Clean Sweep

by E. B. Lee

  Her gut told her he was at the piers. When she checked, he was nowhere in sight. She trolled the city by car, and then acquiesced to the game called “wait and see.”

  Gloria’s was dead, except for the new man Carli had seen before her expedition. Her instincts were right. He was definitely moving in somewhere in the neighborhood. She looked at him and sent a partially committed smile. Maybe he would remember her, and the smile would mean something when it came time to try to get him in. Grant had always reached out to the new ones, so she wasn’t sure.

  Wilson opened his eyes as soon as Carli entered his hospital room. He was sitting upright in bed, propped up by pillows and surrounded on both sides by more of the steadying white supports.

  “Good to see you awake,” she said. Carli approached softly and spoke with a calm coating on her voice. It’s what Wilson needed. “I’ve been visiting,” she said. “Grant too. Well, was ... We didn’t want to wake you.”

  “Ahh, you could have.” Wilson’s voice was raspier than usual and softer, as well. “I’ve got plenty of time to sleep.”

  Carli noticed he was shaking a bit, a sure sign his brain and body were not used to their lower-proof state. His color looked better, although she wasn’t trained in the nuances of jaundice. “The doctor reports are good,” she said.

  Wilson’s only response was a flicker of his eyes, from his bed to her face and back.

  “I have something,” she said.

  Carli hesitated before reaching into her bag. The doctors had given her the go-ahead to share the scents if Wilson was willing. She watched his reaction when she placed four small bottles on a bed tray. Wilson was weak, and his grin barely slid up from one corner of his mouth, but she saw it. “Curious?” she asked quietly.

  Wilson gave a feeble nod, barely raising his chin. It was enough.

  Carli quietly twisted off a simple silver-colored cap from an aqua blue glass vial. She held the bottle in one hand, several feet from Wilson’s face, and slowly waved her free hand over the opening to send its invisible floral scent floating toward Wilson’s face. Wilson closed his eyes. She thought he might have fallen asleep, but many seconds later he looked back at her.

  “It’s Oceans by Antoine,” she said, not wanting Wilson to waste energy speaking.

  Wilson smiled, both with his eyes and with another slight upturn of his left lip.

  “Some other day, you can tell me more about it,” she said. “I’ll bring these others back next time too.” Carli gave the bottle a quick tilt downward, with one finger covering its open neck. It was just enough to collect a single oily drop on a finger. She dabbed part of the drop on the sheet on the left side of Wilson’s bed. Then she walked around the foot of the bed and back up the right side, continuing to slide her finger across the bedcovers. It would be just enough, she thought. Wilson’s gaze told her she was right. Carli took ahold of Wilson’s hand, as gently as possible, and said, “Rest well.”

  From Wilson’s bedside, Carli traveled to Vera’s place. Luck was on Carli’s side.

  “Vera Dear-a,” she called.

  Vera swung around, a smile lighting her face. It was such a gift to see. “I thought you got lost somewhere,” said Vera. “Either that or got some kind of amnesia and didn’t remember where to find me.”

  “I told you I was going away,” said Carli. “I wanted to see you days ago, but something else came up.”

  “Well, you missed a good one,” said Vera.

  “Good what?”

  “Couple nights ago. Fireworks. Just like Fourth of July, but shorter. Over at that tennis stadium,” said Vera.

  “You saw them from here?”

  “Of course. Just like last year. Well, not from right here exactly, but you didn’t think I crossed the river to see ’em all the way in the other borough, did you?”

  “Lucky you,” said Carli. “You always liked a good show.”

  “Yes, indeed.” Vera nodded and smiled.

  “So, are you doing okay?” asked Carli.

  “I guess so. I don’t like to complain,” said Vera.

  “Guess so? What’s wrong?” asked Carli.

  “We had a bunch of storms while you was gone. Thunder booming. Lightning like the fireworks. And rain. Whooeee! Did we ever have rain. Like cats and dogs. Water was flowing on some of those streets like rivers. Day and night.”

  “Did you go in anywhere? You know, to get out of it all?”

  Vera cocked her head slightly to the side and shrugged. It was the answer Carli expected. “My place has a good enough overhang,” said Vera, “but the water coming off some of the awnings nearby was splashing up. Didn’t have any place for it to go. I put some plastic over me though. It did okay.”

  “Vera, please, remember what I said last time I was here?”

  “What part of what you said? Sometimes you say a lot of different things. I’m not complaining, mind you. Just saying,” said Vera.

  “The part about ... you know, your husband. The part when I asked if he would want you out here,” said Carli.

  “I remember. Sure, I do. I’ve been thinking about it,” she said.

  “I have something for you,” said Carli. “It’s not socks.”

  Vera looked at Carli with her brow raised. Carli reached into her bag for a single photograph that she had laminated not once but twice before she went to Wyoming. The second she placed it in Vera’s hand, Vera brought it to her chest, where she embraced it with one hand over the other. “Oh, Lordy be,” she said. “My home.” Vera looked ready to keep the simple gift close to her heart all night, at least, but moments later pulled it away from her chest to gaze at it and, no doubt, consider a flood of good memories.

  It had taken Carli hours of digging to find an old real estate brochure of Vera and her husband’s Minnix House early post-opening. She hadn’t minded. The Historical Society had moved right up Carli’s list of fascinating city attractions, alongside the main branch of the library. Its collections presented intimate stories of architecture and people, which together helped make the city. Were the heart and soul of it in fact. Carli made the find, then made the copies and laminated them. Maybe if Vera could bring it with her, with memories of her husband, she would one day be willing to leave the standpipe and sleeping alcove. Time would tell. It was worth a shot.

  Canada was nowhere to be seen. Carli figured he was working Wall Street since a check of his usual Midtown spots found him nowhere. She did another check of Grant’s room. The lock was still in place.

  Carli found Sarah on her bench, with no lure and no popcorn. Carli sat near, and Sarah looked up. They sat silently for five minutes, maybe more. Sarah was off duty. Carli was perfectly fine with this.

  When Carli returned to Cooper’s the next morning, she found the outer lock missing. Grant was back. She stood outside for a moment to listen. Then she whispered, “Grant?” No answer came, so she placed her ear on the door’s metal finish. “Grant?” she whispered again. “Are you awake?”

  Grant’s was the only door with a lock inside as well as out. He had installed it himself, of course.

  “Open up. I want to see you,” she said. Something told her he was listening. “I have sandwiches,” she said. By God, they were the same words from the Church Run.

  The door stayed shut, but she heard him shuffling. After several soft knocks and no response, she slid herself to the floor to wait, thankful he was home. “I brought food,” she said. Five minutes passed, and she launched another plea through the door. Then another. Finally, she heard the shaking of the lock.

  He was unshaven, unchanged, hardly dressed for the street. How quickly the transformation occurred. With the roller coaster changing course, the dog-eared Grant was back. She wanted to wrap her arms around him and protect him from everything. Instead, she barely grazed his shirt sleeve with one finger. Truly, he was fragile.

  Pizza boxes and telltale signs of Chinese food littered the room. New shoeboxes climbed the wall. Royal lay parked mid-room. Grant bit i
nto the deli sandwich and dropped it onto its wrapper. It wasn’t what he wanted. Most likely, nothing was. Carli eased down upon the floor. He spoke a few words. They were lifeless waves of sound, flat and empty, gone almost before they flowed from his mouth. She knew the answer, but asked anyway, “How do you feel?”

  Grant didn’t answer. Didn’t seem able.

  Carli spoke to fill the void. “Wilson was awake but awfully weak. At least he’s still going in the right direction. I brought some perfume. He loved it,” she said. Grant didn’t respond “Vera was nearly flooded out when I was away, but she rigged up some plastic for protection,” said Carli. “She’s doing okay. Sarah was quiet. And Canada was nowhere to be found.”

  Grant’s expression remained unchanged.

  “I heard the umpires might strike,” said Carli. “That would put a quick end to the season.” She looked at Grant’s face. After a long silence, she said softly, “I know you don’t want to hear this, but you need to see Doctor Greenberg. Please, let me help you.”

  Grant’s eyes moved up a trifle with one of his next breaths, then slid down as he exhaled. He heard, but couldn’t do it. Didn’t want to go out, eat, walk, or even turn on the light. So, they sat quietly together in the dark. He was withdrawn deep inside himself, once again, and no amount of convincing would move him until, or unless, he somehow managed the energy. With a blanket around her shoulders, Carli prepared to sit and keep watch. Tomorrow, she thought. Please, tomorrow.

  When Carli awakened, still sitting upright, Grant was asleep and looked to be staying put. She gathered her bag, left a note on the floor, and rested her hand lightly on his shoulder. Before slipping through the open door, she slid the inside padlock into her bag. The bin would be safe, locked or not. No one ever came to the sixth floor; Grant had practically purchased penthouse privacy from Neuman. She wouldn’t be long, and she refused to be shut out again.

  Grant’s bin was temperature controlled, nothing like the city’s brutal August heat, which slowed everything. Call it wishful thinking, but Carli carried in her bag the four perfume bottles. How she wanted to remove their tops and send their fragrances wafting through Wilson’s room in a fireworks of perfume. Before she entered his room, she braced herself for what she might find. Wilson was asleep. With sheets and blankets tossed loosely off his chest, she gained a more complete view of his condition. His skin-and-bones body looked mighty ill. Carli took a quick peek into his single closet, curious if anything was inside. As soon as she swung open the door, she reached forward. She couldn’t help herself. She touched his favorite winter coat, hanging properly on a hanger, and nearly cried. Thank God they had let him keep it. This really was a topline place, she thought.

  Carli paid another visit to Vera. She saw her standing at her usual spot, but before Carli could catch her, Vera hopped on a bus. It was one way to find cheap air conditioning. Carli was happy to let her ride.

  At Lucy’s church, most dined lightly. Many took in extra water and juice, although some still downed hot coffee with plenty of sugar. A few fanned themselves with napkins. Others simply sat still. Conversation at the op-ed table was loud, owing to the standup fan humming wildly in the room’s corner. The talk of the day was the heat, of course. It was the fifth pronounced heat wave of the year; three days in the hundreds so far, and untold more expected. The weather headliner was coupled with news of faulty air conditioners, baseball stats, and a media queen marriage. Lanna was the only cool one in the bunch. She had a job, salaried and insured. No amount of hot air could bring her down. At last, another success.

  Though curious to learn what Sarah did to beat the heat, Carli trusted fully in the woman’s ingenuity and ability to stay cool. It was Grant who needed her. She was on her way to Cooper’s when Canada caught her exiting St. Mary’s. “How’re you doing in the heat, big guy?”

  “Fine, fair lady. You?” Canada always called her “lady” now.

  “Awful. Can’t stand it,” she said.

  “A body gets used to it. Just like the cold,” he said. “Library’s a good spot. Or some of the subways, but you have to get one of the Wall Street routes. They have the best equipment.”

  Canada never wore shorts, not even as August had sauntered in and was sweltering its way past. A few of the others did. He likely knew something they didn’t. “Come, talk with me a minute,” she said. Carli beckoned him over, but Canada insisted they walk to a set of steps near a corporate fountain. With the blessing of a light breeze, the fountain’s cool mist brushed against them, as he knew it would.

  “I know you and Grant go back quite a ways,” she said.

  “That we do,” he said.

  Carli wanted to say, “Actually, Grant and I go back a long way too.” Instead, she said, “He’s struggling with something.”

  “Grant? Moods or booze, most likely. Am I right?”

  Carli turned to face Canada directly. “You’ve seen this before?”

  “Oh, yeah. Seen just about everything with him. He could say the same about me. Is he up or down?”

  “Just started going down. I know there’s medication that can help. But he isn’t taking it.”

  “Not surprised,” said Canada.”

  “Will you keep an eye out for him?” she asked.

  “Sure. I doubt I can do anything about it, but I’ll keep a watch out and see if he needs anything.”

  It was exactly what Carli needed to hear.

  Grant was awake when Carli returned. He asked about Wilson, before turning to the subject of death and an edgy talk of knives. Grant began explaining details of carving and sharpening, serrated edges and smooth. She didn’t like the tone of it. A small steak knife lay exposed on his mattress. She picked it up with a dirty plate and headed to the bathroom on the pretense of cleaning. Water flowed swiftly from the faucet and gurgled down the drain. Was he bluffing or, God forbid, preparing? She hated how well he played poker. When she returned, she said, “We need to see the doctor.”

  Grant looked up, with no change in his expression.

  “You mean so much to them,” she said. She relayed news of Vera and the bus, lunch at Lucy’s, the new job for Lanna, and the particulars of Marvin and Leo. Then she said, “Canada asked about you.” It was news of Madison that interested Grant most.

  “He wants to see you, but you ought to see Dr. Greenberg first.”

  Grant’s stare remained vacant. It didn’t surprise her to hear him say, “Tomorrow.”

  Twenty-Nine

  From a distance, Carli spotted Sarah holding a bottle of water against the side of her face. Carli chuckled. She knew Sarah would have a few street tricks to combat the ills of the weather. Sarah sat very still, ignoring the pigeons. Carli guessed it was another measure to conserve energy. Carli stepped near, and Sarah slowly lowered the bottle from her face. A pulse of adrenaline surged through Carli’s body. Staring back was a gaping wound on the side of Sarah’s mouth. It had untidy edges of flapping flesh, and it was bloodied, red, and raw. The rest of Sarah’s left cheek, from eye to chin, was a black-and-blue mess.

  “Oh, my God, Sarah! What happened?”

  “Rat.” Sarah squawked out. “Looked … for … you.” Dried blood on Sarah’s clothes said it must have been a gusher.

  “You need a doctor. Now.”

  Sarah nodded. “Go … in.”

  Carli studied Sarah carefully. It sounded more permanent than seeing a doctor. Carli had passed her over in the park, trying to help Grant. All along, Sarah had needed her. Had wanted her. After all the pigeon talk, feedings, paintings, over-the-shoulder investigations, all it took was being there. The foundation had been set. Carli gently touched her arm and silently thanked God the woman was persistent.

  “Okay,” said Carli. Sarah tried to nod. Carli pulled out her phone.

  “Where?” asked Sarah.

  “Police,” said Carli. “To ride to a hospital.”

  “No.” Carli looked up. The look on Sarah’s face was frozen scared. “Wait,” she said.
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  “The police will help,” said Carli.

  “Wait,” said Sarah.

  A voice on the phone asked for details. Carli held it at bay as she questioned Sarah, “Why?”

  “Mon … ey,” said Sarah.

  “You don’t have to pay,” said Carli. The phone voice probed. Carli asked for more time. It no longer mattered. In the frenzy of the past days, she had pulled “a Grant” – the phone was dead.

  “Keep,” said Sarah. “For me.” It didn’t sound like Sarah was concerned about payment. “Lots.” Sarah stared intently.

  Carli thought a moment. Even if it was only a dollar, she knew it was important. Then again, it could be more. Much more. It had happened before. “Sarah, let’s see a doctor, and find you a place. I’ll hold your money for you. How much is it?”

  Sarah studied her face carefully, as though looking for something specific. Carli didn’t know what. Her voice was as harsh as ever. “Seven ... ty? Eight ... y?” She shrugged and began unloading her plastic bags until reaching one, in particular, at the bottom of her cart. After prying it from the cart’s metal womb, she pulled out several piles of folded newspaper and then the brown, fake-leather satchel, with a roll of toilet paper tied to its strap. All that remained in the plastic bag was Buffy’s framed portrait. Swinging the toilet paper roll aside, Sarah slid the bag over to Carli, unopened. Sarah looked straight ahead for a moment, before turning her eyes toward Carli, and giving a slight nod.

  “Sarah, just tell me how much ... ,” she began.

  Carli’s words were cut short by darts of panic shooting from Sarah’s partly closed eyes. Carli unlatched the buckle and pried the bag open. It was as though she had found Lucy’s pictures again. Crumpled bills—tens, twenties, fifties, and hundreds—jammed the satchel, covering bundles of neatly-stacked bills.

  “Okay,” said Carli. “Lots.” She looked straight at Sarah and said, “I’ll take care of it. Anything else?” Sarah shook her head.