Over the next forty-five minutes, Marco and Gene attempted to pull aside each employee and manager, and interview each one of them individually briefly, but they found it difficult with the rush of lunchtime. Most of them seemed too busy to concentrate on answering to the best of their memory, but the ones that did, seemed positively certain that they had never seen Miss Zoey Edmund.
It seemed as if it was another dead end, so Gene and Marco walked back outside to the car. Together, they agreed that no matter where they go at this hour, the result would always be the same. The employees are too busy to give their complete attention to trying to remember anything, and it would be useless to try. They talked it out for a while outside in the car, but decided they should eat and wait out the rest of the lunch period before trying again. They needed a break, anyhow. The monotony of the first half of the day was brutal, and repeated failure wore them down.
So they did. Gene and Marco walked back into the impressive bar, and got a table downstairs in the quieter portion of the building. They each got tea as usual; Gene ordered his sweet iced tea, and Marco his freshly-brewed hot tea. They set business aside for the next hour as they talked like friends and ate their meals together.
---
The lunchtime rush wound down from what it was before, but people still filed through the doors in droves, so Marco and Gene paid and sat out the rush until the employees seemed less overwhelmed.
After some time, the restaurant patrons began leaving as quickly as they had arrived, and the workers’ shifts drew closer to an end. They took each one aside and interviewed them again, more in depth than before because their attention was more focused. But to no avail, they left this bar and continued to the next one. Then the next, and then the next, and then the next, until they had made their way all the way down the list of top-rated bars in Dallas. No one in any of these bars had recognized Zoey, and the bulk of the day was wasted.
The clock now ticked along, passing three o’clock as the men drove back towards the station, silent and distraught. They interviewed at least one hundred different people between the servers, managers, and bartenders, and none of them had useful information.
Zoey was a phantom, the ghost of a girl that no one knew, the memory of a person that used to be important. The instinct that she could not be found crept its way into their minds, but was instantly pushed down and rejected. Even through their weariness, the two of them were more determined now than ever.
At precisely 3:07 p.m., Gene Maxwell received a phone call.
EIGHT
It feels like we’re on the same page now. The two of us are starting to work so well together, like we were meant to. It’s been three days since my last meal, and I’m not upset about it. I think the two of us have an unspoken agreement, like we can read each other’s minds.
I really think I’m starting to drop weight. I feel lighter, but I can’t tell if that’s because my body is weak from not eating much. My arms feel skinner already, and I don’t feel quite as encumbered by the fat on my stomach. I’m gonna be so pretty.
I’ve been thinking a lot about how things are going, and the more I think about the future, the more excited I get. I’ve never been skinny, and now this man is giving me the opportunity. I’ve never intimately known a man other than Terry, but maybe he will give me the chance to impress him. I hope he introduces himself before too long. I only wish I had a mirror and a brush, or something to make myself look halfway presentable.
The floor is creaking again, and now the door is open. His silhouette is standing beneath the light that hangs in the hall behind him. He’s got a bucket in his hand. I guess today is my day to eat, then. He’s walking slowly as always, one step at a time with plenty of time in between. Before he gets to the bottom, I brush my hair back with my hands and clear away any dirt that may be on my face, so that by the time he can see me from the bottom step, I might not look so unpleasant.
Now he is standing at the bottom step, looking down at me. He bends over to tie the end of his rope to the bucket, and then he lowers it down carefully. With each movement of the bucket, liquid crests and splashes over the side, spilling onto the ground and pooling in the dirt, caking it into a thin mud.
The bucket lands safely on the floor of the pit, but I will wait for instruction before I get any closer to it.
“Go ahead,” he says, “Untie the rope.”
As I untie the rope, I get a look at the contents of the bucket, and I’m surprised to see what it is. Rather than a bucket of slop, it’s a bucket filled to the brim with warm water, hot enough that it is steaming. The steam moistens my face, and the anticipation is enough to drive me crazy. The bucket has a wash rag and a scented bar of soap inside. Finally, after all this time, I’m going to get a bath. I’m going to feel clean again, with a clean face and clean arms. I’ll get to clean the dirt out of my fingernails, and wash all the sweat and urine off me.
Just as I was becoming giddy with excitement, he threw something else down at me: a new red long sleeve shirt, a new pair of jeans, which are one size smaller than I normally wear, and a change of socks. Not only was he kind enough to provide me with a bath, but a change of clothes, too! No longer can I contain myself, so for the first time since my arrival, I’m going to speak to him.
“Thank you!”
I sounded like a schoolgirl saying it, but it just kind of forced its way out, not asking permission first.
Beyond my better judgement, I feel gratitude, strangely. Part of me knows I have nothing to thank him for, nothing to be grateful for. But the other part of me - the much larger part - thinks that he is doing more for me than he needs to. More than he realizes, even. And for his efforts in keeping me comfortable, I am grateful.
“You’re welcome, dear. I’ll leave you alone to become decent,” he said, his face covered in darkness. But I detect a smile. I couldn’t see the smile on his face, but I could feel it. I can still hear the smile in his voice. “I’ll be back in a moment.”
As he walked out of the room, I felt myself kind of wishing he would stay. Maybe I want him to watch.
Regardless, I want to swan dive into the bucket and swim around in it for hours. I wish it were possible to shrink myself so I can enjoy every bit of the water.
I grab the washcloth that is sitting in the soapy water, and wring it out just enough to where it isn’t dripping, but is still wet enough to clean myself with. I strip down from head to toe in the frigid room and, while shivering, I slather myself. The warmth doesn’t last long though, as it quickly is taken over again by the room’s brisk air, so I speed up the process and reapply another layer of warm water. I get out the bar of soap, which smells like lavender, and scrub myself head to toe, not missing anything. Then, after washing off the soap, I dip my hair in the water bucket to get it wet, and then lather the soap throughout my hair. It’s not ideal, because it isn’t real shampoo, but it’s better than two weeks’ worth of sweat, tears, and dirt. I scrub my hair and scalp thoroughly, to make sure I can get it as clean as possible, and then I go for another round on my body, bathing myself once again.
After dipping the used wash cloth back into the bucket several times, eventually the water became contaminated and dirty until it was dark brown - almost black in this darkness, but I continue anyway, still washing everything I can, using more and more soap. And finally, I feel clean. Other than my feet, of course, which the dirt and mud caked to.
The floor creaked again, and in he walked. He saunters down the steps and watches me as I finish my bath. Without a word, he throws me down a towel to wipe off with, and so I do. I dry off completely as he watches, and I don’t break eye contact once. I hope he enjoys it as much as I do.
After I finish drying my body completely, I try to dry my hair as well as I can, but the thickness of it absorbs so much water, it’s nearly impossible to dry by towel alone. Usually I wrap it for a while, then blow-dry it, but this would have to do. Then, I wipe off the dirt from the bottom of my feet, and put on
the socks that he gave me. Feeling refreshed, I clothe myself in the rest of the outfit and then lay the towel down on the dirt, so I don’t get my new clothes dirty. He’s still watching me as I do this, and as I sit down on my new towel, he disappears from sight.
A few minutes pass until he comes back in, but he comes bringing me a gift. He throws down a massive, heavy, hand-woven quilt. It’s huge, probably like eight feet long, and is made up of different colored squares. It looks old, like something my grandmother would have knitted together for me, but it brings me the most comfort I have seen in two weeks. For once, I feel clean and warm. I didn’t even feel this clean on the first day; even then I felt dirty with alcohol and piss. I’m a new woman.
Now, I lie here, in fresh clothes after a nice bath, on a towel keeping me from the dirt, while wrapped up in a warm blanket. I couldn’t be more grateful for the way he’s taking care of me. Things could, and have been, much worse.
And there he stands, at the edge of the staircase, still watching me cozy up in my new blanket. I halfway wish he would come down here, so I could see his face for the first time, and feel his skin. I want to touch his face and run my fingers through his hair, and look into those eyes and tell him how thankful I am.
If not for him, I would still be in my condo that I didn’t pay for, working a secretary job that I hate because I have nothing better to do, driving a car that I did not earn, all alone with nobody to love me.
But he came to rescue me. He took me away from the life I didn’t deserve, with the things I didn’t deserve, and put me in a place that is more suited for me. Now, he’s the only person that I need to be around, and now I’m not always alone. It’s like this dirt prison has made me freer than I have ever been, and I feel less restricted now than I have in so long.
I always thought Terry was the one for me, that he would be the only one to love me even though I was visually unappealing. I always thought I was lucky to have him to take care of me, and support the life I wanted to live.
But now it’s different. This mysterious man has changed that completely, and now I’m left to wonder why I ever thought I needed Terry to take care of me. I don’t need him, and he made it perfectly clear that he doesn’t want me. But this man wants me, despite my issues.
The staring only just ceased, and now he’s heading out. I can’t speak up, because I could be wrong. I could be reading the entire situation wrong, and he might get angry at me. I should give it more time before I talk to him some more. If I’m lucky, I’ll even get to see him again today. Maybe he’ll bring me something to eat and we’ll get to have a chat. Maybe I’ll get to know him and he’ll get to know me.
I’m going to commit to losing the weight, because this man deserves my best, even if I don’t. Terry was impatient with me, and I am only just realizing that he may have always had something against me. The way he ended things made me think that he never really loved me, but only married me because he felt the obligation, or maybe that he thought he would die alone if not for me. But after he made all that money, things changed and he didn’t feel as committed to me.
But this new man is committed. He’s even putting himself at risk for me. He knows seeing me is against the law, but he does it anyway… for me.
My mind wanders a bit, and I start to think that maybe I already somehow know this man. Maybe I’ve met him before, and he saw me in a marriage that wasn’t going anywhere, and decided to liberate me from my own unhappiness. Maybe he knew Terry, or maybe I knew him from school, or maybe I met him at the bar for the first time. Whatever happened, and for whatever reason we met, I’m thankful either way. He’s given me a clean slate and a new shot at life - a life of happiness beyond what it ever was with Terry.
Under this blanket, I’m warm. I’m warm not only on the outside, but my chest is warm as well. Butterflies flutter in my stomach, and I fall asleep comfortably for the first time. Peacefully.
---
I wake up slowly. It doesn’t feel like it’s been very long since I fell asleep, but an eerie feeling has come over me. I could feel the presence of eyes upon me, but he isn’t there. The door is shut, and there is silence above me. No footsteps or TV sounds. Just silence.
I can still feel it, but I have no idea what it is. It’s like someone is staring at the back of my head and my sixth sense tingles, but when I turn around to get a look, there’s nothing, and then the feeling replaces itself on the other side of me. It’s like no matter where I look, I am always being stared at from behind, the tingling of eyes searing into the back of my skull.
I lie back down to try to sleep again, but as I close my eyes it feels like there is a figure looming over me. But there is nothing, still. Simply darkness surrounds me.
Then the creaking sounds from outside, and I watched him all the way down the stairs, holding another bucket.
“Trade me,” he grunted.
He lowers the bucket down to me and asks that I tie the rope onto my bath bucket so that he can hoist it up and clean it.
The food smells divine. Another perfect dish of culinary perfection. I wouldn’t at all be surprised to learn that he attended culinary school and is a chef. Because while everything looks rather revolting, everything is concocted and mixed in such a way that it feels like it was the way it was meant to be prepared. That may be the hunger in me talking, but either way I feel fortunate to have what I have.
Terry never liked to cook or eat out, so I always had to cook. Having someone cook for me is a welcome change of pace.
As he turns to walk up and out of the room, I seize my opportunity while I have the courage.
“Hey, wait!” It blurted out of me like it was unplanned, even though I had meticulously rehearsed it. After halting, he faces me again. “I just wanted to say thank you… For helping me so much.” He cocks his head, as if to be puzzled, but then nods and begins to walk out. Stopping him again, I blurt once more, “I have an idea!”
His attention is now mine. Puzzled turns to intrigued, and he steps closer to the edge of the bottom step.
“Go on?” He is still too far away to see clearly in the dark. I only wish some light would shine on his face, so I could finally see him.
“Well, I was thinking…” Brief hesitation kept me from continuing, but I pick back up anyway, “Y’know I think I’ve been losing weight. And I have you to thank for that. I think portioning me has been really effective, and I would like for us to develop a routine… if you don’t mind.” I pause, holding my breath. There’s no way to foresee any response.
First there was silence, a long draw of breath, and then he speaks, “What kind of a routine?”
I’ve caught his interest.
“Well, I was thinking. Maybe if we established a kind of routine where I only eat every three days or so, my body will get used to it and I’ll drop weight more quickly. Maybe I won’t even feel hungry as often, too. What do you think?”
He clears his throat, and just when I think he’s about to speak, he stops himself. Then he crosses his arms and rubs his face, contemplating.
“I like it,” he says, to my gratification. “I’ll be back later to get your dish.”
Not waiting for me to respond, or really even giving me the opportunity, he hustles up the stairs and through the door, closing it gently, for the first time. He’s never done that before. He always slams it. He opens it aggressively, and slams it even more so. But never has he been gentle. Maybe he’s working on himself because of me. Maybe I am making him into a gentler person. I can only believe that I have had something to do with his change of personality. I haven’t fought him or yelled for help. I haven’t cussed at him or spat at him. I’ve been nothing but cooperative and thankful, even when he wanted to burn me. Maybe that, too, was just a test for my resolve and loyalty. I really think he’s becoming a better person because of me, and I am becoming a better person because of him.
Maybe he is turning over a new leaf. For me.
NINE
The phone’s
ring itself was nothing out of the ordinary. His phone would ring on and off throughout the entirety of day from various telemarketers, his daughter, but most frequently, the Sergeant or Captain. However, the timing of it is what caught their attentions.
An unrecognized number with a Dallas area code looked back up at him, so he answered. Probably another telemarketer, he thought, but he was still hopeful of something more.
Marco listened, although he felt awkward eavesdropping on the conversation. He could hear the other person’s voice. He wasn’t sure, but it sounded like Mr. Edmund, who they had interviewed the day before.
“Ah, hey, Mr. Edmund! How are you? Work keepin’ you busy?” Gene’s detective voice was switched off and instead, informal and friendly Gene was talking. There was some muffled speech on the other line that was just one notch too quiet for Marco to make out.
“Uh huh… Yep… Yes, sir.” Gene allowed Terry to talk while he listened and acknowledged. Until, after a few more of those acknowledgements, he said, “Wow! Okay. Thank you… No, seriously. That’s a lot of help… Yeah. We needed a break,” Gene laughed and thanked him some more, then he hung up. The phone’s screen flickered on, chimed, and flickered off.
Marco was excited to hear the news; if he was lucky, it would be something that would let them put an end to the bartender hunt.
“What was all that about?” Marco burned with anticipation.
“Well that was Mr. Edmund. He said he was thinking a lot about some of the questions we had asked, if we knew where she might be going. He said that they seldom ever got out to Dallas, but when they did, there was one bar in particular they liked the most. He said they went there for both of their twenty-first birthdays. They went there on dates sometimes, and they would go there any time they were in Dallas,” Gene said, a smile building as he continued, “And he kept on about how the divorce seemed to really hurt her, blah blah blah. Anyway, he gave me the name of a bar, and we haven’t been there yet.”
Decay Page 9
