dad's gun, and it scares me. If you want to talk about Raymond. I'm here for you."

"Fuck you, Ed. I'm no coward."

"Promise me you won't do anything rash."

Skad hangs up.

Motherfucking Ed. The bastard can't speak plainly. Do anything rash. The phrase is watery and wimpy. Why not say: swallow a bullet? Paint the walls with your brains? Put lead in your head?

It's not like Skad is going to off himself. He hasn't come here to die. He came here for the peace and quiet.

Some men should die, the voice on the phone told him.

Come to me, Angie said, as beautiful as the girl he left all those years ago. Her arms spread wide welcoming him to her cold, dark world.

Motherfucking Ed. If Skad planned to do something to himself, it wasn't as though Ed could talk him out of it.