Excerpt from Eyes and Teeth
The radio weaved in and out of static. On a good stretch maybe a minute or two of music would come through before incomprehensible white noise. Zeke examined the stuttering device with contempt. Before he could be properly infuriated his attention was pulled back to the winding road ahead of him. It was bad enough being out in the boondocks on roads that hadn’t been properly cared for in decades, but the torrential downpour pushed his already breaking patience.
“God damn it,” he felt himself mouth automatically. He clenched his fist and gave the radio a good punch before rummaging about in his bag for the last pack of cigarettes that was residing somewhere at the bottom of a pile of papers.
A single pack, for a weekend? What the hell had he been thinking? He cursed again. Though Zeke Metzger was only thirty one he already had a legendary addiction to nicotine. It tore at him, consuming his thoughts when he was without them. A life of nicotine and alcohol had just begun to stain and turn his sleek, white teeth.
“I’ll have to stop by a convenience store tomorrow,” he thought aloud. He twirled a cigarette in his free hand, contemplating lighting it or saving it for later. As his steely eyes drifted between the cigarette and the road ahead of him Zeke couldn’t help but feel a twang of guilt. His dad had always hated smoke. The old man had said it made him feel like the house was burning.
He placed the cigarette down upon the dashboard where it rolled helplessly. He’d save it for a time when he truly needed it. The radio spat out a few isolated words of an Elvis Presley song. Another quick punch sent it back to meaningless static.
“Get bent, asshole,” Zeke muttered, running a hand through his tangled hair. It had already begun to recede and looking in the rearview mirror he could see gray beginning to take hold in his roots.
After what felt like an eternity of mindless driving the rickety, misbegotten farm house came into view.
Home.
Formerly home, at least. The Metzger Farmstead had once been surrounded by lush and expansive farmland. As the century had continued on production had shrunk and shrunk until it was now little more than an oversized field. When Zeke was young they still had a good number of workers, maybe a dozen or so, helping seasonally on the farm. There were even some present year round, doing maintenance and other jobs throughout the winter. The central house, the house of Zeke’s father, Daniel Metzger, was a challenge to the large plantation houses of the South. The building towered over the land around it like an obstinate warden. Time had worn away much of its finer pieces but the house still retained a certain elegance to its form.
Zeke’s car hobbled into the driveway, weary from its long journey. Grabbing a torn and wretched trench coat from the back seat, Zeke stepped into the storm, hoping to reach the front door before he was completely drenched. The front door itself hung, barely on its hinges, threatening to collapse at any moment. The place had only been abandoned a few years; had it really degraded so badly? Or was it always this bad?
Zeke produced his father’s key and opened the door into the ruinous structure. He’d been prepared for the dust, but the smell was nearly vomit inducing. Had something died here? His first instinct was to look around for any animals that may had taken up residence in his absence. Try as he may he couldn’t find a source for the smell in the entrance hall.
Why hadn’t his dad dealt with this place years ago? Were the bankers hounding him about it as they had been Zeke? “Those filthy vultures,” he thought, “the soil’s barely settled on the old man’s grave and they’re already coming after me about some unpaid property taxes.”
He wanted to spit, but refrained, looking around with a creeping sense of nostalgia. How old had he been when they left the farm? Ten? Eleven? He had loved it here. Everyone was so happy back then.
Ever since they had left it felt like life had fallen apart for their family. His dad fired half the workers, hiring some company to take over the work on the farm. After that he, his wife, and Zeke moved to Des Moines. They would visit the farm from time to time, but it was a rare occurrence. Almost exactly a year after they moved, Zeke’s mother died. He never found out of what, she was just gone one day. His dad was never the same after that. He’d once been a cheerful, if stern, man. In the days that followed her death he grew cold, resentful. He and Zeke never really got along as Zeke aged.
By the time the old man kicked the bucket Zeke had barely spoken to him in over a year. Even if the two hadn’t been close, Zeke couldn’t deny that he was upset. He missed the old bastard. He missed the odd call every Christmas that could be summed up as: “Hey, everything going alright? You stopped smoking yet? Okay. Love you, kiddo.”
The feelings lurched up inside Zeke’s stomach. He couldn’t stop the tears burning at the edges of his eyes. He wanted to be a child again. To be with his family, whole, and complete. To play with the workers when they were on their breaks.
He needed that cigarette. Tearing open his coat he took hold of the pack and looked inside. It wasn’t even a full pack, he’d brought seven damn cigarettes with him. Cursing quietly he shoved one in his mouth and lit it. He felt release and pushed the tears back. Even in this isolation he wouldn’t let his emotions get the better of him.
Inhaling the sickly smoke he felt human once more and took his one lonely suitcase into the decrepit living room. Dust surrounded him with each and every step. Producing a rag he wiped an old end table down and placed his suitcase upon it. He smiled at the sofa that occupied the center of the room. He remembered staying up late into the night watching whatever came on the new television the family had bought for the farm. His father had taken the TV with them when they moved, but the sofa was deemed unnecessary.
“Ah, what the hell,” he thought as he plopped down onto the sofa. A wave of dust was thrown into the air but he didn’t care. It was almost like being a kid again. He looked to where the TV had once been. The floral yellow wallpaper was just as he remembered, but there was something off about it. Where the TV had been there was a wide hole in the paper. White plaster was exposed, even in the dark he could see it clearly. It was probably a foot and a half in diameter. What had been there? Was there a crack that had been plastered over? It looked haphazard; like it had been done in a hurry. It wasn’t even properly sanded down.
Displeased he stood to examine the spot more thoroughly. The company that Zeke’s father hired to run the farm must’ve damaged the place and never bothered to properly repair it. He ran a hand along the rough surface. It was thick and uneven. He twirled his cigarette in the other hand and gritted his teeth, angrily trying to think who he could call and complain to.
A gentle noise rousted Zeke from his stew. It may have been a trick of the storm outside but he thought he heard a clicking, like two sticks being tapped together. He wasn’t sure how long the sound had been going but in that moment it stuck out to him uneasily. Spinning around to find the source of the sound Zeke was greeted with the silent living room, the dust still settling from his disturbance. The sound was gone, if it had ever actually been there.
Zeke took his nearly consumed cigarette and crushed it against the wall. “Stupid old house,” he murmured, deciding to move deeper in. The entirety of the house was coated in the same thick sheets of dust and grime, untouched for quite some time. Zeke made mental calculations as he walked; how much could he really sell this rundown farm for? Was it even worth it or should he just ignore the tax collectors like his old man had? He knew he didn’t want this cesspit. It may have contained happy memories, but it was a hollow reminder of what was. He wanted to move on with his life.
The kitchen was in disrepair. There was rusted silverware still on the table. Beyond that it smelled worse than the rest of the house. Someone must have left food rotting when the place was abandoned. “Another complaint to add to the list,” he thought. Grimacing, he noted a similar plaster circle just above the kitchen counter.
Covering his nose he ripped open the refrigerator. Mounds of squirming ants and cockroaches immediately caused him to regret his choice. He slammed the door shut, stomping at the few roaches that had escaped. His calculations skyrocketed, this house needed a deep cleaning, how much was that going to cost?
He stepped out of the odious room, hoping the upstairs had fared better. As he stepped up the half-rotted stairs he became dimly aware of a bit of writing lining the wall beside him. He glanced at the graffiti, adding “new wallpaper” to the list of needs.
“YOU CAME BACK.”