The Lodger

By Daniel Indalecio Guzman

(originally published in Rio Grande Review)

I hear someone talking to 911 on his cell phone, saying, “Yes, there’s a naked woman in the pool. Yes. And it looks like she’s holding the pool cleaners hostage. Yes, I’m serious.”

We are crowded outside the floor-to-ceiling windows of the large indoor university swimming pool, like staring into a giant fish tank, feeling only a little bit like weirdoes, but some of us are professors, and this is a university, so the voyeur factor is considerably low. For now.

I used to swim in this pool on weekends. It’s big, the kind they use in competitions. Students high-five each other and flip open camera phones. Someone asks why campus police hasn’t arrived yet.

We see something silvery in the light and now the naked woman has a tail. I mean a fish tail, like a mermaid. My students turn to me and my folder full of printouts for the Greek mythology quiz we are supposed to be having and they say, well, Professor?

And I think, well, what?

***

“Yes,” I say to the news cameras, “It could be a siren.”

And then, I correct myself. “In mythology, the notion that sirens have a tail is a misconception. They were described as either human in appearance, or a human-bird hybrid. The mermaid element was something added later on.”

The news reporter is good. She knows how to yawn with her mouth closed. Some of my students pretend to take notes, and I feel a little better at how the day is going. I ask them which mythological heroes faced off against the sirens. I ask them to name three other mythological creatures. I tell them it’s for extra credit.

You arrive a few minutes later with your own class of students. You stand next to me and press your nose to the glass.

You say, “Amazing,” sounding more like an excited kid watching a sci-fi movie than an anthropology professor.

You see the siren moving her lips and ask me what she is doing.

I say, “She’s seducing the pool cleaners with her song.”

You ask me if I can believe this is happening. This meaning, our future, possible grants, interviews, research opportunities, a whole grab-bag full of possibilities right there, just beyond the glass.

You reach out to hold my hand, and when our fingers intertwine, I feel the comforting weight of your engagement ring. I look back at the pool, and I see the siren staring at me. She stops singing and her lips twist into a smile.

***

“There it is again,” you say and turn up the volume. We’re sitting in bed, watching the late news. This week is your apartment, next week is mine.

On screen, I see the crowd of students and professors from this afternoon, cameras flashing.

You say that this is amazing, for like the twentieth time today.

On screen, the crowd fades to black, replaced by a couple strolling on a morning beach and a voice telling me that I might already have genital herpes.

I change to a different station and find another news report. They are transporting the siren to an undisclosed area for treatments.

As I watch the news, you reach over to pick up the paperback novel on the nightstand.

“Another sci-fi novel?” I ask.

You say, “It’s what I like.”

“You’ve studied ghost tribes of the Amazon. You spent six months eating, what, grubs, that time, in that place?”

You tell me it wasn’t just grubs.

I put the TV on mute.

I ask you why aren’t watching the news when there’s a real live sci-fi story happening right now in our town.

You say, “I just don’t want to think about her anymore. She must be terrified. The siren. All alone, being kept who-knows-where for studies. Imagine the culture shock.”

I say, “Like an aborigine trapped in a shopping mall?” But you don’t laugh as I’d hoped, and the joke hangs there like an unintended fart. We sit quietly for a while, and I can hear the sound of the upstairs apartment’s water running like the hiss of something frying. On screen, the young reporter walks across the school campus. I see my department building and feel a flush of pride.

"Let's talk about something else, then," I say.

We start talking about the house we bought.

You tell me that you went by the other day and saw that they had started remodeling the bedroom.

I ask you how it looks.

You say, "It's going to be beautiful."

I ask you to tell me more, and you do, your body leaning in close.

***

Eyewitnesses reported seeing a winged horse flying over the campus at around

7:00 that morning, just as I was waking up and using the spare toothbrush I keep at your place. A pair of sleepy-eyed computer majors saw the creature promenading back and forth over the length of the campus library rooftop.

Animal Control arrived, but the horse escaped. There have been no further sightings, much to my regret.

Renovations on the house were going slowly; an entire wall needed to be rebuilt

due to water damage; some floorboards were rotting from years of neglect. I cringed whenever a contractor called. It’s always some deep accent telling me how I won’t believe this.

Because you’re eager to set the wedding date, I finally agree to commit

to the summer, when we’ll both be free of the rigors of class schedules and student essays.

I wonder if things will be ready by then.

I continue hearing good things from my review committee informants, but no

announcements are made in regards to tenure. I channel my frustration in pop quizzes.

I’m in my office looking over index notes for a lecture and wondering how I would look with a beard, when my cell phone rings.

You sound small and nervous.

You tell me you went by the house today.

I immediately imagine an unearthed pit of human remains.

“What?” I ask. “Just tell me.”

You tell me it’s better if I came over. You sound a little excited, and so do I. I mean, how many times will we get to talk this way, with this urgent secrecy?

“No one’s listening in,” I say.

You say, “Just come over. You need to see it first.”

***

It’s an old two-story house with three bedrooms, a basement, an attic, and a backyard. Although this is our future home, neither one of us want to go inside. I see nothing when I peer through the living room windows.

You say that maybe it moved upstairs.

I grunt my way up a tree, eventually making it to the bedroom window. I look inside. Though illuminated only by moonlight, I can see smeared dirt on the walls and animal waste on the carpet. The air is filled with what looks like TV static.

Then my eyes adjust and, wait, that’s a swarm of flies. And the dark shape in the center of the room is a man. He’s sitting down.

He stands up, and now I see horns on its head, like a bull.

I imagine telling my students, for extra credit, can anyone tell me why there is a seven-foot Minotaur standing in my bedroom?

I look at this thing and start thinking of homeless people with coats that smell like weeks of sweat and rain, mud-caked beards, standing around burning oil drums, living under bridges like mythical creatures of their own, and now I’m thinking, oh no, no, no, no, this goddamn thing is living here, isn’t it?

I look away from the window. I look in again, and the Minotaur is still there.

My head feels like its made of clay, like I did a bad job of sculpting it, and now it’s about to roll off my head.

I see you down there, looking up at me. I know that the moment I step back on the ground, I’ll need to say something, anything, before time can start again.

***

You woke up the next day and told me you had a nightmare.

And then you didn’t say anything else.

I folded my newspaper over and finished my coffee. You were standing in the hallway.

I said, "Honey, don't bite your lip.”

You told me you weren’t biting your lip.

I said, "You were going to. That's how you start whenever you're stressed."

You said, "Well, I think I have a right to it this time."

You went over and washed out a coffee mug. There were some dishes and cups in the sink, and suddenly I was worried about the dishes. Those dishes will bother you, I thought. I had promised to wash them whenever staying at your place.

We were both thinking that maybe this would be like the horse. Maybe it would just go away.

We stayed in the apartment for the rest of the afternoon. It was Saturday. You woke me up Sunday morning and pressed your crying face against my neck, so tight it felt like my throat had sprung a leak.

Looking back, I should have said something, but I just didn’t know the right thing to say. I thought about the news vans parked around the university, and then I thought about the tenure committee. And then I thought about us, but only after the first two.

***

Monday morning found our university with another visitation.

The crowd at the sorority house was nearly triple the size of the one from the university pool. Nobody wanted to be the one who heard it from a friend. News reporters counted into microphones and cameramen checked their lenses for dirt. Girls fixed their skirts like at a dance, and the boys watched.

A student of mine called out to me by the police barricades. A dozen heads turned to see who it was, and when they saw that it wasn’t anyone important, they turned back to the sorority house.

"I know a girl inside,” he said. He opened his camera phone. “She's in one

of the rooms sending me clips."

He showed me a three-second video taken through a half-opened doorway. I saw something like a goat on its hind legs, digging in a trash bin.

Unlike the other two reported visitations, the satyr was facing charges of sexual

harassment and trespassing. Many students protested that it shouldn't be arrested, considering that it was an endangered species. A news reporter recognized me from the earlier interview, and then so did the rest, and I spent the next thirty minutes giving interviews while people looked at me and wondered if I had been standing there before.

I watched as firefighters ascended ladders, harvesting frantic girls from open windows.

You were still asleep when you I left. I dialed your cell, left a message, and then went to prepare for my first lecture.

No students showed up. I went back to my office.

***

I received a call from Martin Sturges, president of the university, a man that I had

spoken to only once in my four years. The school was refusing to release the satyr to the authorities.

"But what about the girls?" I asked.

"We’re moving them to a motel.”

Later, I heard that the sorority house’s treasury received a generous check from Beatrice Sturges, Martin's mother and reigning matriarch, who founded the sorority over sixty years ago.

He put me on hold without asking. The school fight song played in my ear,

and I watched students move past my window in excited flocks.

When he came back, he made an offer: tenure and a generous raise in exchange for my taking on full responsibilities as the school's spokesperson in regards to all future visitations, effective immediately. No review committee, no weeks of waiting.

“Frankly, I don’t understand what the hell is going on,” he said. “But you do, right?”

Right. I knew. Of course I did.

I told him I'd call back. I stood up, stretched, and paced around the room. I looked out the window; more students were walking by, an endless stream of them. More of them every year.

I dialed your number. I decided against leaving another voice message.

***

One of our student organizations petitioned to put together a weeklong "Mythological Creature Awareness Expo" as an opportunity for the students to learn about the visitations while sharing their thoughts on its impact in their lives. As part of my new job, I was told to provide a lecture and Q&A session sometime during that week.

A courier brought a box of business cards to my office, smelling of fresh ink.

On my way to class, I found a yellow flyer advertising a group lawsuit for anyone suffering from "Post-Mythological Creature Trauma". My students buzzed with rumors that humanitarian and animal rights groups were preparing to descend.

You were out sick all week. When I tried to come by, you were either not home, or too tired to talk. That’s OK, because the new spokesman job was keeping me busy.

The house remained untouched since that night. The contractors were on hold until forever, it seemed.

You and I met for lunch at our favorite place.

I avoided talking about my appointment as the mythology spokesman -- which I could tell you hated -- and spent the whole time talking about safe subjects, like movies and how efficiently the waiter refilled our bread.

Some of the diners recognized me from television, and you bristled under

the constant stares.

“Your interviews are bullshit.” This was you talking in the parking lot.

“I’m just doing my job,” I said.

You asked, “And what are we going do about the house?”

I said, “We’re going to finish it.”

“And what about the you-know-what?”

I saw the house bursting into flames, me dancing around it with a can of gasoline.

I saw myself eating a big steak sandwich, extra rare.

***

You called me the next day and apologized.

You asked, "Can you pick me up tonight? I want to go by the house."

After I finished my classes, we drove back to the unfinished house. I noticed you were holding a backpack in your lap.

A few minutes later, and with no cars on the street, I stole another glance at the

bag. You immediately slid it down by you feet. I asked, "What do you got there?"

"Nothing," you said. “Just some food. I thought that he might be hungry.”

"What?" I asked.

"Well, what the hell would you do?" you snapped. "Do you want the neighbors to

see him going through their garbage? Or worse, what if he starves?"

I pulled the car into our neighborhood. The house stood apart from all the other homes on the row.

"Only four," you said, meaning the number of times you’d gone by. "We have to watch over him."

You went on: “I was thinking maybe we'd get a farm out west."

I said, “No.”

“And take care of him.”

“No.”

I pulled up next to the house, and left the motor running. I stared out my window

at the perfectly harmless house across the street, the one without the monster.

I couldn't turn to look at you.

No, that's a lie. I could. I just didn't want to.

We got out of the car. You led the way into the house. I tried blocking you at the door, but there was something about your expression that disarmed me, promised me that everything would be all right.

We walked up the staircase. Maybe you had no real plan other than just leaving town. But, that was more than enough for you. And wasn’t there a time when that would have been more than enough for me, too?

You opened the bedroom door, and I held my breath. Like entering the wrong bathroom stall.

You crept over to it while I remained in the doorway. You stroked its matted fur and whispered a greeting in its ear. This must have been how it was like on one of your expeditions, that part you kept hidden from me. You placed the butcher’s paper full of raw meat on the floor. You didn’t notice when I left the room, or when I closed the front door.

***

I waited outside in the car for fifteen minutes before you came back.

“What now?” I said.

You asked, “What do you mean?”

I said, “I’m not going to live on a farm.”

You nodded. “This is what I have to do.”

I told you I understood. But, I knew you didn’t believe me.

I looked at the dark house. The windows were eyes, watching us.

I said, “I don’t want to lose you.” And I meant that, I swear to God.

"You won’t lose me,” you said.

“Then tell me why,” I said. “Tell me why you’re doing this.”

I could see from the reflection in the glass that you were biting your lip again. I didn’t call you on it.

“Why do you need a ‘why’?” you asked the window. “Why can’t you just believe that this is what I need to do?”

“Because it doesn’t make sense! Because I can’t just put it away. It’ll keep coming back up, every time I try to defend your actions in my mind. Every time I argue why things ended, I’ll have to say, ‘I just didn’t know’.”

You said, “But, I don’t know why.” Then, I saw your reflection close its eyes.

I asked you what was going through your mind right now. “Just tell me,” I said. “Tell me something.”

You shook your head, still facing the window. You said, “I don’t know. It just feels like the right thing to do. I can’t explain it better. I just need to do this, OK?”

Outside, leaves were flying past. A storm was coming to drown the world.

We were quiet for a second. Then, very softly, I said, “I just need a reason. . .”

And then you were looking at me, not a reflection, your eyes real and wet, and you were telling me to take you home, telling me that you didn’t want to talk anymore, and then the first raindrops hit my windshield, so I switched on the wipers and waited for a flood.

***

During my press conference in celebration of “Mythological Creatures Awareness Week”, I was interrupted by a rabble of students that called themselves the Olympians. This group of toga-clad students took the stage, and before several television cameras, announced the return of the Greek gods.

I saw some of my students praying to Zeus before class. I felt proud of my religious tolerance.

And then, later that week, three students were found frozen in stone, their faces transfixed in contortions of fright. Only a handful of hardened gamblers won that bet.

Curfews were set. Night classes were canceled. The majority of students stayed, judging that the high cost of losing a semester of school still outweighed the risk of being killed by the snake-haired Gorgon.

Although a doctor was called in and swore that the stone students were, in

fact, still alive, this did not slow the onrush of bad TV reenactments.

Three days after the first Medusa attack, the university was hit with several group

lawsuits, the same ones that had circled overhead for months. They misspelled my name in the notice.

The lights were off in my office and the door was locked. I was working on a glass of bourbon when you called me.

"You know," I said, into the phone, "There was once a time when I thought contractors were the worst thing that could happen.”

I heard chanting outside my window. For a moment, I thought it was directed at

me, but then I realized that they were protesting for the release of the satyr. I heard the feedback of a bullhorn, and then an amplified voice started in again.

You said, “I saw you on TV.”

“Oh.” I reached for the glass again.

You said, “You looked terrible.”

I said, “Good.”

You asked if I had really written what I had said in my statement.

I said, “I didn’t write it.” This was true. By now, everything I said went through three different review groups before it was media-safe.

There was a pause, and then you said that you were leaving this week.

I looked at my desk, imagining your face forming above the mess of papers like in a séance.

I said, “I’m staying.”

You asked me if I was drinking, and I said only in-between breathing.

You said, “Yeah, you sound it.” Your voice was clearer. I knew you were smiling.

I said, "I want to see you.”

"No."

"Yes,” I said.

You were quiet. Outside, the bullhorn squealed; I heard another round of applause. “Come on,” I said. “They’re cheering for us.”

***

The papers are now calling for my resignation and possible incarceration. Animal Control finally captured the Gorgon through the use of motion sensor technology and the type of mini-rovers that shut down on NASA expeditions.

I went by your apartment yesterday. The landlord had not yet caught on that you were gone, since he rarely takes notice of anything that isn’t in the shape of a rent check.

All that remained was the furniture and any other thing that you couldn’t carry. I

arrived the day of the move, as we had planned that day in the office, only to find that you had already left. I checked the house, too. He was gone, too.

I found your old paperback sci-fi novels everywhere. I didn’t know you had so many. I found them behind the toilet and in your empty cabinets. In stacks in the closet, and even one that had slid under the refrigerator.

I found the book you were reading in bed when we watched the news of the siren. I recognized the faded cover with the picture of a 60’s style flying saucer that looked more like a shiny dinner plate someone had flung really fast.

I sat down on your floor and was determined to read the whole thing. Within the first twenty pages, I cited at least ten acts of plagiarism from classic mythology. I read it anyways and did not finish until close to morning.

***

They released the siren to the aquarium. I went to see her today. I press my nose to the cool glass of the soundproof tank and pretend that I smell the ocean. I imagine that I can hear her call. Then, she is there. She recognizes me and smiles, then swims away.

In mythology, the siren song drove sailors to their ruin. They’d crash their ships on the rocks surrounding the island and drown.

In my exams, many of my students answer incorrectly, saying it’s the melody that made the men’s hearts ache with longing. I correct their papers and write my answer in bold red ink, as if this alone makes it fact.

“It wasn’t the melody,” I say out loud to the glass. “It was the words.”

But there’s no one around to listen.

© 2010 daniel indalecio guzman, all rights reserved.