Half Dead

by Brandon Graham

  “You’re not banging that tasty senorita are you?”

  Calvert sees Rosa wiping down tables near the front window.

  “No,” Calvert says.

  “Great. ’Cause I suddenly got a hankerin’ for something hot and Mexican spiced. You stay put. I’ll be back.” With that, Allen slides out of the van and into Coffee Girl. Calvert watches the two disappear into the recesses of the store.

  His body works up the emotional equivalent of heartburn, and it lodges in his chest. Perhaps it’s rage. He feels he could do great violence. He can’t pinpoint what he has to be enraged about. A sound behind him demands his attention.

  Daisy is a small beagle with a tan spot around one dark eye. She wiggles in her crate, her nails pattering as she walks in a tight circle and flops down.

  Calvert looks back at Coffee Girl. He sees Allen return to the front door. Calvert slams the rest of his drink. After he swallows, he regrets not tasting it.

  Back in the driver’s seat, Allen says, “The senorita was not receptive to my advances. It’ll take more than one visit.” He puts the van in drive and goes.

  Calvert watches the city and makes no comment.

  Ten minutes of driving takes the van to the back of the International, a luxury hotel within walking distance of the Art Institute and Millennium Park. There are a few parking spots near the loading docks in the back. Allen parks badly, taking one and a quarter spots. Calvert shifts around in the bucket seat.

  Allen says, “Kaz probably told you how I was in the joint. He loves giving the impression he would give an ex-con a leg up. But that’s bullshit. Kaz didn’t hire me. The old man did. I bet you want to know the whole story.” Calvert doesn’t answer. He holds his paper cup stiffly, uncertain where to put it. Allen instructs him, “Chuck it on the floor. I’ll clean it out sometime.”

  Calvert leans down to place the cup between his loafers. His movement is hindered by either the seat belt or creeping rigor mortis. He flicks the cup the rest of the distance.

  Allen continues talking, “Everyone wants to know two things: why I was inside and did I get raped in prison. Let me clear that up right now. No. I didn’t get raped. Believe me. I see you doubt it. I’m not a big guy and I’m kind of pretty. Long hair. Lean. Nice proportions. But I’m stronger than I look. I never had sex with a man and I never will. Nobody made me do anything. Okay?”

  “Okay,” Calvert replies solemnly. It seems important to Allen.

  “Glad we got that straight. Now quit gabbing and let’s get to work.” Allen steps out of the van. Calvert adjusts where his watch rides his wrist, slides out, and walks to the back of the van.

  “Put this on,” Allen has the doors open and hands Calvert some branded coveralls.

  Allen slips his uniform over his dirty jeans and pokes his shoes out the leg holes. Calvert unfolds his new outfit and kicks off his shoes. There is a lengthy struggle to put his inflexible body into the unyielding uniform. At one point, his watch gets caught in the sleeve, and Allen has to help free his wrist. Before Calvert forgets, he takes his prepaid phone from his pants pocket and secures it in his uniform pocket before zipping up from crotch to throat and awaiting further instructions.

  Meanwhile, Allen has dragged a dolly onto the pavement and started stacking it with items: a heavy five-gallon bucket, a lighter five-gallon bucket, a pile of plastic sheeting, and an industrial blower of some kind. “Hop up and let Daisy out.”

  Calvert doesn’t hop. Instead, he walks to the side door, leans in, and squeezes the latch so the wire door swings free. Daisy bursts out, all wiggles and happy licking. She snuffles Calvert’s hand and his coveralls, and licks his chin. She stands stiff and gives a haunting howl.

  “That’s strange,” Allen says. “That’s the sound she makes when she finds bugs. You don’t feel itchy do you?”

  Calvert assesses his body’s dull receptors. “I don’t think I’m infested.”

  “I’m just shittin’ ya. She’s excited, that’s all. Clip that leash to her harness.”

  Inside the service elevator, Allen positions the dolly and hits the button for the eighth floor. Daisy lies down on top of Calvert’s feet. Allen pinches his nose.

  “Shoo-weee! What the hell is that smell?”

  Calvert takes a big sniff. “I don’t smell anything.”

  “Is your nose broke? It’s about to knock me over. Look.” He points down at Daisy. “Daisy couldn’t take it. She passed clean out.” At the mention of her name, Daisy lifts her head and wags her tail. “You really can’t smell that stench?” Allen’s voice is as pinched as his nose.

  Calvert sniffs again. “I can’t smell that well since …” He considers saying “my death” but knows it makes people uncomfortable. He says, “my accident.”

  “Well, that’s fucked up. Consider yourself lucky ’cause it smells like they’ve been hauling bodies in this box. Wonder if they had to get rid of a dead hooker?” Allen waits for Calvert to laugh. He’s still waiting when the elevator doors open.

  Allen pushes the dolly ahead of him. Calvert and Daisy follow down a stretch of carpeted hallway. The guestrooms are open, the beds stripped.

  “Here we go.” Allen says. He parks the dolly. “How was your weekend? You do anyone interesting?”

  Calvert says, “I took two showers, added contacts to my phone, and read old newspapers.”

  Allen nods. “You’re my kind of party animal.” Then he gets down to business. “So let me teach you the system.” He takes hold of the leash. Daisy shakes her floppy ears, the tags on her collar rattle. Calvert stands attentively.

  “You get to the block of rooms you’re supposed to check. You try not to cross paths with any guests. The management doesn’t want people getting the impression there’s a problem. If a bunch of guests get itchy at the thought of bed bugs, start calling the front desk, it equals more work for us.” Allen pauses, misreading the blank look on Calvert’s face. “I know what you’re thinking, Cal; you’re thinking more work, more money. I like the way you think. It used to be a good panic meant more money. But with these contracts Svetlana writes, it means more work with no more money. So it’s best to avoid guests. Okay?”

  “Yes.”

  “I start with the lowest room number and work my way along one side, then stop for lunch. After that, come back along the other side. Kaz likes to zigzag this side of the hall, that side of the hall, this side, that side.” He makes a zigging and zagging motion. “It’s stupid. You have to keep track of rooms to know when to take lunch. Jackson trained me to do one side, then the other. That’s what I’m teaching you. Got it? I don’t want to catch you zigging.”

  “I will not zig.”

  “Or?”

  “Nor will I zag.”

  “Good. The beds have been stripped by housekeeping. See?” He points in the first room. Calvert sees the bare mattress and nods. “This clipboard here”—he takes up a clipboard hooked to the dolly—“has the job number, room numbers, the date, this box here, and a place for notes.” He angles the clipboard to show Calvert. “We go to the first room: eight thirty-six. Lowest number. See?” He points to the number on the page, then the matching room number on the open door.

  “Yes.”

  “You say to Daisy, ‘Daisy. Sit.’” Daisy sits. Allen unclips her leash. “Daisy. Go.” Daisy’s head drops and her haunch sticks in the air. She puts her nose on the carpet, sniffling and maneuvering, smelling a spot here, a bit of paper there.

  “It takes ten minutes per room. If she’s on to something, she may linger. If there is food on the floor or stinkin’ foot odor in the closet, it might take longer. Let her work. But if it runs past fifteen minutes and she hasn’t sounded the alarm, get her to the next room.” Allen looks at his watch. Calvert turns his watch up too.

  After a long silence Allen says, “So you was a professor?”

  “Yes, I was a doctor of Russian literature.”

  “Go on and say something smart.”

  Calvert has forgotte
n most of what he once knew. Allen insists. Calvert searches his memory. The name Pushkin comes to mind and crosses his lips: “Pushkin.”

  “What’s a Pushkin?”

  “Often called the father of Russian literature, Pushkin was best known as a poet early in his career. But I’m especially fond of a collection of stories titled …” Calvert can feel the thought slipping away. He finishes quickly, “The Tales of the Late Ivan Petrovich Belkin.”

  Allen flicks a tendril of scraggly hair from his field of vision. Then he says, “Well. Okay. What use is that to me?”

  “None that I know of,” Calvert says. If standing in front of a classroom, he would have argued the value of literature, the arts, the historical context, understanding the human condition. But in this hallway, being interrogated by an ex-con while waiting for a hound to sniff for blood-sucking insects, he feels the argument might fail to find purchase.

  “No wonder you had to get honest work,” Allen says.

  “No wonder,” Calvert replies.

  Daisy, having finished her inspection, returns to the doorway, walks in three circles and lies with her side on Calvert’s right shoe. He looks at her fondly, leans over to scratch her head, and gives her side a few firm pats.

  “Well, lookie there,” Allen says. “She likes you.” Allen hands the leash over. “Clip her up so she knows she’s still working.” Calvert reattaches Daisy’s leash. “When Daisy finds evidence of infestation, she’ll yowl like she did in the van. If she does that, you gotta clip her up fast to let her know to stop. Got it?” Calvert nods. “Once you finish a room you find it on the clipboard, see?” He traces his finger under the number 836.

  “Yes.”

  “You check the box to show the inspection was completed. In the notes, you jot the time.” Allen passes the clipboard to Calvert. Calvert stares at the spreadsheet. Allen produces a pen from behind his ear. “Go on.”

  Calvert checks the appropriate box and turns his watch and writes the time.

  “Good,” Allen says. “You did good. Now what, Professor?”

  “Go to the next room?”

  “Good. And which room is next?”

  “Eight thirty-eight. No zigging or zagging.”

  “Damn, you catch on quick.”

  With that, the three move slowly down the hall, one room at a time. It takes three hours to check half the rooms on the list. Allen walks away for a time. Just before they stop for lunch, he comes out of a room, tippling a tiny bottle of vodka. When the last even numbered room is cleared by Daisy, Allen says, “Cop a squat and let’s have some grub.”

  Calvert sits on the thick carpet with his back to the wall, his legs stretched in front of him. He feels the warmth of Daisy as she rests her chin in his lap. He rustles her ears in a way she seems to appreciate.

  “Grab your lunch, Professor. It’s mandatory break time.”

  Allen takes a Walmart bag from the dolly and pulls out two plastic butter tubs. Daisy perks up, trains her attention on Allen. He shakes one of the tubs. It sounds half full of something small and hard. Daisy stands, focused. She yips.

  Allen peels the lid and sets the tub on the carpet near Calvert. Daisy yips again.

  “Stay,” Allen says, a playful warning. “Staaay. Stay. Staaay. Go.” Daisy has her nose in the tub, crunching kibble before Calvert sees her move.

  “If she gets hungry, she gets distracted.” He twists the top off a bottle of water and dumps it in the other butter tub. Daisy lifts her head from the kibble. “Go on,” Allen tells her. She sticks her face in the water and laps loudly.

  Allen sits catty-corner, his back along the opposite wall. He pulls food from a wadded brown paper bag. He looks at Calvert. “Eat,” he says.

  “I didn’t bring food. But it’s not a problem. I don’t need sustenance.”

  “Bullshit. I thought you might forget, so I made you a cheese sammich. You like mayo on your cheese sammich?” He tosses a wax paper square at Calvert. It falls in his lap. Daisy looks excitedly at the sandwich. “Daisy,” Allen warns. She goes back at her kibble.

  “Thank you.” Calvert doesn’t know if he likes mayo on his cheese sammich. He can’t remember ever having tasted such a sammich. He imagines it must be similar to a cheese sandwich, which he can only remember having eaten grilled and with tomato soup.

  “Like I was saying,” Allen says, as if they were in the middle of a conversation, “everyone wants to know why I was in prison. Well, I’ll tell you.” Allen takes a mouthful of food. Calvert peels back the wax paper to expose a block of white bread.

  Allen talks with his mouth full, pointing his food for emphasis. “I killed a woman. Broke her neck. It was an accident of course—manslaughter they call it. Funny, right? Because it wasn’t a man at all.”

  Calvert bites down and soft bread sticks to the roof of his mouth.

  “The woman was a mean old biddy. My Aunt Agnes. My father’s sister. I called her Aunt Anus because she was an A-number-one asshole.” He laughs.

  Calvert digs a finger at the wet dough suctioned to his soft pallet.

  “When my mom died, my aunt moved in. Apparently I was running wild for lack of a strong hand. She intended to be the disciplinarian I needed. ‘Spare the whip and spoil the child’ was the thing she said when she beat me. I took the beatings until I got bigger than her. One day I said, ‘I’m taking the car. There’s a girl who wants me to fuck her. I need that back seat. You understand? Give me the keys.’ We was standin’ in the upstairs hall, and I said it to her face. Can you believe it? I was sick of her ridin’ my ass every goddamned day and raisin’ her hand to me like it was for my own good. Bullshit is what it was. You can imagine the whole thing provoked her. Can you imagine the balls I had? Can you?”

  “I cannot imagine the balls.”

  “Well, I said it. We started to tussle over the car keys. I nearly broke her brittle old fingers gettin’ the keys out of her claws. I held them high where she couldn’t reach. I laughed right at her. You know what she did?”

  “What?” Calvert asks. He holds his sammich, one bite missing. Daisy finishes her kibble and seems to be listening too.

  Allen puts the last half of his lunch in his face and talks around it. “She couldn’t reach the keys, but she could reach my face, and she hauled back and smacked me so hard it rattled my teeth. I bit my tongue and my cheek swoll right up. I don’t mind tellin’ you, it came as a shock. I forgot the keys and she snatched ’em right quick.

  “Lordy, I was mad. You know that sayin’ about seein’ red? Well, I did. My blood got up and I didn’t think about it. I shoved her hard as I could. That old bitch come off her feet and flew straight down the steps. She didn’t hit one stair on the way down. A swirl of housedress, slippers come off her feet, she landed on her big Irish head. Neck snapped like a dry twig. Dead as a doornail. The end. It’s easy to kill a person. That’s a thing I learned. Sometimes it’s harder not to kill someone than it is to kill ’em. I mean it.”

  Calvert knows how suddenly a person can die. He tries not to imagine Mere after her life left her body. Doing so brings the image to him immediately. Then he sees his student Kati with her head bashed open and blood leaking from her ears. And he knows, too, there was someone called Bump who never made it into the world. His synapses snap and pop and fire in a déjà vu loop as real as the moment of the actual tragedy. He’s distressed. If I were alive, this would be unbearable. The vision recedes, and he tries to forget what he’s seen.

  Allen says, “It’s a real conversation stopper I know. But on the plus side, I met my wife while I was on the inside. She read about me in the paper and wrote to me. We married while I had three years left. Very romantic. We got conjugal visits. You know what that means?”

  “Yes,” Calvert says. Though he can’t remember what the term entails, he’s certain he doesn’t want to hear about it.

  “It means we got to fuck in a trailer in the prison yard. If you’ve never been a convict fuckin’ in a trailer, then it’s hard to exp
lain,” Allen says knowingly. He cranks the lid off a Yoo-hoo chocolate drink and washes down his sammich. “You know what, though? I have regrets. I wish I’d fucked that high school girl before I went away. The one I needed the keys for. She had a body for sinning. I should look her up. A man has to have somethin’ on the side. You know?”

  “Yes.” Again, Calvert hopes not to hear about it.

  “A piece of ass on the side is different than a mistress. A piece of ass is a piece of ass. But a mistress is a commitment. It requires an investment of time. There’s a woman who works here I’d be willing to take as a mistress.” Allen looks up the hall as if the woman might materialize. She does not.

  Calvert remembers a moment when Meredith’s eyes locked on his from a distance, the exact instant that she cared more about hurting him than about self-preservation. He knows he deserved what he got, even if Meredith didn’t. He doesn’t want to remember any more.

  He sets the rest of his cheese sammich on the carpet. Daisy snaps it up and swallows it whole. She shows her teeth in a canine smile, her tongue slipping out the side of her mouth.

  Allen screws the cap back on his Yoo-hoo and says, “Anyway, let’s get back to work.”

  Notification

  Monday is officially a day off, and although the Harpole case is his baby, Whistler’s plan is to move at his own pace this morning and work late into the night. He makes coffee and takes it on the iron balcony lashed to the side of his building. He doesn’t keep furniture out there, so he drags a couch cushion and sits with his knobby spine between two thin rails. It’s uncomfortable, but he makes the best of it.

  He listens to pigeons cooing on the balcony above. It’s a pleasant enough sound, but increasingly obscured by angry traffic from below.

  Relaxation is never easy for him. Once it slips away, there’s no point trying to claw it back. His boxer shorts are uncomfortable around his crotch, his neck hurts, his shoulders ache, and his gut is distended. He pats his middle and recommits to some kind of exercise. I’m stalling. He dumps the last half of his weak coffee into a hanging pot of dead flowers the previous tenant hadn’t bothered to take. “You know what they say, don’t you?” he asks the pigeons above, who coo coo quizzically. “If you love a man’s garden, you gotta love the man!” The birds don’t seem to mind his mediocre Pacino.