Diary by Chuck Palahniuk (classic fiction .txt) 📗

the missing bathroom in Long Beach, the family room in Oysterville, whenever people go poking around, this is what they find. It's always Peter's same tantrum.

Your same old tantrum.

“. . . you'll die and the world will be a better place for . . .”

In all these mainland houses Peter worked on, these investments, it's the same filth written and sealed inside.

“. . . die screaming in terible . . .”

And behind her, Angel Delaporte says, “Tell Mr. Wilmot that he spelled terrible wrong.”

These summer people, poor Misty, she tells them, Mr. Wilmot wasn't himself for the last year or so. He had a brain tumor he didn't know about for—we don't know how long. Her face still pressed to the hole in the wallpaper, she tells this Angel Delaporte how Mr. Wilmot did some work in the old Waytansea Hotel, and now the room numbers jump from 312 to 314. Where there used to be a room, there's just perfect, seamless hallway, chair molding, baseboard, new power outlets every six feet, top-quality work. All of it code, except the room sealed inside.

And this Ocean Park man swirls the wine in his glass and says, “I hope room 313 wasn't occupied at the time.”

Out in her car, there's a crowbar. They can have this doorway opened back up in five minutes. It's just drywall is all, she tells the man. Just Mr. Wilmot going crazy.

When she puts her nose in the hole and sniffs, the wallpaper smells like a million cigarettes came here to die. Inside the hole, you can smell cinnamon and dust and paint. Somewhere inside the dark, you can hear a refrigerator hum. A clock ticks.

Written around and around the walls, it's always this same rant. In all these vacation houses. Written in a big spiral that starts at the ceiling and spins to the floor, around and around so you have to stand in the center of the room and turn to read it until you're dizzy. Until it makes you sick. In the light from the key ring, it says:

“. . . murdered despite all your money and status . . .”

“Look,” she says. “There's your stove. Right where you thought.” And she steps back and gives him the little flashlight.

Every contractor, Misty tells him, they'll sign their work. Mark their territory. Finish carpenters will write on the subfloor before they lay the hardwood parquet or the carpet pad. They'll write on the walls before the wallpaper or tile. This is what's inside everybody's walls, this record of pictures, prayers, names. Dates. A time capsule. Or worse, you could find lead pipes, asbestos, toxic mold, bad wiring. Brain tumors. Time bombs.

Proof that no investment is yours forever.

What you don't really want to know—but you don't dare forget.

Angel Delaporte, his face pressed to the hole, he reads, “. . . I love my wife and I love my kid . . .” He reads, “. . . I won't see my family pushed down and down the ladder by you low-life parasites . . .”

He leans into the wall, his face twisting hard against the hole, and says, “This handwriting is so compelling. The way he writes the letter f in ‘set foot' and ‘fat fucking slob,' the top line is so long it overhangs the rest of the word. That means he's actually a very loving, protective man.” He says, “See the k in ‘kill you'? The way the front leg is extralong shows he's worried about something.”

Grinding his face against the hole, Angel Delaporte reads, “. . . Waytansea Island will kill every last one of God's children if it means saving our own . . .”

He says, the way the capital I's are thin and pointed proves Peter's got a keen sharp mind but he's scared to death of his mother.

His keys jingle as he pokes the little flashlight around and reads, “. . . I have danced with your toothbrush stuck up my dirty asshole . . .”

His face jerks back from the wallpaper, and he says, “Yeah, that's my stove all right.” He drinks the last of the wine, swishing it around, loud, in his mouth. He swallows it, saying, “I knew I had a kitchen in this house.”

Poor Misty, she says she's sorry. She'll rip open the doorway. Mr. Delaporte, he probably wants to go get his teeth cleaned this afternoon. That, and maybe a tetanus shot. Maybe a gamma globulin, too.

With one finger, Mr. Delaporte touches a big wet smear next to the hole in the wall. He puts his wineglass to his mouth and goes cross-eyed to find it empty. The dark, wet smear on the blue wallpaper, he touches it. Then he makes a nasty face and wipes his finger on the side of his bathrobe and says, “I hope Mr. Wilmot is heavily insured and bonded.”

“Mr. Wilmot has been unconscious in the hospital for the last few days,” Misty says.

Reaching a pack of cigarettes from his bathrobe pocket, he shakes one out and says, “So you run his remodeling firm now?”

And Misty tries to laugh. “I'm the fat fucking slob,” she says.

And the man, Mr. Delaporte says, “Pardon?”

“I'm Mrs. Peter Wilmot.”

Misty Marie Wilmot, the original shrewish bitch monster in the flesh. She tells him, “I was working at the Waytansea Hotel when you called this morning.”

Angel Delaporte nods, looking at his empty wineglass. The glass, sweaty and smeared with fingerprints. He holds the wineglass up between them and says, “You want I should get you a drink?”

He looks at where she pressed her face to his dining room wall, where she let one tear leak out and smeared his blue-striped wallpaper. A wet print of her eye, the crow's-feet around her eye, her obicularis oculi behind bars. Still holding the unlit cigarette in one hand, he takes his white terry cloth belt in his other hand and scrubs at the tearstain. And he says, “I'll give you a book. It's called Graphology. You know, handwriting analysis.”

And