The Cleaner

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The bed is no longer banging. It could be broken. The mattress might have worn out. Maybe they’ve moved to the floor. Maybe they’re spent. Thinking about it makes the corned beef sandwich threaten to come back up, and I’m threatening to let it. Problem is, it won’t just be the sandwich. It’ll be everything I’ve eaten for the week.

I’ve made my decision. I’m going to let God down by allowing them to live. Hey, I don’t owe Him any favors.

I leave the empty can on the table and the leftover makings of my sandwich on the bench. I’ve never been that domesticated. I’m wearing gloves. When Travers finds the can in the morning, I wonder if he will have it tested for a link with the bottles found at Angela’s house. It’s a big parallel to draw-too big for a policeman, anyway.

I don’t bother locking the front door behind me. If somebody else happens to break in and kill them, then who am I to interfere with God? I start to laugh at the thought of their faces in the morning when they see they’ve had a visitor. Laughter is the best medicine for what I’ve just been through. What will they do? Report it? No. Travers wants his secret kept. I can’t imagine him going to work tomorrow and telling everybody what happened. For a while he’s going to live in fear. As will his buddy. And so they should-mocking the Bible and humanity with their actions.

Mocking me with them.

I part company with the car a half mile from home and build up a sweat while walking the rest of the way. My briefcase feels heavy in the wet heat. Maybe one day I’ll buy a car.

When I get inside, I see two messages waiting for me, both from my mother. I erase them without listening to them, wondering two things at the same time. First, why I love my mom so much, and second, why she can’t be deleted just as easily.

I sit in front of Pickle and Jehovah and watch them as they swim in their endless cycle of memory loss. They see me, suspect I am about to feed them, so they race over. I haven’t fed them all day, so I don’t waste any time. I glance at my answering machine. Maybe Mom will call tomorrow. Ask me around for meatloaf. Show me her newest jigsaw puzzle. Give me some Coke. I look forward to it. I feel bad for not having listened to her messages.

Before going to bed I dig out an old alarm clock from the bottom of my small closet. Set it to seven thirty-five. This way I give myself a chance to wake up at seven thirty. It’s like a test. A test with a backup.

I wish my fish good night before going to bed. I close my eyes and try not to think about my mother as I wait for sleep to come and take me away from the pain of what I’ve seen tonight.