Chapter Six: Bias in the House

CHAPTER SIX

Bias in the House

As Brad stepped into the foyer, he reached for the keypad, but then paused, his lips twisting down in a frown.

“What’s wrong?” Bias asked, stepping in behind him.

“Nothing, it’s just . . . I guess I forgot to set the alarm.”

Bias glanced around. “Well, doesn’t look like anyone’s ransacked the place while we’ve been out, so I think you’re okay.”

“My brain’s been so scattered lately,” Brad said with a shake of his head. “Guess that comes with old age.”

“That’s what I hear, Grandpa.”

“Don’t be a whippersnapper. Have a seat in the den while I take care of my furry friend.”

Bias handed him the bags. “Don’t get lost,” he said, before heading through the archway.

Brad hurried down to the basement. Phantom was curled up by the fireplace, purring contentedly. The animal lifted its head and tensed its body, giving off suspicion like a scent, but didn’t move as Brad approached. This morning, before leaving, he’d poured more milk into the bowl and put a few more strips of bologna on the saucer. The bowl was still half full, but the bologna was gone.

Tearing open the bag of cat food, Brad emptied some out onto the saucer then backed away. Phantom scuttled forward in a cautious crouch, moving slowly. He sniffed at the dry cat food, glanced back at Brad as if to make sure the man wasn’t sneaking up on him, then began to eat.

While the cat was occupied, Brad went into the corner and set up the kitty litter box, happy to note that he saw no visible accidents anywhere, though later he’d have to check under the chairs by the fireplace. Maybe even in the fireplace itself.

Leaving Phantom to his meal, Brad went back upstairs, keeping the basement door open in case the cat wanted to wander up later. Brad returned to the den, where he found Bias staring at the painting between the two front windows. When the young man turned toward Brad, he looked somewhat stunned.

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” he said.

As happened so often in conversation with Bias, Brad found himself lost. “I beg your pardon?”

“When were you going to tell me about these paintings?”

“What about them? They’re from some local artist. Do you recognize them or something?”

Bias tilted his head and gave Brad a look that was part amused, part quizzical. “Do you seriously not know what I’m talking about?”

Brad threw up his hands as if in surrender. “Sorry, I’m thoroughly confused.”

“Come over here and look at this.”

Brad walked over to the painting and followed Bias’s pointing finger to the lower right corner. He wasn’t sure at first what he was supposed to be looking at, but then he realized a few strokes of purple paint spelled out the initials B.S. This only intensified his confusion; why would this painting bear his initials? Then again, he wasn’t the only person whose initials were—

And then realization hit like a cartoon anvil to the head. B.S.—Bias Silver.

“You did these?” Brad asked.

“I certainly did. What are the odds you’d have two of my paintings hanging in your house?”

“Pretty astronomical, I’ll say. I didn’t pick them out myself, my decorator did, but even so, that’s a pretty big damn coincidence.”

“What some call coincidence, others might call fate,” Bias said, sticking his tongue out playfully.

“Well, it’s pretty amazing whatever you call it. And you do great work.”

Bias scrunched his face up and shook his head. “It’s not my best. I much prefer realism, which is sadly out of fashion. That’s usually why only my abstract stuff sells. But hey, if it helps pad the wallet, I won’t complain.”

Brad looked from one painting to the other, scrutinizing them with a new appreciation. Each swirl and splotch suddenly held greater meaning. He realized this was because his perception had changed since he knew the artist, but the very nature of art was subjective so perception was everything.

“Got anything else of mine hanging in this house?” Bias asked.

Brad started to say no, but then thought better of it and shrugged. “I don’t think so, but I can’t make any guarantees.”

“Well, if I find the stick-figure family I drew in kindergarten on your fridge then I’ll know you’re just a creepy stalker.”

“Need I remind you that you were the one following me around in the bookstore yesterday, and then you showed up at my doorstep this morning? So who’s really the stalker here?”

Bias smiled and said, “I’ll plead the fifth on that one. Now give me the tour already.”

Brad led his guest into the hallway and was about to push through the door into the dining room when he realized Bias wasn’t following. The young man had stopped by the foot of the staircase and was staring around himself, wearing an almost childlike look of wonder.

“You know, if you’re this impressed by the hallway, the rest of the house may be too overwhelming for you.”

“Sorry,” Bias said, another of his infrequent blushes spreading across his cheeks. “It’s just that . . . I mean, I never thought I’d get to be inside this house. I’ve been talking about this place on my tours for years.”

“Were you off last night? I didn’t see you bring any groups by.”

“Hmm, were you looking for me?”

“Oh no, I just happened to notice a few groups go by and didn’t see you leading any of them.”

“Well, last night I was doing one of our late tours, which didn’t start until eleven.”

“That explains it. I was fast asleep by then.”

“I’m sure you were, Grandpa,” Bias said, walking past him, and entering the dining room.

U

Brad finished up the tour in his office, which was out in the carriage house. The first floor contained the garage, as well as a small studio apartment the previous owner had rented out from time to time, but the upstairs was Brad’s workspace. There were more bookshelves—these full of nonfiction volumes, old encyclopedias and atlases, and one shelf contained all the different volumes of Brad’s own books. He kept them up here because he felt it was arrogant and tacky to display them in the common areas of the main house.

The walls were papered with old movie and comic book posters he’d been collecting since he was in junior high, as well as some maps tacked up here and there. He also had framed the acceptance letter for the first short story he’d ever sold—Down the Chute, to a magazine called After Hours, for a whopping $14.61—as well as a print out of the email he received from his first agent telling him that Random House was interested in publishing Out of the Shadows, Into the Dark.

The centerpiece of the space was an old oak roll-top secretary’s desk, the accordion-type cover pushed up, the desktop littered with papers and Post-It notes and books with Brad’s Toshiba laptop in the middle of it all.

“So this is where the magic happens, huh?” Bias said, walking further into the room.

“If by ‘magic’ you mean ‘blood, sweat, and tears’, then yes, this is where it all happens.”

Wandering over to the desk, Bias picked up one of the books. “Life in Colonial America,” he read. “What are all these books for?”

“Research for my Roanoke novel.”

“Old school research. You know, you can find a lot of information on the internet these days?”

“Well, some of those loose papers are printouts from the net, but I don’t have access in the carriage house.”

“Why not?”

“Too much of a distraction. Too tempting to jump on Facebook or email every five minutes.”

“You turn your phone off too?”

“Not usually, unless I’m scrambling to meet a deadline, but I don’t answer calls or texts unless it’s someone I urgently need to talk to.”

“Like the President?”

“Yes, we often discuss foreign policy and who will die next on The Walking Dead.”

Bias ran his fingers along the edge of the laptop. “So how’s the book coming along, by the way?”

“Uh, slowly would be the answer to that question. This is the first time I’ve ever attempted to write in another time period. I’m trying to make it as historically accurate as possible, which is taking some time.”

“Well, whenever you get it done, I’ll be the first in line to grab my copy.”

“Hopefully it won’t disappoint.”

“I’ll let you know if it does,” Bias said, sticking his tongue out.

“Honest criticism, that’s all I ask for.”

They were silent for a moment, staring at one another, then Bias reached into his bag and pulled out his cell phone, handing it over. “Plug in your number for me. It’s only fair since you have mine.”

Brad took the phone, entering and saving his number, before he gave it back to Bias.

“You still have my number, right?”

“I do,” Brad said.

“Use it. I want this stalking to be a two-way street. Now, unfortunately, I need to get going. I have a two o’clock class and I’ve skipped it enough this semester.”

Brad felt a twinge of disappointment, but tried not to show it. “I’ll walk you out.”

They walked out of the office and down the stairs. The ten foot wall that ran along Wayne Street between the main house and the carriage house had a small green door in it. Brad unlocked it, and the two of them stepped onto the sidewalk.

Bias paused and pointed at the horseshoe hanging on the front of the door. “You know, that’s hanging the wrong way.”

“What do you mean?”

“A horseshoe is supposed to be hung facing up, so it looks like a U. This one is hanging down, meaning all the luck will just run right out of it.”

Brad responded with a bemused smile. He had a hard time telling when Bias was being serious and when he was just pulling Brad’s leg.

“Well, I’m off, but we’ll get together again soon.” Bias started toward the corner that would take him across to Crenshaw Square, but then turned and walked back over to Brad. “Oh, and just so there won’t be any confusion or mixed signals . . . ”

Before Brad had time to register what was happening, Bias put a hand on the back of his head and planted a soft but firm kiss on his lips. The kiss lasted several seconds, but Brad was so stunned by the unexpected kiss, he didn’t react. His posture remained rigid and his arms hung down at his sides. Just as he recovered his wits and leaned into the kiss, Bias stepped back, winked, then headed down the sidewalk without a word, disappearing around the corner of the house.

Still dazed, Brad remained where he was for another moment, reaching up to run his fingers along his lips, which tingled with something akin to static electricity. With a small smile, he stepped back through the door.

Upside down horseshoe or not, he felt pretty damn lucky.