Bingo bango bongo.
He’d always had a good memory.He’d always had a good sense of direction.He’d been here once, half a day.But when they took you to a new home for the first time, you were keyed up.You might not act like it.You might not want them to know, and so you slumped against the window and stared out the glass and didn’t answer when the social worker talked to you.But it was like someone had popped a fresh set of double-A’s into him.You watched everything, took it all in.In case you had to run.
A thick carpet of green grass surrounded the mid-century rambler.A good yard for playing ball; that had been one of Jem’s first thoughts, because so many of the houses he’d lived in either had weeds and crabgrass, or the kids weren’t allowed on the lawn.The brick was dark red, and in the years since Jem had seen it, the windows had been replaced—these looked more modern, with black frames.The roof was flat now, too, and he’d added some kind of rooftop deck, with wooden privacy screens and a pergola.Sitting up there, watching the sun go down, you’d have a million-dollar view of the entire valley.
He drove past the house and glanced down the driveway.No cars, but the garage door was down.
Jem flipped a u-ey at the next intersection and rolled back toward the house more slowly this time.It was morning.And the street was quiet.
This time, he was sure the house was empty.It wasn’t science.He couldn’t list ten reasons he knew nobody was home.But if you did this enough—if you got good at it, which meant you didn’t get caught—you could tell.Sometimes.And nobody was home in Wendell King’s house.
On the next street, he lucked into a house with balloons tied to the mailbox, and a handful of cars already lining the street.He parked behind a mommy Suburban, got a Jazz cap out of the trunk, and put on his sunglasses.Then he walked back.
Still nobody outside.
He walked down the driveway and around the side of the house.As he went, he scanned the eaves for cameras.Nothing.This was a nice neighborhood.This was the kind of place people had rooftop decks and built she-sheds and rich people came to tear everything down and put up something boring instead.No cameras around back, either, but there was a nice pair of sliding glass doors that connected with the kitchen.Jem ditched the sunglasses now and shaded his eyes to cut the reflection on the glass.Dark cabinets.Quartz countertops.A breakfast nook with a table and four chairs.
When he jiggled the door, it slid open.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Jem said under his breath.
He listened.Maybe there was a dog?That had happened to him before—more recently than he wanted to think about—but the house just breathed back at him in that way that told him nobody was home.He stepped inside and slid the door shut behind him.
On one side of the kitchen, a door opened onto the garage.It was empty, and it smelled like fertilizer.Back the other way, he passed the glass doors and the breakfast nook and went into the great room.That was what Wendell had called it.This is the great room, Jem.Smiling.He’d been carrying Jem’s bag, even though Jem didn’t want him to.They didn’t usually do that.
The great room had changed since that day.That half day.Instead of wall-to-wall brown carpet, now there were gray floorboards with a texture meant to look weathered.The furniture had changed too, microfiber replaced by leather, the neater, more constructed lines traded for a focus on comfort.The same huge window.The same fantastic view of the valley.A different TV, though.The old one had been huge—the biggest one Jem had ever seen.A CRT, which meant it had been the size of a dishwasher, and it had probably required two people to carry it.With an N64 on top.
I hope you like it.I bought it just for you.
Jem pulled at the damp fabric under his arm.He made himself start walking again.
The same tile in the foyer, but a different pendant light.Different carpet on the stairs going down to the basement.More of the gray floorboards in the dining room.The same table and chairs.The same china hutch.
I like to eat dinner in front of the TV.Do you like to do that?
And the bullshit meter—the danger meter—ticking up every time Wendell opened his mouth.Up, up, up.Little ticks.Creeping toward red.
What’s your favorite thing to eat?
Even back then, it had been McDonald’s.
New carpet—or new to Jem, anyway—led down the hallway.He passed the bathroom first and kept walking.Two bedrooms on the right.The owner’s suite on the left.
He took the door on the left.A cherrywood bedroom set: chest of drawers, dresser, two nightstands, and a big bed with a dark blue comforter.The lamps might have gone all the way back to Jem’s half-day here—brass, with fluted shades that seemed too small.Jem opened drawers: underwear, socks, shirts, pants.One nightstand turned out to be the toy chest, with several kinds of lube, a stroker, dildos of various sizes, a range of cock cages, floggers, even a pair of edible panties still sealed in plastic.
He took his coat off.He was too hot.
Do you want a dog?I’ve been thinking about getting one.
In the other nightstand, a set of scriptures with Wendell Perris King stamped crookedly in gilt letters, two pens, a box of tissues, several loose pills that looked like they were over-the-counter stuff.Boring.
And a packet of paper stapled at the corner.
The text was big, and they’d used an easy font.
Dear Mr.King,
As director of Rainbow House, I’m writing to thank you for extending your generous support once again.I’m excited to tell you that last year in Rainbow House, we celebrated several major milestones.We also introduced new programming and support that was only possible because of donors like you.The first year of our community outreach initiative—
