She debates the merits of a certain kind of lubricant that’s supposed to encourage swimmy sperm.
I nod as she tells me about the special supplements she’s slipped into Todd’s bottle of multivitamins.
Super Sperm Plus.
“That’s an idea,” I agree.
She doesn’t want him to think his sperm is sub-par, but maybe it is.
Maybe, I agree.
Or it could be her eggs.
No, I tell her. Not her eggs.
Sentence by sentence, step by step, the conversation calms me.
I notice the hallway widen ahead, but I don’t care. Whatever this place looks like, however similar it may be or may not be to my memories of The House, it’s not, and I’m here to watch people have sex.
After that, we’re going back to MGM, where tomorrow in a ridiculous, Caribbean-themed ballroom, Lana will get married. And after that, I’ll leave. Back to Peachtree City, where I’ll continue selling my Intuitive ReDesign app and doing interior design consulting for rich Atlantans.
Lana and club guy reach the end of the hall first. I’m still talking to Laura—now about “the newborn days”—when my feet stop moving, and my eyes shift from Lana’s back to the wall out front of us.
Except it’s not a wall.
In the two-story space at the end of the hallway, there’s…a house.
A frickin’ house.
A one-story house, right frickin’ here at the end of a hallway.
The witch’s house!
I whirl around and try to breathe.
Oh, God. It’s the house from my room.
She’s dead! I want to scream.
Hansel killed Mother. She’s long-since dead, and you’re okay.
I turn quickly back around and start into my meditation. I’m Leah, and I’m right here. I’m Leah, and I’m okay. I’m Leah, and I’m right here.
“This is really interesting,” Lana is saying to club guy. “Kind of odd, too. The whole house concept?”
He shrugs, moving in sick slow motion. “You know, the whole Enchanted Forest thing and all. Little house in the woods. Kinda like Hansel and Gretel.”
Laura’s hand slips into mine, and Lana turns all the way around to look at me. She doesn’t say anything, but her eyes rush over me, wide and alarmed.
Do you want to go?
I shake my head and manage a weak smile. “It’s a great layout,” I say.
Laura squeezes my hand, and I feel a flash of rage for what she did to me.
Mother.
That bitch wasn’t a mother at all. She didn’t have a single biological child, and she damn sure wasn’t a mother to any of us.
“Come on in. This is where you’ll watch the show,” the club guy says. Through the doors. Into an amphitheater. Several levels, each one deep enough for couches and recliners.
My legs move mechanically. My hand in Laura’s feels so cold.
I don’t even notice the couch until the backs of my knees are touching the edge of its cushions.
“Enjoy the show,” the guy says with a wink.
All around us, other people find their seats, but I can’t really look around, because as soon as club guy leaves, Lana and Laura are on me like a couple of...well, concerned sisters, I guess.
“Are you sure this is okay?” Laura asks, at the same time Lana says, “I think maybe we should go.”
I shake my head. “That’s crazy,” I say in voice that’s an octave higher than my norm. I swallow hard and try to sound a little less unhinged. “Just because it’s a forest theme?”
“It’s called The House,” Laura murmurs. “We’re in the witch’s cottage.” She shoots a look at Lana, as if to ask her how she missed this fact.
Lana’s red lips press together and her eyes go soft. “I’m so sorry, Leah. I heard from a friend this Edgar thing is like, some special once or twice a year event. Sexy guy, crazy sex show. I don’t know… It sounded fun.” She rubs her forehead, looking rueful. “I didn’t read enough about it.”
“No one did anything wrong. Let’s just stop talking about it,” I murmur in a lowered voice, “before everyone in here notices.”
Mother Goose’s House of horrors became front-page news after Hansel killed her and all the so-called fairy tale children were freed. Odds are, everyone around is too busy staring at the empty stage below to be paying us any attention, but it never hurts to be cautious.
I’m on the left end of our little black couch, but Lana gets up, sits between me and the arm rest, and uses her hip to bump me into the middle. When we’re all cozy, I sit up a little straighter and try my best to seem unaffected.
Lana produces a program that seems to’ve come from thin air, and starts to tell us about the “performers” tonight: Edgar, this club’s owner, who apparently hardly ever performs anymore, but who made his name doing sex shows as a dominant.