Ten After Closing

by Jessica Bayliss

  He didn’t care.

  “You?” Scott spat.

  His dad leaned back, face wrinkling in confusion.

  “How about the truth, huh?” Scott took another step in his dad’s direction. “Because if we want the truth, then we have to call it like it is, right? And the truth is that I”—he smacked his own chest—“paid for this phone. Just like I help Mom pay for the landline and the electricity.”

  “Scott!” His mom was crying now. He still didn’t care. He’d been bottling up his anger too long.

  “Because the truth of it is, Father”—he made sure to put a little extra asshole into that word—“that ever since you got your ass fired, you’ve been good for nothing but figuring out how high a man can raise his alcohol tolerance.” Scott leaned in closer and closer, until his face, now just as red as his old man’s, was right up in his dad’s.

  Scott never saw the blow coming.

  One minute he was drawing in a breath to spew another volley of verbal punches, and the next, he was gasping to suck in any air at all. The actual pain from the punch to his gut took an extra second to register, and then it hit him all at once—huge and flavored with coppery acid.

  “Jack!” Scott’s mom pulled at her husband’s arm, but he yanked it from her grip, still strong even with half a gallon of the hard stuff in him.

  “Shut up!” he shouted.

  “Jack, please, just leave him alone.”

  “I said, shut—”

  “No!” Scott launched at his dad. “You shut up.” He grabbed his dad by the collar, just like the tough guys did in those old movies.

  “Stop it, both of you!” His mom was sobbing, but even that didn’t break through the volcano spewing hot filth up from his aching gut. Tears stopped being shocking when they were practically an everyday occurrence.

  A shrill baby’s cry came from upstairs. His mother sniffled. “Evie.”

  His baby sister’s helpless voice hit Scott like an ice bath. He remembered her tiny eyelids fluttering as she flinched away from a damp dishtowel with faded Christmas trees on it. His face went slack and he dropped his right arm. His left still clenched the jersey of his dad’s old tee, but he could barely feel his fingers. What the hell was he doing? Scott released the fabric and stumbled past his parents, up the stairs, and to his room.

  Brian’s party wasn’t for a couple more hours, but Scott knew if he didn’t get out of the house soon, he’d lose it. Fresh folded laundry lay in a pile on his bed. He pulled his basketball shorts from the middle of the stack, knocking the rest over in his rush. His breath still came in ragged gasps; he’d go for a run anyway. Maybe he’d pass out. Hell, maybe he’d die and his family would get to see what things were like without Scott to keep the shit from hitting the fan.

  Maybe they’d even care.

  17

  WINNY

  FIFTY-ONE MINUTES AFTER CLOSING

  We’re really going to do this, carry a body. I have to do a little dance to keep from stepping in the pool of blood as I take up a position near her. “Oh, God.” My throat clenches, and I close my eyes and swallow hard. If I have to look, I’m going to puke. Even in the dark behind my eyelids, little flickers dance and swoop. I cannot pass out. I tense my muscles, just like before, and the threat of unconsciousness fades, but more slowly this time.

  “You okay?” Scott’s breath in my ear jolts my eyes open again. His worried face is right there, and a light sheen of sweat coats his pale brow. He’s trying to keep it together just as much as I am.

  “I guess it’s my turn to help you carry something, huh?” That earns me a small smile. “Do you want the head or the feet?”

  Toto turns our way again, amusement painted across his face. I take another deep breath and try to ignore him.

  I can do this.

  “Hold up.” Scott grabs the knee-length busboy apron he’d been wearing earlier. “This’ll help.” Once he’s draped the apron over the woman’s face, he hooks her under the arms. “You take the feet. You ready?”

  I nod. Tears blur my vision, but I don’t bother to wipe them away. Maybe it’s better this way, witnessing the world through a blurry shield. While I grab an ankle in each hand, Scott adjusts his hold. Almost immediately, one ankle slips from my grip, splashing into a puddle of blood, some of which lands, thick and cold, onto my bare shin and spatters the bottom of my dress.

  Depi ou nan labatwa, fòk ou aksepte san vole sou ou. Enter the slaughterhouse, and you’re going to get blood on you, my mom reminds me.

  “Yeah, but I didn’t think you meant literally,” I mutter.

  “What?”

  I shake my head. “Nothing.” I’m going to have to look at the woman to grab her ankle again, even though I wish I could keep my eyes closed forever. Familiar silver leather encases her foot. “Oh.”

  Scott freezes. “What’s wrong?”

  “We have on the same shoes.” She might have gotten them at the same store I did, maybe even on the same day. What if we were there at the same time, at the department store in the mall, sitting on the drab sofas? Wrestling with the little slip-on nylon peds that never go on right and always pop off as soon as you take a single step. Did she like the shoes as much as I do? That is, like I did. When I get home—

  If I get home.

  —I’m throwing them away.

  “Winny. Winsome,” Scott says in a firmer tone when I don’t respond.

  I force my gaze to his face.

  “Winny, you ready?”

  I shake my head, catching another glimpse of her sandals, but I can’t let myself get lost in my head again. “Yeah. Let’s get this over with.”

  “Good. On three. Use your core when you stand. She’ll be . . . I mean . . . A body is heavier than you think.”

  I giggle, the sound totally inappropriate, but I can’t help it. “Like you have so much experience moving bodies.”

  He gives me a wry smile. “Right. I know.”

  Another burst of laughter forces its way up through my chest. “I think I’m cracking up, Scott.”

  “Yeah. Me, too. Ready?”

  “On three. One.”

  “Two.”

  “Three,” we say together as we push to our feet. Even after Scott’s warning, the weight takes me by surprise, and I almost drop her again, but this time I manage to tighten my grip. I won’t let her fall. I won’t dishonor her that way. I’m still alive. I still have a chance. And the least I can do is see that this woman’s remains are handled with respect.

  Scott and I begin the shuffle to the door.

  “Doesn’t it sort of feel like we did this once already today?” he asks.

  “Yeah. At least we don’t have to try to wedge her in your trunk.” Another hysterical giggle bursts from my throat, but I choke it down when Toto’s laughter—a dark and ugly sound—joins mine.

  He points to the clock over the espresso station. “You’ve got ten minutes. If you aren’t back—”

  “Ten minutes.” Scott grunts. “Don’t worry. We will be. Winny, I’ll go backward.” He pivots so he’s the one facing the room.

  “Going backward is a risky move,” I mumble.

  “Right.” He winks. “But I’m pretty manly.”

  I try to smile, but it’s hard with the prickles racing up and down my neck. Those men could be doing anything back there, creeping up on us, readying to attack. Scott’s lips are a flat line, jaw tense, like he’s ready to drop our burden and rush at them in a heartbeat.

  “Hurry, Scott,” I huff out. If I can get beyond that door, I’ll be okay.

  His back strikes the swinging door and a second later, he’s through. The woman’s body bridges us and keeps it from swinging shut again, from cutting off my view of him. From leaving me alone—even for a split second—with this room full of near-strangers and mad men. Thank you, dead woman, whoever you are. I’ll make sure we don’t bang you around too much, I promise. In another three seconds, I’m through, too. The door swishes shut and, with a sigh, the tensi
on floods from my body. So much so that I nearly break my promise and drop her.

  “Careful.”

  “I’m good. Which way to the stairs?”

  The door swings before coming to a rest behind me. Just before it does, I hear, “She’s going back to the ether! Zero, one, zero, one, one, one. Zero. That’s how it goes.”

  I jump and duck my head like Twitch’s words can physically touch me.

  “Easy, Winny,” Scott says.

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  Scott raises his knee and uses it to adjust the weight of the dead woman. “Strung out. Did you see his face? The scars and scabs?”

  I stare off, letting my vision fix on a poster that reads KEEP FLOORS FREE FROM SPILLS AT ALL TIMES TO AVOID FALLS, accompanied by a stick figure lying flat on the floor, arms thrown out, as though it just fell victim to accidental sloshes of coffee or puddles of green smoothie.

  Or a drug-crazed murderer’s bullet.

  “Winny?”

  “Right, scabs. Scars. I saw them. Meth? Toto said something about meth.”

  He nods. “Probably.”

  “I guess I just didn’t realize it could do that, that it was . . . that bad.”

  “Forget him. We don’t have much time.” Scott and I shuffle to the left toward the stairwell. “We’ll go slow. Ready?”

  Sweat blooms on my face, erasing the tear tracks, but I nod. “Let’s get this over with.”

  The air feels colder as we make our way down, slow step by slow step. There’s a faint glow to guide us, but it barely cuts through the shadows. Goose bumps pop up on my bare arms, and the sweat sheening them turns cold. I shiver as I reach the last stair, almost losing my grip again.

  “You okay?”

  “Hold on one sec.” I raise a leg to adjust my grip on the woman’s silver-clad feet. Her sandal moves, giving me a view of the number stamped on the insole. I wonder if we’re the same size. Tilting my head, I twist and turn her right ankle just a bit, and the gap between her arch and the shoe grows wider.

  “Winny?”

  I force my gaze to Scott’s face. “I’m fine.” The walls around us are lined with shelves. Boxes of inventory stacked all over, mops, buckets, brooms resting in one corner. “Okay, so where do we leave her? We have to make it at least a little nice.”

  “Let’s just put her down for a minute, okay? I can’t hold her anymore.”

  As if his words have turned up the volume on the world, my muscles are suddenly burning, and it’s all I can do to keep from dropping her.

  “Right here. Ready? One, two—”

  “Three.” I squat and lean forward, trying to keep the motion as controlled as possible. I promise, we won’t hurt you. We’ll be gentle. At the last second, I can’t balance the weight, and I let her fall, but it’s only a couple of inches. Not too much. She should be okay.

  The tears start again. I did my best. I really did.

  “Deep breaths, Winny. It’s okay. We did it.” Scott’s voice is a little too shaky to be comforting.

  “We’re not done yet. We can’t just leave her on the floor.”

  “There’s nowhere else.”

  “Can’t we at least cover her or something?” The shelves are brimming with stuff. Rifling through boxes and crates, I pass over useless crap—ketchup packets, coupons for the Flores Fiesta Sylvie and Oscar hold every May in honor of Cinco De Mayo, when they offer spiced cocoas half off, coffee filters—but there’s nothing I can use to honor her.

  “Winny, we don’t have—”

  “Help me, Scott. Please. There’s time. We need to make time.”

  He lets out a huff of air. “Hold up. I’ve got something.” From a shelf out of my reach, he snags a plastic bin, but the weight must be tricky because it shifts, threatening to crash onto his head.

  I scoot in and help him catch it, wedging myself between him and the shelf.

  “Thanks,” he says.

  “No problem.”

  He freezes for a moment, hazel eyes locked onto mine, our arms tangled over our heads. “We better hurry,” he finally whispers.

  “Right.”

  But he doesn’t move. I don’t, either. I wish we had time to talk about what happened last winter. I wish I could apologize, once and for all. If we survive, I’m doing it. I don’t care if I end up looking like a fool. I don’t think that’s what will happen anyway. Scott may have been with Becky all these months, but the way his face lights up when he’s with me—the way it’s lit up right now—has to mean something. It has to, because when he looks at me like this, I can’t breathe.

  But then his eyes narrow as they shift to something over my shoulder.

  The body.

  Suddenly, I’m slammed back to reality. The weight of the bin doubles and my arms, gone noodle-y from carrying her, ache. “We’d better hurry.”

  “I’ve got the bin now. You can let go.”

  He maneuvers the container to the ground, pops off the lid, and unfurls a white cloth. “Extra tablecloths.”

  Once the woman is draped in white, I take a deep breath. You deserve better, but we did what we could.

  “Now, the tunnels,” I say.

  “The tunnels.” He spins, moving a few steps farther into the darkness before squatting down near the ground. “Here’s the trapdoor.”

  If you need a way out, you’d better search for the door yourself.

  This time, I’ve found it.

  18

  WINNY

  FOUR HOURS AND FIVE MINUTES BEFORE CLOSING

  It has a window seat,” the real estate agent had proclaimed the day she showed the Sommervils the house in Orange, Connecticut, that would become theirs. Winny had only been eight when her family moved there from New York, and she’d squealed and run to the little nook with its huge window that looked out on the cherry tree in the front yard.

  “Our daughter loves to read,” her mom had said. “I’m sure she will make great use of this space.”

  The thing about the window seat, though, was that it was never really comfortable. The idea was nice—leisure, romance, fantasy, and escape—but no matter what cushion they bought or what pillows they arranged on the sides, Winny had never found peaceful, literary bliss there.

  The older she got, the more her entire existence began to feel like that window seat. Every new expectation and rule was just another uncomfortable corner of wood, digging into her shoulder or the back of her thigh, forcing her to twist and bend and shift just to keep her legs from falling asleep and her back muscles from cramping.

  Soon, her parents would learn what she’d done, all of it: the details of the parts they already knew and the parts that they were still totally clueless about. When it all came out, they might kick her out, but maybe it was for the best. Winny didn’t belong here anymore. Would it be scary? Definitely. Traumatic? Probably. But she could make it work. She had to.

  She hit SEND on her cell and gazed round her room as the phone rang, taking in the sage green walls, the shelves holding all her treasures—her favorite books, trophies from the science fair in junior high, the stuffed animals she hadn’t been able to part with. The little girl toys and these walls weren’t the real her. But that didn’t mean leaving them behind would be easy.

  “Bella Arts and Framing,” a woman said on the other end of the line.

  “Hey, it’s Winny.” She sat on her awkward window seat, knees drawn up to her chest. “Listen, I was wondering . . . I know you said summer hours would be tight, but is there anything you can do?”

  On the other end Sue, Winny’s boss and the owner of the art supply shop where she worked, sighed. “Jeez, I don’t think so, Win. I’m sorry, but we’re stretched pretty tight. Able is back from college, and I’ve got to make sure he gets in some shifts, too. You know how it is.”

  Art supplies were pricey, which had made Winny’s job there, and the employee discount Sue had given her, the perfect solution to her dilemma of how to fund her gallery project without help from her pa
rents. Her job was yet another of the things she’d been keeping from them.

  “Of course,” Winny said, forcing a smile into her tight voice. “If anything opens up though . . .”

  “I’ll call you first. So what’s up?”

  “Up?”

  “Hello? To what do you attribute your sudden need for an increase in cash flow? Are you planning another big canvas?” The excitement in Sue’s voice when they talked art usually gave Winny a thrill, but not today. “You know I’m a huge Winsome Sommervil fan. Hey! How’d your show go?”

  “It was good. Really good. People seemed to like my piece.”

  “Of course they did. What are you working on next?”

  “Nothing. It’s nothing like that. I just have some . . . expenses coming up, that’s all.”

  Sue sighed again. “You and me both. I’ll let you know if any shifts open up. Promise.”

  19

  WINNY

  FIFTY-FIVE MINUTES AFTER CLOSING

  The trapdoor is nothing but a hole—a black square—at Scott’s feet. “Be careful not to step on it,” he says. “The plywood’s pretty dry. I thought it was going to give way when Becky stood on it before.”

  Oh, God. Becky. I almost forgot. Did I really come here tonight to see if I could start something with Scott, literally minutes after his breakup? A nausea-tinged laugh tries to burst from my throat. I sure started something all right . . . but in all the ways the scenario had played out in my head, I’d never dreamed up alone time in a basement with a dead body.

  “We’re really going down there, huh?” Scott asks.

  “It was your idea.”

  He scrubs a hand through his hair. “Yeah. I’m not a huge fan of enclosed spaces.”

  “You don’t even hesitate when it comes to carrying a corpse, but you’re worried about a dark hallway?”

  “A dark underground hallway.”

  I roll my eyes but manage a smile. “Why don’t I go first?”

  The opening reveals a ladder similar to the pull-down we use to get to our attic at home, but this one is way more rickety. The whole thing shivers as I descend rung by rung. “You sure this is safe?”