“Yes,” Alan Clayton replied, a hint of irritation sneaking into his voice as he turned his attention back to the refrigerator and opened the door. On the television, Martin could see a Ford pickup bouncing over unreasonably rough terrain while a voice-over announcer proclaimed the vehicle fit for any challenge that nature might have to offer. He watched the light in the refrigerator switch on as his client stuck his bald head back in, searching for his next beer. He heard the refrigerator’s compressor turn on and noticed that the crushed can was now sitting on the kitchen table, even though the trash can was less than five feet away. He heard Cindy Clayton sigh upstairs, drop something on the floor (perhaps a shoe), and shout, “I’m going to shower now, okay?”
“All right,” Alan Clayton replied, head still in the refrigerator.
Holding his breath, Martin began moving again, arriving at the coat closet at the foot of the stairs in less than three steps. As quietly as possible, he swung the door open, turned, and backed in, allowing his body to push the coats and jackets aside to make room. He then slowly pulled the door closed, catching a final glimpse of Alan Clayton’s head as it emerged from the refrigerator just before the closet door carved out all incoming light.
Martin pulled the door almost entirely shut, stopping just short of allowing the latch to click, and breathed an enormous (though silent) sigh of relief. He felt his rapidly beating heart begin to slow, felt the adrenaline that had filled his body begin to recede, and began to relax the muscles of his shoulders and hands. Stepping as far back into the closet as he dared without risking sound, Martin stood completely still and waited. He listened to the water begin to flow in the upstairs shower and the humming of Cindy Clayton, her thin frame presumably standing beneath the warm water. He heard the channel change on the television, from sports talk to the local news. He listened to Alan Clayton belch twice more, laugh once at a remark from a local politician (the kind of sarcastic “Yeah, right” laugh that bespeaks distrust and contempt), and shout a “Goddamn it!” at the news that there was rain in the forecast for the next two days. Martin waited in the darkness, hoping that the man would use his downstairs shower soon, affording Martin an opportunity for escape.
Luck was not on Martin’s side. Shortly after listening to the rain-filled weather forecast, Martin heard the squeak of a faucet turning and heard the sound of running water cease upstairs. Cindy Clayton’s shower was finished. He could picture her standing in the bathroom, towel wrapped around her torso in such a way as to conceal the portion of her body from her breasts to her knees, a maneuver that seemed to magically extend the fabric of the towel beyond its physical dimensions. She was probably standing in front of the steam-covered mirror, another towel wrapped around her long blond hair, preparing to do whatever it was that women did to ready themselves for the world.
Martin waited, debating whether to attempt an escape if and when both clients were upstairs, or if it would be safer to just wait in the closet until they exited the home. He began calculating the odds that either homeowner might open the closet door before they left, and wondered how much room there might be on the floor of the closet for him to hide if necessary.
Cindy Clayton called down to her husband again, inquiring for a third time whether he planned on showering soon. “Just give me a minute, okay?” he replied, and Martin heard the hiss of a beer can opening. It was followed a minute later by the whine of a hair dryer from upstairs.
Martin continued to listen and wait, seeking clues that would give him an idea of his clients’ movements and positions. Minutes later, with the hair dryer still blowing, he heard the sound of rushing water in the pipes once again. The downstairs shower was running this time. Alan Clayton had finally decided to obey his wife (“Has he finished his beer or taken it to the shower with him?” Martin wondered), and now there was a decision to be made. He felt it safe to assume that Alan Clayton was no longer obstructing his escape out the patio door, but Martin now had to worry about Cindy Clayton standing in the upstairs bathroom, drying her hair. The bathroom’s door was almost perfectly aligned with the staircase, so if she had left it open before showering, there was a good chance that it would still be open now, and she would be able to see down the stairs as Martin attempted his escape.
On the other hand, if the bathroom door was closed, then Martin would be able to escape without risking detection at all, and this might be his last chance. He listened more intently to the whine of the hair dryer, attempting to discern from the quality of the sound whether or not it was muffled by an obstruction of some kind (preferably a wooden door). He couldn’t be sure. What Martin did know was that when Cindy Clayton used the bathroom for urinating, she shut the door, even when she thought she was home alone. He wondered if this same rule would logically apply to showering and hair drying. Again, he couldn’t be sure. He couldn’t remember hearing the bathroom door shut, and he felt that urinating and showering were two entirely different procedures, so to make a guess about one based upon the other would be foolish and dangerous.
He continued to ponder the situation when the decision was taken from his hands. The hair dryer stopped its whining and shortly thereafter the shower stopped as well, making it impossible for him to mentally place either homeowner anywhere within the house. Realizing that his only chance to escape might have passed, Martin squatted down and began feeling around the rear of the closet for room to hide. The closet was less than four feet deep and only about five feet wide, making it difficult for a man, even one with his thin frame, to disappear in the shadows. Fortunately, however, Martin had two things working for him. First, the closet had no light, so if he pressed his body against the baseboard along the rear wall, he might be able to conceal himself in the darkness.
The closet was also packed full with coats, jackets, several garment bags, and a collection of items from the dry cleaner, still preserved within their long, thin plastic bags. These bags and several of the coats reached nearly to the floor and would afford Martin some degree of concealment if need be.
Not seeing a reason to delay this move any further, Martin moved from his crouching position to a completely prone one, pressing his back into the corner created by the junction of the wall and floor. In the dark, it was impossible for him to tell which parts of his body were concealed by the hanging garments and bags and which were not, but there was little else he could do. In the event that the closet door was opened, he planned to close his eyes to prevent the reflection of light off his irises, but otherwise he could only lie there and wait, hoping that luck would carry the day.
He did continue to listen, however, tracking the movements of the Claytons as best as possible in the event that an unlikely window of opportunity might open, allowing him to escape. He listened as Alan Clayton ascended the stairs, presumably in order to change his clothes. He listened to the couple discuss their weekend plans, but because he wasn’t certain if Cindy Clayton was still in the bathroom, he remained in his prone position. He heard the hair dryer again, for less than thirty seconds this time, and also heard the whine of an electric toothbrush, the cause of all his trouble. Even so, he felt a great deal of satisfaction knowing that the replacement toothbrush had apparently gone undetected.
He began to worry about the key that was still stuck in the back door. If either client was vigilant about checking doors before leaving home, they would find their patio door unlocked and, if they inspected further, would discover his key. This might lead to a search of the house and his discovery.
This train of thought led him to consider what he might do if discovered. Oddly enough, it was the awkwardness of the potential situation that caused him the greatest concern. What does one say to a homeowner who finds a stranger hiding in their coat closet? He hoped that if they discovered him, Cindy and Alan Clayton would run, retreat to a bedroom or to the garage so he could avoid an explanation entirely. In that case, he would simply exit the house and run himself, hoping to outpace any police cruiser that might soon arrive in t
he neighborhood. But to have to face them, explain himself, and perhaps ask for mercy was a situation that Martin dreaded. He remembered how embarrassed and completely impotent he had felt that day in his parents’ driveway, facing his stepfather red-handed. He would do just about anything to avoid that same situation again.
Martin listened as Cindy Clayton descended the stairs, identifiable by the resumption of her soft humming. He listened to the clink of dishware in the kitchen (she was probably emptying the dishwasher, he thought) and had a momentary fit of panic as he heard the woman declare, “Hello? Are you there?” before realizing that she had placed a phone call, probably to someone on a cell phone with a poor connection. He listened intently to the conversation between his client and one of her friends, though not much was being said by Cindy Clayton. She was apparently an excellent listener, and her friend was obviously not.
Still on the phone, she called up to her husband, inquiring if he would be ready soon. He responded in the affirmative and she resumed her telephone conversation, a discussion on the merits of a local Indian restaurant. He heard the television switch off, heard the sound of running water (probably the kitchen sink), and continued to listen in as best he could to the telephone conversation. Cindy Clayton’s friend was named Jeannette. She was married to a man named Larry. He wasn’t sure what Larry did for a living, but it sounded as if he worked in some kind of medical facility. Jeannette appeared to be the type of person who turned small problems into big ones, and it sounded as if Cindy Clayton was adept at diffusing them for her friend.
Martin wasn’t surprised. Cindy Clayton seemed like the kind of woman with all the answers.
“I’ll be ready in two minutes,” Alan Clayton called from upstairs, probably from the bathroom this time. “The forecast says rain tonight, so you might want to bring a jacket.”
Martin didn’t initially connect Alan Clayton’s comment with his current location. He had become so absorbed in Cindy Clayton’s phone conversation that he had dropped his defenses. It was only when she responded with a “Thanks, honey,” her voice much closer to the closet now, that Martin realized that the jacket she was seeking was likely hanging somewhere above him.
“Did he really?” Cindy Clayton sighed as she opened the closet door, flooding the small space with light. Martin closed his eyes, pressed himself as far against the wall as possible, and held his breath. He could feel the garments around his body shift as Cindy Clayton moved jackets and coats aside, presumably looking for the right one. He dared to open one eye just enough to glimpse her bare toes, painted red, less than a foot from his shoulders. He felt his body begin to tremble but tightened his muscles in an effort to remain still.
The shifting of the coats suddenly stopped and Cindy Clayton sighed again, this time a sigh that caused Martin to momentarily forget his fright. It was a sigh that bespoke a longing and a need that Martin could have never imagined. It was a long, windy release of emotion, followed by an interminable pause that both saddened and stilled Martin completely.
“God, I wish Alan would send me flowers,” Cindy Clayton whispered into the telephone, though Martin felt as if she were speaking directly to him. “Just a single rose would do … one single rose for no reason at all. Like he used to when we just started dating.” Her voice had softened now, sounding almost childlike in Martin’s ears. It was as if she was daring to whisper a secret that had been residing within her for centuries, finally allowing the painful truth to pass through her lips. Just inches away from her, Martin felt as if Cindy Clayton’s words were meant solely for him.
“But not every guy is like your Larry right?” And just like that, the moment had passed. Her voice had suddenly, almost miraculously regained its confident, upbeat tone. A moment later, she pulled a coat from her closet and backed away, the topic having already transitioned to Jeannette’s plans to visit family in Arizona later in the month. The closet door closed, clicking shut this time, and darkness returned to Martin’s hiding space. But the words of Cindy Clayton, and especially her sigh, lingered with Martin as he listened to her conclude her phone conversation. The words had mattered, but it had been her sigh and the pause that followed that had said it all.
Seconds later, he heard Alan Clayton descend the stairs, gather his keys, and ask his wife if she had directions to their intended destination. Cindy Clayton replied in the affirmative and Martin listened as the couple switched off the lights and exited the house through the garage door. Moments later he heard the roar of a car’s engine followed by the mechanical hum of a closing garage door.
The Claytons were at last gone.
Martin waited another twenty minutes before moving from the closet, wanting to be certain that the couple would not return. Despite the discomfort, he remained perfectly still at the bottom of the closet, thinking about Cindy Clayton’s phone conversation, recalling that interminable sigh, and plotting his next move.
Once he felt it was safe, Martin exited the closet and returned the kitchen shears to their proper position in the knife rack. He then made his way out the patio door, collecting his key, but not before stopping in the kitchen to acquire one of Alan Clayton’s business cards from the box beside the calendar. He would need the man’s business address for what he had already planned.
As he made his way through the forest and back to his car, choosing a path at random this time, Martin began to mentally organize the specifics of his plan.
He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt this excited about anything.
It had already started to rain by the time Martin finally turned onto his street. The ride home had been mentally chaotic, a flurry of shocked recollections, potential solutions, and repeated attempts to quell his growing anxiety. He had just done the impossible, the unthinkable, and he found himself careening from elation to disgust to disbelief.
He had heard characters in movies wonder aloud whether a traumatic or surprising incident had really just happened, and had found the sentiment to be trite and ridiculous. But now he knew better. He knew precisely how those fictional characters had felt.
Pulling into the garage and clicking the remote control to close the large, windowless door, Martin turned off his car and stepped out, inhaling the sweet smell of pine that infused the large space.
Finally something familiar. Back to his routine.
More than two dozen pine-scented air fresheners hung from the three beams that crisscrossed the garage’s ceiling, and Martin replaced these monthly in order to ensure a clean, fresh scent. He loved his garage, and without it he believed that his career might never have taken off. He thought of a garage, particularly one attached to a house like his, as an insulating cocoon, a protective shell surrounding activities in which many families must engage in the nakedness of their driveways. Without the garage, Martin would have been forced to unload his groceries and other acquisitions in the driveway for all the neighbors to see, an act that he could not understand why others performed so freely. For example, thanks to her lack of a garage, Martin was aware that Mrs. Waggoner, the widowed retiree three houses west of him, was now suffering from incontinence, apparent from the large supply of adult-sized diapers that she purchased each week. He also knew that the Swales, who lived directly across the street, did all of their shopping at Wild Oats, the organic grocery store in town. (Therefore, he was able to categorize them as “health nuts” and knew to avoid them at all costs.) This was the type of information that Martin was able to conceal from his neighbors thanks to the warm, aromatic confines of his garage.
But Martin hadn’t always been so fortunate. Immediately following high school and up until his mother’s death a dozen years ago, he had lived in a series of apartments and rooms for rent, and these locales had posed serious problems for one who valued discretion as much as he. His last apartment, a second-floor, two-bedroom place on Willard Avenue in the neighboring town of Newington, had been extremely troublesome, especially since his client list had begun to expand during that time.
Lacking an attached garage, he had already been doing all of his grocery shopping on Tuesday mornings at 3:00 a.m. at the twenty-four-hour Stop & Shop on Fenn Road, in an effort to ensure that his shopping habits wouldn’t become his neighbors’ latest topic of conversation. But after building a lengthy client list (about half its current size) and increasing his acquisitions each week, Martin had been forced to dramatically adjust his schedule to accommodate the success of his new business. After completing his morning and afternoon visits to clients, he would eat dinner, clean up, and go to bed around seven, waking up each morning at three in order to transport his acquisitions from his car into the apartment under the cover of dark. These logistical problems also prevented Martin from acquiring most refrigerated and frozen foods in the warmer months, as these acquisitions would often sit inside his car for hours before it was safe to relocate them. The move to his mother’s home, with its gloriously insulating garage, had been an enormous boon to his already thriving business.
Taking a moment to breathe in the pine-scented air that he enjoyed so much, Martin turned in a slow, 360-degree arc, admiring the space that he had created for himself and relishing the safety it afforded. Just being inside the garage had allowed him to relax a bit, to slow his breathing and return his body to a state of equilibrium. Routine and regularity were proving to be his mental salvation, beginning with the garage.
The walls were covered with orderly rows of tools used in lawn maintenance: clippers, shovels, rakes, hoes, and many of the smaller, handheld tools used for gardening. Each tool looked as if it had hardly been used, but Martin in fact used his tools quite often and was meticulous in his cleaning of each one after use. Following an afternoon of yard work, for example, a soiled shovel would be hosed down, wiped clean, and dried before being returned to its assigned location, a process that Jim considered odd but one that Martin thought made perfect sense. The process took very little time and yielded excellent results. It eliminated the opportunity for rust to form and kept dirt from entering his otherwise pristine garage. The hooks suspending the tools stretched across the walls in rows that were perfectly straight and parallel with the ground, a fact to which Martin’s laser-guided level could readily attest. When he first moved back into the home following his mother’s heart attack, one of his first chores was to remove the nails that his former stepfather had pounded willy-nilly into the wall years ago, and replace them with polished silver hooks, straightening out each row as he did.
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