by Paloma Meir
Best case scenario, his amusement with me coming back to the job would pass in a few days, that were sure to be filled with taunting and meaner jokes than usual, and then we would go back to our previous relationship. Our old relationship would seem like heaven in comparison. I guess I had that to look forward to.
I knocked several times. The heavy knocker clanking hard, echoing through the canyon. No answer. I should have known better, of course he knew it was me at the door, and of course he was going to make this as difficult as possible.
“Mr. Galloway,” I practically stuttered, “It’s me, Esme.” I knew on a normal day it would be impossible for him to hear me. His home was well-built, noiseless inside if all the windows were closed, and they usually were. He preferred his life to be temperature controlled.
But I sensed he was standing on the other side of the door laughing at me. I carried on for his benefit. He wanted me to cower and beg, I would cower and beg. Six more months of school and I would be free to live my own life. Goodbye forever Mr. Galloway.
“Mr. Galloway… I’m so sorry about yesterday. I’ve been having…” What had I been having? A moment of clarity? Of dignity? I didn’t think that’s what he wanted to hear. I went with this instead, “Lady problems… My time of the month.” I crossed myself as my mother had taught me, for setting the women’s movement back by a hundred years.
I pressed my ear against the door expecting to hear his laughter. Quiet, he was not standing on the other side. All I heard was the low hum of the air conditioning and Mila meowing. I took the key out of my pocket and stared down at it.
I wondered if he could have me arrested for breaking and entering. Could he be that horrible? Possibly. It was a chance I was going to have to take. I put the key in the lock and turned it slowly. My heart pounded.
“Mr. Galloway,” I called out in a singsong way. Maybe that would be the best plan of action, pretend the day before hadn’t happened. Like that would ever work.
“Mr. Galloway,” I tiptoed across the foyer. I had no idea why I was tiptoeing.
“Ave Maria, Madre de Dios,” I screamed out into his home. Mr. Galloway lay sprawled out on the floor, his arm extended, his fingertip touching one of the heart pills.
I leapt to his side, muttering and mangling the prayer over and over again. English was my first language. My parents never spoke Spanish at home. My grasp on the language was light as best.
I picked up his cold and boney hand and felt his wrist for a pulse. There was none. I unbuttoned his cardigan and shirt and placed my hand on his chest. His skin was ice.
I jumped away, terrified. The broken pill bottle on the floor was shattered. That could only be done with force. The force of being thrown. Why would Mr. Galloway would do that? I saw the room through a detective’s eyes and it looked it like a murder scene.
My one duty, the one I had been hired for, to give this man his pills, I had failed. More than failed, it looked purposeful, as if I had set out to taunt this frail and infirm man in his last hours. They would never believe I had left him full of life, and in high spirits, high dark spirits.
Mr. Galloway was a menace, even in the afterlife. I found myself laughing. It was hysterical, shrill and full of tears, but the laughter was there. “You got me good, Mr. Galloway. I’m going to jail. Your fiery Mexican glorified housekeeper, who’s not even Mexican, for all intents and purposes killed you. Mazel Tov Mr. Galloway, to use the phrase of another ethnic group you had interesting thoughts on.”
Mila slunk across the room. She was a beautiful cat, a Bengal. Mr. Galloway had doted on her, spoiling her with fresh salmon, and bowls of cream. I never thought the heavy diet wasn’t good for her, but she seemed healthy.
She bumped her head against my knee, gently purring while I sat cross-legged on the floor enjoying my last few minutes of freedom. “Mila… you must be hungry.” I ran my hand through her silky fur.
I sniffed the air. It was surprisingly fresh considering there was a dead body in the room and I hadn’t changed Mila’s kitty litter in three days. Mr. Galloway purchased the litter in bulk from Canada, he claimed it was the best money could buy and the most effective.
He would definitely be right about that.
“Mila, Mila, Mila,” I picked her up and carried her into the kitchen, “What if I hadn’t come by today? You would have starved… Mr. Galloway hasn’t had so much as phone call since I started working here.” My hands trembled as I opened the refrigerator and took out the cold poached salmon she loved.
“But if I hadn’t come back. His body probably wouldn’t have been found for months. By the time it had… It would have decomposed. I wouldn’t be going to jail.” I put the bowl on the floor and sat down next to her while she ravenously ate.
She looked up at me purred again as if she understood what I was saying and was offended by the idea that I would put my needs before hers. “Don’t worry Mila, it didn’t happen that way. I’m more than happy to feed you, even if it did cost me my freedom.”
She tiled her head and blinked her eyes in a way I found condescending. How do cats do that? “Mila… He was a horrible man…” I buried my head in my hands and fully broke down in to sobs. I could barely catch my breath. I worried for a moment that there would be two dead bodies on the floor soon. What would the police ever make of that situation?
“But I never wanted him to die, ever, ever, ever, not even when I yelled it out. That poor man, what a life he had… so alone. And now I’ll pay for it with my own.”
I grunted and stood up, a rush of anger at the absurdity of this situation replaced my sorrow, “I don’t want to go to jail. My life is just beginning. His ended long before I ever met him. I’m not going to jail. I just won’t call the police. I’ll clean up the pills, leave as I entered and he’ll be found when he’s found and that’s that.”
I leaned down to pick her up again. This did not make her happy. She had not finished eating, “You’re coming with me Mila. I don’t know where we’re going or how we’ll live, but I’ll figure it out. I’ll take the next quarter of school. Then we’ll have enough money to relocate… Jack—
The thought of Jack dictating my living arrangements out of my fear of him pushed me over the edge. It’s not fair to place the blame for my choices on him, but this was my frame of mind at the time. I was slightly unhinged to say the least, dear reader.
“We’re staying here Mila,” I stated definitively to the cat who could not care less. “I’m going to go change your litter.”
My decision was firm. All Jack knew of Mr. Galloway was that he was a wealthy and mean old man who lived in Beverly Hills. And I had told him I quit the job anyway. I would be safe here.
How I would live in a home with a dead body in the living room wasn’t something I could figure out. Burying him in the backyard seemed like a bad idea. If I buried him, the whole situation would smack of premeditation.
Best for him to be found eventually, once I was far, far away.
The bags of litter were stored in the freestanding garage a few short steps from the backdoor of the kitchen. Those steps were blazing hot. The sun was too bright. The days of extreme heat were unbearable.
A wave of air conditioning blasted me when I opened the door to the garage. I stood under it for longer than necessary, heavenly. Cool again, I picked up the heavy bag and carried it back into the house.
Mr. Galloway’s home had maid quarters off the kitchen. He had never wanted a live-in housekeeper because he didn’t like people. A few years before, an interior designer had turned the rooms into a kitten wonderland for Mila. There were carpeted mazes of steps, feathered sticks bolted to the walls a hair out of her jumping reach and a catnip dispenser.
She preferred to lounge at the feet of Mr. Galloway. As I said, he did dote on her. I’ll give him that.
Her litter box was in the bathroom off the suite of rooms. I dropped the bag to the ground and lifted the liner that held the litter, out. Mila had been sick, the box was filled
with the runniness of her excrement. I jerked backwards at the sight of it expecting the odor to be putrid.
There wasn’t an odor. The room and the litter smelled fresh. His imported and expensive litter worked.
An idea formed in my head.
I refilled Mila’s box, disposed of the litter and ran back to the garage. I tore through it looking for a tarp, duct tape and dust cloths. I found it in the neatly organized gardening shed.
Mr. Galloway had re-landscaped his yard a few years before to make it drought resistant. It was now a sea of stones. I know that sounds dull, but it was quite beautiful. It also freed him of the need of the “Mexican” gardeners he claimed were robbing him blind.
Such a ridiculous man, but the lack of weekly visits from gardeners kept my plan safe.
I grabbed another bag of kitty litter, not quite believing I was going to do what I was going to do. It was as if I weren’t quite awake. The day was dreamy, more like a nightmare.
I ran into the living room and laid the tarp out on the floor next to Mr. Galloway. “I’m so sorry Mr. Galloway. This is only temporary. Someone will find you one day and you’ll have a glorious funeral.” I knew that wasn’t true, the funeral part at least.
I sprinkled a thick layer of kitty litter on to the tarp, and wrapped his head and hands with the cloths, to prevent the litter from sticking to his skin. The next part wasn’t fun. Rigor mortis hadn’t set in. The icy cold room had definitely slowed the process down, but he was stiff. It felt like a sacrilege to be handling the dead in such a way. I knew that even a man like Mr. Galloway deserved better.
I said my prayers and crossed myself numerous times.
Finally the deed was done. Mr. Galloway was neatly and expertly packed away in the litter-filled tarp. I had taken great care to retain his body shape in the packaging. He had admired the early Egyptians ingenuity. I had wrapped him into the shape of a mummy as tribute. It was the best, or the least I could do.
Now the hard part, carrying him to the temperature-controlled garage, which I would be turning to freezer levels of coldness. I’m sorry to say I dragged him across the floor. I was careful not to bang him into any of the furniture. Respect for the deceased is important.
In the garage, I propped him up in the tool shed next to the rakes and shovels. His form looked lonely. I decided to go into town later, buy some fresh flowers and lay them at his feet. Satisfied with my thoughtfulness, I securely shut the door and went back into the house.
“Mila,” I picked her up and held her in my arms like a pillow, “What have I done?”
Chapter Five
One would think it would be difficult to live in a house that had a dead body in the garage. For a mentally healthy person, it probably would be. But I had clearly lost my mind.
There are not words to describe how happy I was to live in Mr. Galloway’s home. My whole life had been spent in crowded and crumbling apartment buildings. I was now living in the lap of luxury.
I couldn’t even have explained what the phrase, lap of luxury, meant before. I now knew, and it’s heavenly. The lap would be Mr. Galloway’s bed (I had changed the sheets). Did you know rich people’s mattresses are different than poor people’s mattresses?
His bed was like a marshmallow. The mattress conformed to my shape. I didn’t have to squirm to find the optimum position of comfort. It molded to my desires.
I splurged at Whole Foods, ordering all the readymade and prepackaged foods I could never afford to buy before. I still couldn’t afford them, but I had found a hundred dollar bill under the sofa when I was cleaning up the spilt pills.
Eating in bed with my mother’s blanket for comfort and Mila by my side would be the luxury. Did I mention Mr. Galloway had subscribed to every available premium cable channel? He had, and may I say there is more on television than George Lopez reruns?
Mila and I couldn’t have been happier. That’s not completely true. I sensed Mila missed Mr. Galloway. She had grown skittish with noise, her tiny head jerked at the slightest sound, as if he would be coming home at any moment. Rubbing behind her ears helped console her.
My classes began on day four of our bed-in, happily the first one started late in the day. I rose at noon, stretching from side to side and ran through a checklist in my head. Finding a new job was my number one priority. I wouldn’t be calling the temp agency. I couldn’t take the chance that they would try to reach Mr. Galloway to find him a new caretaker.
No need to have anyone searching for him.
I had called my roommates and let them know I wasn’t coming back. I was vague on the details of where I was staying for their safety and mine. Jack hadn’t been by the apartment but I told them to keep an eye out for him and to call the police immediately if they saw him.
Jack, I didn’t like to think about him… The calls were tapering off but the vitriol remained the same. I had listened to a few of his messages the day before, hoping against hope that he had settled down, come to his senses. Nope, if anything he sounded even more angry.
I tried to imagine the day that I would look back on this and it would all seem funny. Jack patting me on the shoulder, laughing, his eyes the bright sparkle of blue he had as boy, and saying to me, “Remember that time I robbed the liquor store? When I called you three hundred times in a row and threatened your life?”
There really wasn’t a way back as far as I could see. My heart broke at the thought. The Jack I had known and loved for almost my whole life was gone and wouldn’t be coming back to me.
I had run out of clothes and hadn’t done the wash. I decided to wear Mr. Galloway’s. Yes, it was macabre, but I looked cute. He wore a lot of pastels and plaids. I put on a pair of his green checkered shorts and cinched them with a crocodile belt than I’m sure cost more than my previous monthly wages, and an off-white polo shirt.
I felt a chill as I walked to the garage with Mr. Galloway’s Porsche keys in hand. I felt safe in the house, but at UCLA? Jack did know where I went to school. He didn’t know my schedule, and the campus was sprawling, taking up 419 acres and was generally safe.
But still, school would be where I was most vulnerable. I went back to Mr. Galloway’s closet and selected a navy trilby-style hat and tucked my hair in. I forced myself to feel a confidence that he would never think to look for me in such an outfit. I headed back to the garage.
Mr. Galloway had a 1938 Bentley, which was more a work of art than a car for driving, and a Porsche 911. The Porsche had only ever been driven by me, back and forth to the market and to pick up his dry-cleaning. As you can imagine, I loved driving the car.
Who wouldn’t?
I opened the garage door and turned the key in the engine. The bright light of the day shined on Mr. Galloway’s personal mausoleum, the gardening shed. I tuned off the engine.
What on Earth was I doing? I had wrapped a dead man up in kitty litter and plastic and essentially buried him. I needed a definitive plan. This could not go on indefinitely. My sainted parents would be ashamed of the child they had lovingly raised.
I leaned back in the seat and considered my options. Go inside, call the police, and throw myself on the mercy of the court? No.
Live my life as a mad woman with a corpse? No, I had already ruled out that option.
I decided to give myself until the end of my academic quarter to save up enough money to get a new apartment, one where Jack would never find me. I was certain the police would have arrested him by then and I would be safe again. I would unwrap Mr. Galloway, respectfully place him in his beloved recliner and leave the house.
A month after moving out, I would stop by for a surprise visit to my previous beloved employer, find him dead and tearfully call the police. His body would have decomposed sufficiently. It would be ruled as sad case of an elder who died alone.
I would spend the rest of my life atoning for what I had done, church every Sunday, charitable good works with the community.
“Okay, good plan,” I wiped away the tears I h
adn’t noticed were falling and turned the engine on again.
…
At the bottom of the driveway, I fell in love. A deep, madly forever kind of love.
A moving truck blocked my exit. I rolled down my window to politely ask the driver to pull the truck forward. I did not fall in love with the driver. I fell in love with the man he was speaking to, the man who would be moving into the house.
They turned to me at the same time, but I only saw him, and he only saw me. It was as if the world had exploded, leaving only the two of us. He approached my car as if drawn to me. I was the magnet, he was the steel.
“Landon Aldridge,” He held out his hand. I took it. We held them together for the entirety of our short conversation. It was a short conversation, because me falling madly, truly, deeply in love while living with a dead body in a home that I was fraudulently residing in was not going to work out.
“I just moved in… right now.” He sighed deeply and his eyes glowed and sparkled with a blinding brightness.
I swooned in return.
“Esme— I stopped myself.
“What a beautiful name,” He sighed again, “I could say it everyday for the rest of my life.”
“Thank you,” I knew I should loosen his grip on my hand, but he already felt like a part of me, a part I never wanted to get go of, ever.
The noise of the driver moving the truck forward broke our trance. I pulled my hand away, placed it back on the steering wheel, and looked at the road in front of me.
“Very nice to meet you Landon,” I punched the gas, and sped off to the sound of him calling my name.
By the time I turned onto Sunset Blvd, I was sure that this was Mr. Galloway’s revenge. I couldn’t even be mad at the devilish old dead man. I deserved it.
Chapter Six
Weeks went by and I avoided Landon. It broke my heart to do so, but I had bigger problems. I was broke and couldn’t find a part-time job that worked with my school schedule.
