Dagger Key and Other Stories

As I came into the entryway, my feet skidded on the marble floor, but I righted myself and pushed hard toward the window to the right of the front door, showing like a narrow box of moonlight. Upon reaching it, I slammed my elbow against the glass, splintering it. But as I knocked aside the shards that remained stuck in the frame, I heard an electric gabbling at my back, and on turning, saw the army of household machines wobbling, whirring, vibrating, scuttling toward me. This time they did not hesitate. The toaster waddled forward, leading a group charge. I kicked at the thing and sent it flying, but it delivered a painful jolt to my ankle with its plug. A ceiling sweep bunched its silvery legs and propelled itself into a feathery leap that left it clinging to my shirtfront—I hurled it against the wall before it could sting me with its wire molding brushes. For the next two or three minutes, like Gulliver among the Lilliputians, I engaged in battle with this cartoonish troop, swinging the torch in wild arcs, brushing the sweeps off my clothing, crushing the littlest ones underfoot. But I received countless shocks, and at last one of the sweeps managed to scale the back of my trousers and shirt and deliver a jolt to my neck that knocked me flat.

I must have lost consciousness for a time, because when next I looked about, the army had withdrawn, leaving behind their scorched and crumpled casualties. Painfully, I struggled to my feet, and as I leaned against the door, trying to get my bearings, to decipher the patterns of moonlight and shadow that lay across the entryway, the lights went on, confusing me for an instant. Standing at the top of the stairs were Amorise and Joan Gwynne, both dressed in nightgowns. At the bottom of the stair, his back to the banister, was Carl McQuiddy, wearing black slacks and turtleneck. He offered me an amused smile. Amorise, too, smiled, but it was an expression of pure triumph. Joan appeared upset.

“That was epic, David,” said Amorise. “Truly entertaining.”

The workings of my mind were clumsy, impaired, and I could only stare at the three of them, though I felt anger pressing against the fogginess that hampered my thoughts, like a dome of heat bulging up from some buried molten turbulence. Then Amorise drew Joan into a kiss, one almost as deep as that she had given her on stage at the Martinique, and the anger broke through, not clearing my head but seeming to irradiate the fog.

“And, of course, your machines are delightful,” Amorise said, breaking from the kiss. “Such a wonderful imagery. I imagine it must be strange for you to be attacked by them. Rather like old friends turning traitor.”

I tried to speak, but succeeded only in making a strangled noise. McQuiddy chuckled and said to Amorise, “I don’t think he’s up to a conversation.”

“Fuck you!” I said.

“Well, we don’t really have much to say to one another, anyway.” Amorise took Joan’s hand and they descended partway down the stairs. “David knows what he has to do…don’t you, David?”

“I’m not going to do anything for you,” I told her. “And there’s nothing you can do to make me.”

“I don’t know,” Amorise said. “I might find a way. You tried to assault me at the club. You stole from my locker at Emerald Street. Now you’ve broken into my home and destroyed considerable of my property. Those are serious charges. What will you say in your defense? That I’ve kissed the soul of a poet dead these six hundred years into your body? That won’t gain you much credence.”

“I have a witness who’ll back me up,” I said. “John Wooten.”

“Oh, I don’t think you can count on John,” McQuiddy said. “He was extremely distressed by the way you spoke to him earlier today.”

That they had been privy to my private communications did not surprise me, but McQuiddy’s assured demeanor was unnerving.

“You don’t have any friends, David,” Amorise said. “You offend everyone who tries to befriend you. No one cares about you. In fact, they’d love to see you fall.”

I was beginning to regain control of my body, to be more aware of my surroundings. The chandelier that lit the entryway applied a high gloss to McQuiddy’s forehead and put glittering points in the eyes of the two women.

“You did this!” I said to Amorise. “It’s not me.”

“Did I?” Amorise laughed. “The anger, the disdain for others…they’ve always been part of you. You were the perfect subject.”

“Actually,” McQuiddy said, “I think it’s a distinct improvement. At least the bastard will serve some purpose now.”