She ran a finger along the edge of the stove top. Clean. Sparkling. Wonder of wonders. Unable to trust her eyes, she looked around the apartment in marvel. She could detect the actual color of every horizontal surface. Had he really, truly dusted? And...here she almost screamed: tell-tale grooves in the living room carpet let her know he had vacuumed as well.
She walked over to the coffee table, now cleared of the magazines and bottles and ashtrays and socks that usually covered it. A single rose lay on the table. She supposed a dozen might have been too expensive.
There was an envelope. She was suddenly gripped with dread. Was he leaving her? Cleaning her apartment, then dumping her? Who on God's green earth would...? Well, Mike might. The dread dissolved into elation, then to fear. She picked up the envelope and slid out the paper inside.
Gretchen, my honeypot: I know things haven't been good for us lately. I hope that will change. XXXX I love you. Maximus.
It was hardly a poem, but she could pretend to herself it was. And at least he had spelled everything correctly. Fearing for the future, uncertain of herself, this bit of tenderness from the most unlikely of sources had her bawling again, this time on the sofa. She clutched the paper in her trembling hands, and held it to her mouth, her red curls trembling as wave after wave of grief shook her. And then she decided she to go to bed. The best thing to do was sleep. Tomorrow would be different. Dennis and Nickel and Dime might be after her, but at least her boyfriend seemed, finally, to be on her side. Or behind her, watching her back.
She hauled her body off the sofa and clomped to the bathroom. She would brush her teeth, then snuggle under the covers and let sleep remove her from the world for—she looked at her watch—seven hours at least. Unless Nickel and Dime fired her before her next shift.
She couldn't bear to look at herself in the mirror. She had a quick pee, flushed, noticed he hadn't closed the cap on the toothpaste, but she couldn't expect miracles, stuck the toothbrush in her mouth. And screamed at the thug in the mirror behind her. She whipped around, the toothbrush flew out of her hand—
—and shot down the still-flushing toilet bowl. It was Mike. In his new hoodie look.
“Mi—Maximus!” she gasped. “You scared the shit out of me!”
“Sorry—”
“My toothbrush!”
Her hands lunged into the swirling water, but it was too late. The toilet clanked and moaned. She tried to flush again, but there were only gurgling noises. The water jiggled a bit and then was still.
“And now I've clogged up the toilet! I'm so stupid! Ohhh, what are we going to do?”
Maximus, who was smiling as if this were funny, suddenly frowned as she burst into tears and buried her head in his chest.
“Oh, it's horrible! Awful! And now a clogged toilet on top of everything! Thank you so much for cleaning the apartment, but they're going to fire me! Fire me!”
He guided her sobbing form into the living room and sat her down on the sofa. The sight of the rose and the envelope through her bleary eyes made her cry even more.
“What's the matter, sweet pea?” Mike asked, kneeling before her, concern in his eyes. This was how it used to be. This was what he had once been like. Maximus, her old sweet dear crazy Maximus was still there somewhere, begging for release from evil masturbating Mike. His concern made her sobs even more banshee-like. Now his concern was turning to alarm.
“A—A passenger, a passenger, a p-p-p-” she tried to tell him through huge shuddering gasps.
“Can I get you anything?”
“Ch-ch-chamomile tea,” she wailed. “It, it will calm me down.”
“I'll get it,” he said, up like a shot. Maybe glad to clear the room. He slipped into his jacket. “So, chamomile tea. Anything else?”
“A-And maybe some b-beef jerky. That n-new SlimJed Jerky, please. And a s-s-scratch card,” Gretchen sobbed. She surprised herself. Where in her deranged brain had she got the notion...? But she had a pregnancy-type yearning for her parents' jerky, a need to have her mom and dad close, and she had forgotten to buy any scratch cards on her trip that day. She had had other things on her mind.
“Sure,” Mike said, though now he looked taken aback and a little pissed off. As if she were taking advantage of his good nature, plucking luxuries out of the air now and parading them as necessities. Who needed beef jerky and a scratch card when they were as cut up as Gretchen was?
“L-let me get my purse.” She looked around the living room as if she had never been there before. Where had she put her purse? “I don't think I h-have the strength to look for it.”
“Don't worry about it,” Mike said, but he made no move to leave, his right hand half inside the pocket of his baggy jeans, twitching. He was seemingly debating the cheapness of pulling his hand out and stretching it out for the money, demanding she pay for what she wanted with her own money, no matter what state she was in. This did not escape Gretchen. Something flashed in a corner of her brain, but she wasn't quite sure what it was. She scrabbled among the cushions.
“It must be here somewhere,” she said, her voice now warbling, slightly hysterical, her eyes still flowing tears. And the seconds ticked by with him standing there and her searching for money. Money to give to him. One second, two seconds, three seconds...
“Don't worry,” Mike repeated, but this time there was finality in his voice, and his lips were a thin line. His hand disappeared into his pocket, and he pulled out his keys. “I'll get everything you want.”
“I-I'll pay you back,” Gretchen sobbed. “As soon as I find my purse.”
He nodded, but it was as if he didn't trust her. Then he opened the door and was gone. The moment the door closed, she found her purse under the coffee table. She unsnapped it with shaking fingers, and even though the tears were still fresh on her cheeks, now there was rage directed at Mike. She didn't know, with how miserable she was, how she had the clarity to understand what had just happened. Even in her state of distress, he wanted her to pay for her own tea.
She found a ten dollar bill and threw it on the table. Her hand brushed against the rose, knocked it to the freshly-vacuumed carpet. It was the beginning of the end.
CHAPTER 11 NOW
THEY STARTED WITH NOUNS, then moved on to 'the,' 'a' and 'an,' but then Gretchen got confused.
All she knew to tell Darko was that before words like 'car,' 'office,' 'package,' 'crime,' 'arrest' and 'prison,' he should say one of the three. Maybe they were the wrong examples, but they blurted out of her mouth before she could stop them. Darko, shoehorned into his little schoolboy desk with his expensive suit and tie, eyed her with suspicion.
“For example,” Gretchen explained, “when we see a police officer, we say, 'there's a police officer over there,'” Was it Gretchen's imagination, or did the secretary's shoulders stiffen at the mention of the police? “and if we see him again, we say 'there's the police officer,'” and here did the secretary take a quick glance out the window?
Darko's brow was furrowed.
“Why I say 'a' and why I say 'the'?”
“Because, well...”
“Same police, yes?”
“In that example, yes.”
“So why 'a' and 'the' for same? I choice?”
“No, you can't choose. First you must say 'a,' then you say 'the.'”
“And money? I see money first, I say 'a' money, after 'the' money?”
“Erm, no.”
“Money no noun?”
“Well, yes, money is a noun. But you can't say 'a' money.”
“Why?”
“I don't know why. But you can't.”
“I no say 'the' money?”
“Uh, yes, you can.”
“Why? If I no say 'a'?”
“Darko, I—”
She jumped and her marker flew from her fingers and fell to the floor as he suddenly roared with frustration.
“Stupid English! Stupid language!” Then he ranted off a stream of what sounded like incredibly vulgar things in
his own. The secretary's typing seemed to speed up, though none of the words appeared directed at her. David was glaring angrily at the board, which Gretchen was erasing as quickly as she could. She wanted to make all the 'a's and 'the's she had written disappear to hopefully calm him down.
“Let's do something easier,” she suggested with her best Nickel and Dime smile. “Let's talk about how to make verbs, action words, past.” Darko looked at his watch, then down at his phone. He seemed not to be listening to the babbling of strange, incomprehensible sounds coming out of her foreign mouth. He seemed to be reading a text in his native tongue. She plowed on regardless. “You need two little letters at the end of every verb, and these letters are 'e' and 'd.'”
“Enough today!” He snapped shut his notebook.
“But we've only been—”
“Two more hour, you have.”
“That's another thing. Two more hourSsss. One hour, two hourSsss. Plural. S.”
“I not say two hourSsss to peoples on street. Like idiot.”
“No, I'm just stressing for you. 'Two hours' is fine for you to say to people on the street.”
“Two hour you have.” His face suddenly beamed. “Ah! From yesterday, Juko tell me you take package. I call to see if you do. Time for you take package again.”
Gretchen nibbled her lower lip. She braced herself. She suspected this might happen. She looked to the secretary for support, but the chair was empty.
“Darko, I'm really not comfortable...”
“Sit!” he demanded.
She sat. Darko leaned towards her. His eyes were glimmering with something, but she didn't know if it was menace, threat, power, delight, lust, or a mixture of all five. He said slowly and carefully, in a barely-audible whisper. “I tell time for you take package.”
“I really don't think...”
Gretchen jumped as he exploded.
“I pay you! You make brain hurt! Need rest! Stupid 'a!' Stupid 'the!' You not want take package, give me money. Give me back a money. Give me now.”
But of course she couldn't. It was already spent.
“I've, I've...”
She was saved by the ringing of his phone. He snatched it and stared at the number. His face grew puce with fury. He answered and roared down the line, then hung up, flushed, grappling his tie and tearing it from his collar. He towered over her again. Even as she trembled, she could smell the garlic and coffee on his breath.
“My enemy.” He motioned toward the phone. “He owe money. Big money. In my land, I say you what I do to enemy. I find a homeless. I give a homeless twenty drashka and big bottle beer for attack enemy with rock. Big rock. Kill with rock. A homeless happy to do. I do all time. Man, woman, I no care. My enemy, my enemy. A homeless kill with rock, cheap, problem solve, easy. Rock everywhere. A homeless everywhere.”
Gretchen was speechless. She knew the rich stayed rich by counting their pennies, but, really! Bargain bin hit men? Darko certainly had mastered the art of getting value for money. In his land? She wondered. And in this land...? Had she just been threatened? She didn't know if it was a smile or a sneer on his face. How many of his enemies had died at the hands of a homeless man, a rock in one, a bottle of beer in the other? She really understood at that moment Darko's necessity for English lessons. It really was difficult to know what he was saying, and it was now essential that she did.
“Now! You take package!”
He went to the unmanned desk, opened a bottom drawer and took out a package similar to the one from the day before. He held it out.
After his revelation, she was powerless to refuse. Gretchen adjusted a smile on her face, grabbed the package and got up on legs like string. She left the office.
“See you tomorrow!” Darko called out cheerily.
She left the building, and the cardboard box was still there outside. She stared at it, the package clutched to her chest as if it would save her. Perhaps it could. She stared around the street. Next to the Dunkin Donuts was a disheveled, gray-skinned being pawing through a garbage can. On the steps of the brownstone across the street, a woman with a walker festooned with plastic bags overflowing with empty bottles, what looked like an old fashioned Easter bonnet on her head, was gnawing on a chicken bone. How many more homeless people were on this block alone? Which one might Darko choose? Which ones had he already chosen?
Gretchen hurried down the street to the subway entrance. Seven minutes before, she had seen the homeless as people to be pitied or helped, someone to pass a dollar to when she had an extra one (which wasn't often), people, when she was in a bad mood, to be momentarily annoyed or repulsed by. Never as people to fear. But that was then, and this was now.
The address on the package was in Crown Heights, Brooklyn. She had to ride the 4 train for half an hour. She had set the homeless problem to the side for the moment. There were only so many things she could think of at the same time.
She was still struggling in this new world of hers, after her horrid realization last night. The person she had thought she was had disappeared, had shifted into a creature she couldn't bear thinking about. And it filled her with shame. The moment she dropped off the package, she'd find a church and confess. There had to be churches in Crown Heights. Many, in fact, if the large percentage of Hispanics apparently going home around her on the train was anything to go by. She tried to make her mind go blank. She couldn't deliberate over what she had done. She had to think of something else. She certainly didn't want to read the Poetry On The Move on the wall opposite her...
Something strange had happened the night before; certainly not as strange as what she had desperately to confess, but a peculiar coincidence nevertheless. Hours after her discovery in the closet, she had taken her second shower in as many hours.
She had hoped to scurry into her room and avoid Roz, but Roz was sitting on the sofa eating Bliss organic ice cream. Mint Chocolate Chop. Her roommate had taken her work home with her as she sometimes did. Spread out on the coffee table and the arm of the sofa to Roz’s right elbow were pieces of jewelry, bits and bobs of metal and what looked like colored crystals, mini pliers and a screwdriver, and a tiny magnifying glass she screwed into one eye at times to inspect her work. She was apparently taking a break, watching the TV.
“Grab a spoon,” Roz invited.
Gretchen held back a distraught wail.
“I don't want to,” she said. Why was Roz being nice to her? Her roommate was usually so absorbed in what was going on in her own mind, she didn't think to be nice. I don't deserve it, Gretchen thought. I don't deserve Roz being nice to me. Being kind.
“Please don't be nice to me,” she said to Roz. “I don't deserve it.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I'm filthy,” Gretchen explained.
“Post traumatic stress disorder! Sit down now!”
Gretchen sat down beside her poor roommate as if she, Gretchen, were still the same person she had been the day before. She wondered if Roz could tell she was different now.
Roz eyed her strangely. “What are you on? Where's this victim talk coming from? Those bastard muggers really did a number on your brain, didn't they? Please, Gretchen! Don't turn out to be a crazy! I've had enough of them in my life. God knows. You're a great girl. Those kids were assholes. And I know you love Mint Chocolate Chip. Get a goddamn spoon and dig in, or I'll call the cops. It'll cure all your ills.”
Gretchen smiled wanly, but didn't get up. And she didn't much like Bliss; Ben And Jerry's tasted much better, much more real. Roz brought the spoon up to Gretchen's mouth. “Here it is, babe. The airplane coming in for a landing. And it's an Oceanic, not a pile of shit Nickel and Dime! Open wide...!! Bzzzzzz! Bzzzzzz!” She circled the spoon around Gretchen's mouth like a mother feeding an infant in a high chair.
Gretchen smiled and opened up. As she was taking a gulp, Roz's eyes went back to the screen. Law and Order: SVU was on. They both loved to binge watch the reruns and there were plenty of them, non-stop. In this
episode, detective Benson was in the morgue. The victim's autopsy was just being wrapped up, and Olivia was chatting away to the medical examiner, asking questions, time of death, caliber of bullet, stomach contents.
“I wonder how they get those actors that play the dead bodies to hold still,” Roz said. She spooned more ice cream into her mouth. “I always stare at them during the close ups of their faces. Try to see if I can see their pulse, their eyelids twitch. How do they do it? Sad, most of them don't even get a credit. They don't have many lines, after all. Or any, I guess.”
Apparently the man on the screen had been beaten up, then killed with two gunshot wounds, one to the sternum and one to the—
“Oh my God!” Gretchen shrieked, clutching Roz's wrist. The ice cream clattered to the table, then plopped on the floor.
“My jewels!” Roz wailed. “What?! What the hell is it, Gretchen?”
Gretchen wiped a chocolate chip from her chin, and even as she did it, she wondered, am I obsessed? Seeing him everywhere?! She pointed at the screen and made the noises of a gibbering idiot.
“It's him!”
“Who?”
“David?”
“Who?”
“David!”
“What?”
“The dead body!”
They were still showing the closeup of the corpse on the trolley, the camera panning around the head, showing it from all angles as the ME droned on. The flesh pallid, a bullet hole in the forehead, gun powder speckled around it, a bruise to his left cheek, stitches on a mangled lower lip, one eye swollen and purplish. But the corpse had the same cheekbones, the same cleft in the chin, the same shock of blonde hair. Gretchen couldn't see the color of his eyes as they were closed, of course, but she was sure if the corpse suddenly opened them, they would be that stunning gray.
“You really have gone fruit-loops!” Roz said. “You mean that guy you're seeing? The doctor? What the hell would he be doing on the TV?” She was wiping around the ice cream speckled bits and pieces with a shred of paper towel. “Do you know how much these things cost? They're semi-precious gems!”
Emergency Exit (The Irish Lottery Series Book 6) Page 18