Rewriting Singularity Ch. 17

We sat around the dining table like a klatch of eclectic, existentialist wannabes. I laughed to myself as I looked from one to the other. Isadora sat at the head of the table. She changed from earlier, and tonight she was dressed in a rainbow assortment of veils-- 50 possibly, or maybe 200-- she was an elephantine woman after all.

To my right was Hec, dressed like a lumberjack in his red flannel shirt and suspenders. He demonstrated to Jorge, who sat on the other side of him, his Woodworking 101 skills using mashed potatoes and a fork. At least Hec wasn't trying to pull a Richard Dreyfuss and sculpt Devil's Tower with his spuds. Mmm, and Hec had gravy on his upper lip. Close Encounters of the Third Kind was a possibility. I smiled and nodded while I plotted out bedroom escapades regarding our own close encounter of the nerd kind later.

Jorge held his own fork delicately in his fingers, studiously attending to Hec's lesson. I don't think there has ever been a time I'd seen Jorge dressed casual-- he always looked like he stepped out of GQ. This evening's attire was an Armani suit with just the right amount of rumple to his shirt and tie, giving him a disheveled, sexy look. He watched Hec with rapt attention-- or maybe it was the lip that caught his eye. Shit, it was the speck of gravy Jorge was admiring. I reminded myself not to get too pissed at Jorge-- Hec couldn't help being so damn cute.

Across the table sat Kate, wearing her usual flowered, cotton house dress. Linden told me earlier that she could have lived in the 50s as one of those wholesome housewives, except he thought Kate was more of the MILF variety. I was surprised when he said that-- I didn't think Linden would know what a MILF was.

Linden flinched as Kate stabbed her roast chicken. I bet he was thinking, Damn, would Barbara Billingsly do that to chicken after an argument with Ward? Death by butter knife. Kate, you're Beaver's mom with a dark side. Yes, the Norman Bates of culinary. Nothing like killing the chicken for a second time.

Linden took a bite out of his own dark meat. Hmm, I wondered how often he choked his chicken. I blinked. Damn, I thought I was through with all that fantasy stuff with them! Then, Hec licked the gravy from his mouth. Attention! Attention! Mr. Happy wants Hec to choke his chicken!

Fuck, it was hot in this dining room. Instead my usual threesome fantasies, I was having a foursome one.

We're all on the sprawled out on the bed touching, licking, and sucking. Jorge's smooth, dark skin glistens, his perfect abs and pecs a breathtaking contrast to Linden's lithe, pale beauty. Then there's my Hec--hotter than Brad Pitt's boxers. I beg hec to fuck me from hard from behind. He slides into me and I beg and whimper for him to go faster, harder while Linden strains to take all of Jorge's nine inch cock deep into the back of his throat. The air smells of sex and sweat.

Ahh, yes. Hot indeed.

First, I readjusted my wares. Then, to cool myself off, I turned my attention to Char, at my left. She was dressed in her post-Madonna outfit, explaining in great depth her hatred of all things sequin to Isadora by flipping through her latest copy of Cosmo (why she had it at the dinner table, I'd never ask), and pointing at the headline "Fashion that will make him touch you." She turned the magazine over, and the cover caught my eye. What?! A five-question break-up test? In Cosmo? I was going to submit my five-question break-up quiz there. Dang, someone beat me to it. I guessed my idea wasn't that original.

As I tapped my spoon on the table in anger, Hec shot me one of his questioning raised eyebrows. He shrugged.

I smiled at him. God, I wanted to fuck him. He nodded to Linden, who stared down at his peas, then he pushed his thick, framed glasses back up his nose. From Jorge and Linden's body language, I'd figured they were having one of their fights-- guess Hec had figured the same. The sorrowful way Linden eyed his peas I knew something was still up. He always used to tell me he hated the fights except for what came after-- the making up. I remembered some night listening through the wall at them "making up."

I entertained myself with further heated images of orgies when our little dinner party turned from dull to dramatic. Isadora dropped her fork, leapt up from her chair and shouted, "Sawdust, I smell sawdust!" We all sat open-mouthed, as she pushed her chair back, then, as if in a trance, started to follow some unseen figure in front of her. Kate didn't even bother to clear the table, she, along with the rest of us, trailed behind Isadora's flowing veils in a perfect line like third graders to a drinking fountain.

"Who is it?" I asked. "Who are you following?"

"His name is Henry," she whispered.

I threw Linden a look, and he shrugged his shoulders. Isadora ignored our exchange-- she nodded to our invisible visitor and said, "Yes, yes. We will follow you."

And we did: down the hall, past the living room still filled with Christmas tinsel and lights, into the chill of the anteroom, then up the staircase. Hec was behind me, breath hot on my neck; Linden was in front of me with his hands bunched in his pockets.

Henry led us to the bedroom where I first slept when I came here. Isadora halted near the bow window. Isadora's once garish veils now took on an other-worldly appearance. The moon, half hidden behind clouds, lit up the room and the veils swirled around her like the aurora borealis. Her head tipped to the right ever so slowly, then back again to the left like a bobble head. None of us spoke. I watched, transfixed as Isadora whispered to some unseen spirit--to him. I strained my eyes to see and ears to hear Henry but couldn't. I envied Isadora: I wished I could see and hear Henry, too.

"He's trying to lift the boards on the seat at the bay window." She pointed. "Does it open?" she asked, quietly.

"No," Hec said, then realized with a blink that Isadora was talking to Henry, not him.

Hec took halting steps next to her, then walked with her to the bench. I followed behind them, watching Hec as he knelt down next to her. Hec's hands as he reached under the pillows, feeling around blindly. Next he removed the cushions and set them aside. Hec smoothed his fingers over the polished wood.

"He wants us to open it," she said, her voice hushed and hesitant.

Hec grasped the lip of the seat, straining to lift the boards. All were down nailed tight.

Despite the tense moment it was hard for me not to admire his biceps bunching delectably beneath his flannel shirt. What can I say? He makes me horny.

"Henry said, 'The journal is here'. Does that mean anything to either of you?" she asked.

I forgot about Hec's bunched biceps. My hearted pounded, and my throat closed.

"Yes!" Hec spoke up, eyes meeting mine. "The missing journal!"

"I'll go get a hammer," Char offered, then ran downstairs.

"Is he still here in this room?" I asked.

"No," she said. "He has left us."

"What did he look like?" I wanted to know.

"A sturdy man dressed in coveralls, and he has sandy hair and a beard."

I'd imagined he'd look like Hec, with curly locks, a face sprinkled with freckles and sweet laugh-lines. I smiled.

We turned as we heard Char racing back up the stairs. She came in huffing and puffing, handing the hammer to Hec. He carefully pried two of the boards up, setting each aside. The third caught my attention as Hec propped it against the wall.

"Look," I said, pointing to the carving on the inside of the board. Hec brushed the dust off it, revealing Henry's words, the same words that were on the ring I wore: to JG always, HL. We didn't need to turn on the lamp; a shaft of moonlight illuminated the hollow below. There, covered in dust and cobwebs, was the missing journal. Hec reached in, retrieved it, and with reverent hands, opened it to the first page. I read over his shoulder and willed myself to breath. Char turned on the lamp as Hec and I settled next to each other slowly on my former bed. We read the first few pages quietly together while the others waited.

I looked up-- shocked.

Hec laughed.

I no longer believed in coincidences: this was too far-fetched for that.

"What does it say?" Char finally asked.

"You know the Big Bang Theory?" I said.

"The sitcom?" Linden asked.

"No," I said, "the real theory."

"Yes," Linden said.

"Well," I continued, "it seems our friend Johann had some ideas on that. In fact-- well, how about I read it for you?" I looked down at the journal and cleared my throat: "His story was most upsetting to read. I thought long on publishing my ideas, although I knew I would be scoffed at by my esteemed colleagues, only to find Alex had taken them. He told me I was a fool, that he kept them from me to keep the world from thinking the same. This story of Edgar's is dedicated to him! He alludes to my work our beginnings, our endings, my theory and of Him in his Existence: Life came from nothing, joy from a cloud and the universe from the big bang. How is it that a foe may keep his footsteps hidden and path invisible to see? I find now I have been betrayed most severely. Alas, I left his bed too late for my thoughts come from our bed to his hands and onto Edgar's pages. Oh, Deceit, thy name is Alexander von Humboldt."

Memories of another betrayal haunted me-- Austin's wasn't as deep as Alex's, but it hurt none the less.

"Who's Edgar?" Char asked. "And who is Alexander Humboldt?"

"Humboldt was a well-known scientist, geologist, and traveler," Jorge said.

"Always with the history lessons--" Linden shot out at him.

"What's he have to do with all this?" Char asked.

"I don't know," I said, "but we need to find out."

"Sounds like Humboldt banged Johann first," Linden said, "before your Henry."

Hec frowned. "I think you got the wrong bang out of this: Johann coined the phrase Big Bang Theory. And from what this journal says, Johann tried to publish his theory but never did because his most of his 'esteemed colleagues' thought Johann's ideas were nuts, and they thought his ideas were nuts because his ex-lover, Humboldt, told them Johann was crazy."

"But who is Edgar?"

I smirked. "Poe."

"As in Edgar Allan Poe?" Jorge said, eyes growing wide.

"Yeah," I said, "one and the same." All the nerdy years of reading Poe paid off. I recalled years ago when I realized Poe's allusion to the theory and thought Poe a genius. It was amazing to me at the time, but now I had to wonder if my latching on to his idea was part of some the grand design-- that I would be here in this room, this day, with this knowledge.

"This is huge," Hec said, pacing the floor. "I wonder why Henry hid the journal in here? I mean, why even hide it at all?"

"I'd say that Humboldt knew Johann wasn't crazy and planned to take his ideas," I said.

"Yes," said Isadora. "And to keep it safe, Henry hid that journal."

Hec flipped through the pages, scanning them.

"But it says here that Humboldt took most of his work after they parted," Hec said.

I blinked. This was all too familiar. My sitcom was spoiled by Austin Nichols-- Johann's theory spoiled by Alexander Humboldt. Our names, our lives, all merging. This was too much to comprehend all at once.

"Henry told me." She walked toward the closet. "That before he can rest, Johann must receive recognition for his work."

Hec continued to skim through the journal, then stopped.

"Here," he said excitedly. "I think Johann hid his work before he left this house, and this," he tapped on the page, "is the code that tells us where."

Hec held up the journal to us all, showing us dots on a page joined together like a child's scrawl with numbers. No, not dot-to-dots but--

"Constellations!" I exclaimed. I knew those weird shapes and symbols. "The bed!"

"This is not the time for sex," muttered Linden under his breath.

"No," I turned to him. "The bed in Hec's room!"

Linden shook his head in disbelief. Hec laughed and shrugged and followed me as I grabbed the flashlight out of the closet and scrabbled down the corridors to our room with everyone else hot on my heels. Char described the bed to the others as we made our way. As we stumbled along, my mind was dizzy with possibilities-- did the bed lead to more clues? or did it hold the answer?

As we threw open our closet door, Pete welcomed us with song.

Isadora, Linden and Jorge gaped at the bed-- I wasn't surprised; I recalled my own awe the first time I saw it.

"It's on the inside of the canopy," I said, shining the flashlight in that direction.

Linden hopped on the bed with Jorge behind him; I handed Jorge my flashlight over his shoulder. Jorge pressed against Lindens back, lips brushing against Linden's neck. I watched Linden shiver and bite back a moan as they stared at the images. I logged that image of them on the bed for a later masturbatory session.

"I always knew there was a reason why I liked the number four," Linden said.

"I still can't see the carving background too well," Jorge said. "Do you have a magnifying glass?"

I had to laugh. Like they were really looking at the background?

"I've got one in this room somewhere," Hec said, finger on his bottom lip as he thought.

It was Hec who figured it out-- he was the handyman, after all. Sure, my childhood obsession with the stars helped, along with Linden's knowledge of constellations and mythology, but Hec was the one who found them.