Chapter 3: Nobody at Home

Never occurred to me, the economy was our Achilles heel. Stupid of me? VERY! Only the grossest understatement of all times! You’ll be quoted forever.

“It’s good, really great to see you, little brother. Gladdens my heart you are here.”

Back against the wall, prepare to slide fast. Hang on to my wallet and watch my other valuables too. Desperate and unpredictable? Phil is setting me up! I feel it.

“You are still heterosexual? Great! Forgive my little joke about paying for you to be switched around. Carlita wouldn’t ever say where she stashed you. We had no idea Helena’s number was a ‘contact-in-case-of-emergency’, until this morning we received notice you were released. We were quite pleased! Hoped and expected you’d come home. Welcome home, Randy! No residual hard feelings, I hope?”

The hope you speak of, will soon be your worst disappointment ever, bastard.

“Thank you, I guess.” Phil stiffens, offended by my nonchalant acknowledgement.

“Well then! This calls for a bit of a celebration, right?” Phil produces a bottle and glasses amid forced Bon Homme. “Cheers! Welcome home.”

Not the Irish Jameson’s our clan, family we’re not, prefers. White Lightning? Scorches my throat like the fires of hell. We quickly down the rough whiskeys.

“How are the girls?”

“Which girls?” Phil is suddenly tense, suspicious, volatile, a hair-trigger bomb.

“Sally and...”

“Sally’s fine, just fine. She’s around. Somewhere. You’ll see her soon, I expect.”

Phil interrupts me so quickly, I half expect he’s ready to leap on me from his chair. His eyes glare dares. Challenging me to utter her name. Wati is here. I’m not in the least intimidated. Not only teenybopper girls love to tease. I’m a teenybopper too!

“Ninell?” I drawl out her name. Twisting her name like a knife in his hated guts. Phil stares coldly at me, calculatingly. Even me alone, he’s no match for me with his damaged wrist. I received a bit of training in self defense among other things.

“She’s cool, she’s cool.” Phil pours more rot gut whiskey, and visibly relaxes.

“May I see her then?” This nonplussed chill emanating from Phil is unpleasant.

“You may. She won’t talk to you, but you’re welcome to try. Won’t you have some more antifreeze? Might do you some good, when you see Ninell. Loosen you up!”

This is unsettling, bewildering. Phil is an enigma. Unpredictable always, but this is perplexing. His irrational inexplicable aplomb hints at an undercurrent of intrigue. He’s playing, toying with me. How? Why? What’s behind his mysterious manner? An insane light shines from his unblinking eyes. Yes, this is the ghoulish Phil. The evil one, who fucks not only his own mother, but cold rotting corpses as well!

“Wati? Would you like another whiskey?” Suddenly I want one. I offer to pour for Wati. He accepts. Pour in Phil’s extended empty glass, too. Not soothing, the burn is somehow comforting when I toss it down my scalded throat. Phil rises and goes to the closet, opens the door. Arrogant ass! Thinks to impress us with his trophy?

Two wine coolers in the closet, Lillith in one, the other empty. Apparently empty. When the frost fogged glass door is opened, a bundle is visible low in the bottom of the case. Phil gathers the bundle in his arms, carries it to his desk, sits in his chair again, and unfurls the fetal position bundle into a girl seated on his lap. Her face is unseen, her hanging head and obscuring hair prevent seeing her features, but it’s unnecessary. Her form is recognizable. I know her. I wish to god I didn’t!