Clean Sweep

by E. B. Lee

  Near the end of lunch, Aquaman came in with his usual bags in tow. “Take a couple more,” said Carli. She put four extra rolls into a bag for him, knowing Aquaman Harry was Grudge’s food delivery man. Then, she loaded him up with anything he was willing to take. He thanked her several times over with a simple thumbs up and was especially grateful for the mixed bag of cookies. It got a thumbs up and an appreciative nod. Carli watched him eat, pack, and leave, in his customary manner. She wondered how they faced their struggles day after day.

  The next day, Carli exited the city as soon as traffic thinned. Elmsville, New York, wasn’t far, but the main road leading into the town of two thousand was a two-laner with hills, curves, and an occasional gear-grinding, traffic-slowing, freight truck. Was she crazy? No, she reassured herself. It was the least she could do.

  Maple Lane wound gently through a canopy of old trees, and was narrow and unpaved; a country lane in its truest sense. Carli crept along as though in a boat in smooth water, easing upon number Forty-Three. She let the engine softly idle and lowered her window. An arbor and stately white oak looked back. The tree was in the same place as in the photo but towered overhead. It had grown so much it shaded a good part of the house’s front and even spread several branches above the roof. The swing was gone, but Carli saw it in her mind’s eye, gliding, with a head-swung-back girl soaring happily, released from the weight of gravity. When a car rattled up behind, Carli quickly released the image.

  It took several peeks through drawn shades, and a glimpse of Lucy’s house photo, before Mrs. Thompson cracked opened the door to Forty-Three Maple Lane. The homeowner knew little about Lucy, except that her last name had been Birdwell until she married and became Lucy Stemple.

  “Lucy Stemple,” Carli repeated.

  “It was on the land records,” said Mrs. Thompson. “Not the person we bought it from, but a while back. The person to see is the woman in the tax office. Her name’s Mia. And see if you can find Thelma, the old Tax Collector. She’s the one you really ought to talk to. Retired a year or so ago. Lived five houses away as a child. Every time I used to pay a tax bill, Thelma brought up some memory or another. It seems Thelma and Lucy stayed friends even after Lucy married and moved. My living here made me someone special to her. But it’s Mia who’s there now. Go talk to Mia first,” said Mrs. Thompson.

  Carli felt fortunate to have found Mrs. Thompson. She headed into town, feeling even more fortunate that it was a small enough place that everyone talked, especially Thelma. Elmsville possessed a few small stores, a coffee shop, a town hall, and two churches. Carli looked over the whitewashed brick government building with a 1923 cornerstone marking the edge of an addition. Elmsville also possessed a long history. Carli let herself in through one of the building’s well-worn double wooden doors.

  The tax office took up space down a stairwell at the end of a narrow, dimly lit hall. Handwritten signs gave directions. In the quiet one-person operation, Mia invited Carli in moments before she reached the room; she proudly announced she’d heard her coming.

  Carli explained the purpose of her visit and, within fifteen minutes, Mia and Carli found every home Lucy and her husband had owned, which was two. For the next thirty minutes, they chatted about Elmsville. Mia was a long-term resident. She suggested Carli see Doctor Reynolds in town since he knew everyone, and also the woman named Thelma. “Lucky for you,” said Mia, “Thelma’s still in town. Give me a day to contact her and pass along your information. My guess is she’ll be happy to talk.”

  When Carli left Elmsville she felt like she was in the middle of a brainstorming session for a new advertising campaign. It was both exciting and unsettling. There were so many ideas swirling, she knew she was making progress but hadn’t a clue how it would end. Carli was used to a project team of at least ten. This time she was in it alone; it felt odd. First thing back home, Carli phoned Pastor Miller.

  “I found Lucy’s home,” she said. “Her childhood home.”

  Pastor Miller sounded grateful for the news.

  “Only, I haven’t found Lucy’s family just yet. I wonder if you’ll help make the connection.” Carli gave details as she knew them. Pastor Miller was delighted to help. All they had to do was await Thelma’s call.

  “Crossing fingers,” said Pastor Miller.

  “Yes,” said Carli. “Crossing fingers. And ... there’s something else you should know.”

  “Oh? What’s that?”

  “My name isn’t Carli.” Silence followed until she volunteered more. “I didn’t know who we would meet on the Church Run. I was afraid to share personal details. My real name is Tessie Whitmore.” She paused another moment, before adding, “I made a lot of money selling a company I built from scratch. The sale made headlines. I didn’t want people we met on the street to find me. I was afraid of the possibilities.”

  “I see,” said Pastor Miller.

  “Even people who aren’t desolate, often look at you differently if you have money. And assume things about you. I don’t want that either,” said Carli.

  “So, now what?”

  “I don’t see a good way to change back to Tessie. I’d like to meet Thelma as my alias.”

  “You’re okay with that?” he asked.

  “Yes. For now, I’ll consider it a nickname. I had a good friend named Carli in college.”

  After her call, Carli looked over her first paintings. It was time for an objective critique. Although not quite done, they didn’t shatter the earth. They were hollow, for lack of a better term. The power they exerted came from subject matter alone—crashing waves and whitecaps—and not from her technique. Nothing grabbed her emotions. Carli considered them average first attempts. Tomorrow she’d get on with another. Being this rusty was frustrating.

  Thelma couldn’t wait to meet Carli; Lucy was a big part of her life’s fabric. But how had she taken the news of her old friend’s demise? Surely, Mia had shared details.

  The meeting was awkward, and then painful, even though Carli omitted the cause of death. She had been a bit vague with Mia, as well. After all, poison had not yet been confirmed. Pastor Miller filled in details of the Church Run night. His compassion was soothing. Then Carli revealed specifics of Lucy’s trip to Potter’s Field. Thelma leaned all the way back in her chair, as though needing support from its full surroundings.

  Carli scolded herself for not handing the mess to Missing Persons and bowing out. Now it was too late; Thelma was part of her life, tears and all. Save one or two close friends, Carli had remained mighty adept at keeping her life private, and relationships emotion-free. At least Pastor Miller was with her to handle these sensitive parts.

  “I’m sure the neighbors will help. Bring her home, that is,” said Thelma. The woman in front of Carli was, indeed, a lifelong friend to Lucy.

  Pastor Miller offered more supportive words. Carli could only nod.

  “That photo of the home ... It was her childhood home,” said Thelma. “Lucy moved out when she married. Her older sister, Georgia, died in mid-life. Her mother and father – Lila and Terrance – are gone too.”

  Her parents, thought Carli. And her dogs. They had the same names. Yes, the two terriers were Lucy’s ticket home. Lucy had carried an ID after all.

  Thelma continued. “Her marriage ended when William died of cancer. They lived in the town center when they married and then moved a few blocks toward the edge of town. That’s where she was until she left.”

  “When?” asked Carli.

  “It’s almost a year now.”

  “She and William didn’t have children?” she asked.

  Thelma shook her head. “She couldn’t. She would have been a wonderful mother. She babysat a lot of the children here. See that sparkle in her eyes?” Thelma glanced toward the photograph of Lucy and Will. “It was always there, beautiful sparkling blue, like the lake. William went, and then she got sick. The sparkle vanished.”

  “Sick?” asked Pastor Miller.

  “Diabetes. Heart
trouble,” said Thelma. “The doctor here, Doc Reynolds, once told me it could change a person’s moods. Lucy got depressed; she completely changed.”

  Carli and Pastor Miller remained silent.

  Thelma continued. “‘Why would I want to stick myself with a needle every day?’ Lucy would ask. Pills wouldn’t work for her. Lucy told me nothing would work and said it was none of my business. That’s why I talked with the doctor. It wasn’t like Lucy to speak like that.”

  Thelma nodded and sat silently, as though remembering the moment. Then she said, “Lucy sold her house out of the blue, and said she was heading south. She said she would consider giving herself shots. It sounded fishy. But it’s all she said. After that, she never wrote, never called, never said, ‘Boo.’ We all thought she meant Florida.”

  “I am sure this is overwhelming,” said Pastor Miller. “Illness can, indeed, change a person’s outlook on life. Losing her husband must have been difficult as well.”

  “There’s more,” said Thelma. “Lucy and William put a lot of money into his treatments. It burned right through a big line of credit. She never told me how much. Didn’t want us to know how bad off she was. When she sold the house, she didn’t get much, I’m sure. I think the finances scared her into moving.”

  Thelma closed her eyes. “I can’t believe she was so close and living in a tent.” A tear trickled down her face. “We all would have pitched in.” When Thelma opened her eyes, she added, “That girl pushing the swing … that’s me. Could I keep it – the picture?”

  “I’ll make you a copy and frame it,” said Carli. Even though she felt a tear welling up and a lump forming in her throat, she knew she had done the right thing for Lucy and for Thelma. The truth was still better than being lost forever.

  “I found them,” said Carli. Grant listened. “Lucy’s home, her parents, and her friend,” she said. “Pastor Miller and I visited Lucy’s hometown.”

  “It must have been hard on her parents,” he said. “How old are they?”

  “Actually, they died. So did her husband. No children, either. We spoke with Thelma, a lifelong friend. She knew Lucy well.”

  Grant held out his hand. “Congratulations. Better than Missing Persons. It couldn’t have been easy,” he said. “Any idea why she came to the streets?”

  Carli heard his question, but a stronger voice inside her was privately asking herself why Grant’s handshake was so familiar. She knew thousands of people and had shaken many of their hands. At one point in her career, Carli started grouping people she met by their handshake: natural, bone-crushing, limp noodle, firmly elegant, and several more variations. It was an intriguing exercise, nothing more. She pulled herself away from her thoughts to answer Grant. “Thelma said she lied and left. Said she was likely fighting illness through denial. It seems Lucy had diabetes and heart problems. Thelma also said Lucy was depressed. And she was pretty certain Lucy was nearly broke from paying for medical treatment for her husband.”

  Grant slapped his hand against his jeans and stomped his foot on the ground. “Damn it! Damn it!”

  Carli stepped back. Unlike the handshake, nothing about Grant’s outburst was familiar.

  “I missed it. Completely missed it.” Looking to the sky, he said, “That sore on her hand, never healing, should have been a dead giveaway. Along with her moods.” He snorted with self-reproach. “Lucy went through a box of chocolate bars faster than anyone I know. Said she had to eat them before the dogs got to them because chocolate would make them sick. Not once did she talk of it. Bet she knew it would kill her. I should have seen it.”

  “Diabetes isn’t something you can see.”

  “Sometimes there are signs, like with everything else,” said Grant. Laying a hand on her shoulder, he added, “Sorry. I hate missing clues. I thought I had gained her trust. Thought she would turn to me for help.”

  Carli didn’t know what to say.

  Carli picked up Thelma at the expressway exit outside the city. With cataracts and aging reflexes, Thelma wanted to carpool through city traffic. It was 11 a.m. when they arrived at the Department of Corrections to plead for Lucy’s return.

  “Did the police see these?” The day’s attendant shuffled through the photographs.

  “We found them after she was buried,” said Carli. “I gave the originals to Missing Persons.”

  Thelma got straight to the point. “This is no place for Lucy. I have her birth certificate, marriage license, house deed, and plenty more old photos. If you need dental records, I’m sure I can get them. We want her back home. We have a very nice cemetery. And there’s a place for her next to William.”

  “Who’s William?”

  “The love of her life,” said Thelma.

  “Thought she didn’t have family,” said the attendant.

  “Not alive, but she’s got family, all right,” said Thelma. “And it’s time they spend the rest of eternity together.”

  The man looked up.

  “I don’t know what it costs,” Thelma continued, “but there’re plenty of us in town to raise what’s needed. It’s just not right leaving her here. She deserves better. She’s not a Missing Person anymore. Never really was, anyway. She just left.”

  “I’m kind of new here,” said the man. “I’ll see how we handle this and get back to you.”

  Carli and Thelma left with hope and a prayer. “I can’t thank you enough,” said Thelma, “for finding us.”

  “I had to,” said Carli. “I know how losing someone feels.”

  “Oh?” said Thelma.

  As Carli drove, her story of Henry spilled out. By the time she dropped Thelma at her car, Carli and Thelma had formed what would become a lasting bond. For all the years Carli had kept her family’s tragedy bottled inside, hidden from all—save for a few special friends like Kristin—she had just learned how good it felt to finally let it out again, especially to someone else who understood. When Carli arrived home, she walked straight into her studio. A Victorian home, with a girl on a swing, began to take shape. Carli had found her muse.

  Seven

  “Four weeks at the soup kitchen, or maybe it’s five,” said Grant. “Time to celebrate! Actually,” he said, looking directly at Carli, “we have to talk. Join me after lunch. Down the hall.” He glided to the tables, where plastic poinsettias had replaced the autumnal plastic mums. Christmas was less than a week off.

  Aquaman had a new yellow hat, maybe from a Church Run, or maybe from a thrift shop. Grant gave its tassel a playful tap before chatting and then moving to catch up with Lanna. He followed with a visit to Leo, Marvin, and the others at the op-ed table. The lunchroom was more crowded than usual. The cold was bringing more people inside for a break from the weather. Carli wondered how they were holding up outside, in particular, Aquaman with his new yellow hat. After another visit, Grant disappeared, likely to meet with Sister Anna. No doubt he passed Bruce on the way. Carli always felt uneasy when Bruce came for lunch. Today was no different.

  Bruce mumbled his first words as soon as he entered the soup kitchen. “Ugly garbage,” he said to no one in particular. “Know what I mean?” he asked the room. “Garbage slime.” Bruce paused and then said, “Real good. Real good.” He walked to the sign-in table, sliding one shoe noisily across the floor, as though he couldn’t lift it off the ground. Bruce asked, “What ya gonna make today? Huh? And where’re ya goin’?” Bruce continued, leaving several seconds between his sentences. “Where’re ya goin’? ... I don’t know. Maybe there’s a road outta town. Press on the gas, bud.” Bruce hovered over the sign-in paper a few seconds before he grabbed the pen and loudly scratched his name across the page. He accidentally ripped the paper and dropped the pen to the floor in the same motion but didn’t notice he had done either. He just stepped toward the serving line with his invisible companions.

  Bruce suddenly shouted, “Fuckin’ crap!” A couple of faces looked up, Carli’s included, even though he did this nearly every visit. “Someone’s gotta fix the wa
ter here,” he said. Bruce’s voice rose into a crescendo and fell again. Then he took hold of a plastic tray and looked over the food selections, with his head down and nothing more than a sweep of his eyes. “Someone’s gonna fix the water out there. Did you hear me?” Bruce increased the volume again and moved closer to Carli, but he wasn’t talking to her. She had answered once before, only to learn he hadn’t noticed her. This time, he looked not at Carli but at the broccoli in the bowl between them. “The water needs fixing,” he said again. He took another loud shuffle along the food line. “Lousy garbage slime. Looks like rain. Storm’s a comin’. Huh?” He said nothing more as he eyed the soup, but Carli saw him grinding his teeth and moving his mouth as though chewing invisible food. Suddenly, he exploded. “Fuckin’ shit!” Just about everyone looked up this time. Bruce didn’t notice. Didn’t see a single staring face. Bruce left his tray on the shelf above the sandwiches and stomped to the coffee pot. With several jerky shakes of the pot, he half-filled a mug. With a few awkward scoops, he added sugar. Then he paced. Like usual. Back and forth from the sign-in table to the start of the food line. Slowly. Pausing. Shuffling. And continuing his conversations, “Real hard time coming. Real bad. Fuckin’ slime.” He began waving his arms as he spoke. Coffee splashed out of his mug. “What ya got there? Huh? You goin’ somewhere?” Bruce looked to the clock high up on the wall over the door and said, “Storm’s a comin’.” He paced toward Carli again and said, “You don’t have to do that,” and after a pause added, “Huh?”