Sparkle

by Rudy Yuly

  For one thing, nothing about the oversized, brightly painted Victorian with its expensively manicured front lawn—except the crime scene tape still hanging limply across the door—said murder. In fact, the whole damn block looked as though nothing bad had happened here in a hundred years. The immaculate houses were all on one side of the quiet peaceful street. The other side dropped off steeply, revealing the best view in Seattle: city, bay, and mountains, all laid out in 180 degrees, as though these privileged people owned it all.

  The clash between privilege and bad luck tempted Joe to wonder about the occupants—former occupants. Which was something he never, ever wanted to do.

  When it came to Sparkle Cleaners’ clients, Joe had a firm rule: Address. Body count. Nothing else.

  Business had been lousy lately, and this house was so upscale that it made Joe think he probably wasn’t charging enough for the job. This irritated him further. Feeling bad about lousy business was equivalent to wishing someone would get killed. The job was ghoulish enough as it was.

  Joe never wanted to have to think about Sparkle Cleaners as a business. He preferred to consider it occupational therapy for his younger brother, the only thing that could keep Eddie content and on an even keel.

  Now Joe had to look at this beautiful dark house in the rain and fight off the urge to think of it as a place that had recently held a prosperous, alive—maybe even happy—family.

  A perfectly crummy way to start another perfectly crummy day.

  Joe and Eddie were partners. In the six years the Jones brothers had run Sparkle Cleaners, they’d managed to snag a decent percentage of the market in Seattle’s homicide and suicide cleanup business. Business had its ups and downs, but fortunately there wasn’t much competition.

  And Sparkle offered one thing that no one else could: Eddie.

  Joe was aware that most people who knew about the brothers’ specialized area of cleaning expertise—the coroner’s office, the police, and the rest—felt a little sorry for them. But he also knew that they all agreed: regardless of Eddie’s disability, he could make a nasty mess go away like nobody else. Time and again, the response to one of Eddie’s cleanups was the same: “It’s like nothing bad ever happened here.”

  And the next time someone blew out their brains, Sparkle Cleaners would get the call.

  At one time Sparkle had been a regular janitorial business, doing mostly high-end residential jobs. But ever since the first request came in to clean up something bloody—the owner of one of the houses they serviced had shot himself in the chest—Eddie had refused to do anything else.

  It had taken Joe quite a while and a lot of headaches to figure out the program. The last thing he’d wanted was to get into the blood-and-guts business. Eddie, though, despite his severe difficulties communicating with most people, knew exactly how to get through to his older brother. He had made his wishes perfectly, unrelentingly clear.

  Once Joe finally yielded and agreed to make crime scene cleanups their specialty, things seemed to ease up a bit for the brothers. The six-day OSHA certification course had been a real challenge for Eddie, but he’d given it everything he had. Joe was relieved to find out that they could get by fine with the equipment they already owned. The main difference, really, was that they could no longer simply dump their garbage. But they passed along the cost of biohazard disposal to the customer, and they could easily bill four or five times what they could charge for ordinary cleaning. All in all, a great deal.

  Once Joe had lugged all the gear up onto the house’s big porch, he went back out to the van and opened Eddie’s door. Eddie sat quietly, hands resting in his lap, looking straight ahead.

  “Okay, bro,” Joe said. “Time to come get suited up. You ready to go to work?”

  Eddie was more than ready. He was eager.

  “Uh-huh,” he said. “Okay.”

  He silently followed Joe up the stairs and waited patiently as Joe unbagged a fresh hazmat coverall. Eddie mechanically pulled it on outside on the covered porch.

  Like Joe, Eddie Jones couldn’t remember much about his childhood even if he’d wanted to. There was one thing, though, and just like Joe’s memory, it came to him over and over again—his mom’s blood.

  There was nothing else in the memory, only the blood. Eddie remembered how much of it there was. How rich and earthy it smelled, leaving a slight metallic tang at the back of his tongue. How it started wet, seeming to waver and writhe as its slick crimson dulled to sticky plum, and then crusted over until it was nearly black.

  Eddie could only watch as his mom’s blood changed from something alive to something hard, cold, and dead. Unlike Joe’s, Eddie’s memory didn’t leave him feeling good or bad. In fact, the memory had a way of recementing the fact that he usually didn’t feel much at all.

  All he could do was watch his own emotions harden and die along with the blood, until he was utterly speechless and numb. The impression was more vivid, real, and immediate than anything else in Eddie’s mind, pretty much the defining characteristic of his existence. Eddie knew blood, in the strongest sense of the word. It had oozed into his cells and marked his soul.

  Joe opened the front door. Like most people entering a deserted, gore-splattered house, he was horrified.

  The blood looked different to Eddie, though. It was an invitation and a challenge. A beautiful mystery. It made him feel comfortable and whole, gave his life purpose. He was a cleaner—the best.

  The moment Eddie stepped over the threshold, he wanted Joe to go away so he could be alone and start spraying Shiny Gold. He knew that he would have to wait a few more minutes, until Joe had acted out his last little routine, but Eddie felt an immediate sense of urgency to do what he could for these people. He could see them, outlined in awkward death sprawls on the floor in chalk. Their blood was the key to unlocking all that was left of them.

  But Joe kept standing behind him in the open doorway in the rain, taking too long to go.

  “Eddie. You spacing out, bro?” Joe had to fight back competing urges to gag and run, but, as always, felt an almost panicky hesitation about leaving his brother alone in such an awful place.

  “Uh-huh. Okay.” Joe’s voice had sounded far away.

  “Good, then,” Joe said. “Let me make sure you’re suited up right.” Eddie turned and stood passively while his brother looked him over.

  “It’s been a while since we did a multiple,” Joe said. “You might feel a little rusty today. So pace yourself, all right?”

  “Uh-huh. Okay,” Eddie processed Joe’s distant words just enough to feel a slight electric fizz of annoyance pass through his brain. “Go, Joe.”

  “Remember to eat your lunch at noon,” Joe persisted. “I’ll be back right at five.” He said the same thing every time he left Eddie behind at a job.

  Eddie turned to face the interior of the house. The impressions here were so strong, he was having difficulty holding back.

  “Okay, Joe,” Eddie said. “Go away. Go away now.”

  Joe sighed deeply as he quietly shut the door. He hung his beat-up, official-looking No entrance by order of Seattle Police sign on the doorknob. Not that anyone was going to show up here. Everyone who had known the former occupants, Joe was certain, would want to stay as far away from this fucked up place as possible.

  On the big front porch, Joe lit his fifth unfiltered Pall Mall of the morning. He shivered slightly, and rubbed the long thick scar that ran from the bottom edge of his jaw to the corner of his right eye. He hated blood.

  Joe looked out at the crazy blowing rain, stretching out over the bay and the city, over the islands and mountains and off as far as he could see.

  These people sure had one hell of a view.

  Even as it flitted into his mind, Joe cursed himself for allowing a personal thought about the victims to sneak up on him. The rain was pelting the other end of the block. Joe watched it sweep down the street toward him.

  A teenage papergirl on a too-small bike raced ahead of the
downpour, zipped by, and whipped a Seattle Post-Intelligencer in a plastic baggie toward the porch. She had an arm. The paper hit Joe and sent sparks flying off his cigarette. He clumsily kicked the paper across the porch into a goodsized pile of similar papers, all still wrapped in plastic.

  “They don’t need it!” Joe yelled after her in a strangled voice. She didn’t hear. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “Get a clue.”

  Joe stumbled down the slick steps as the rain hit. He raised his voice and yelled halfheartedly down the street, “They’re dead, for Chrissakes!” The girl was already turning the corner at end of the block.

  Wearily, Joe pulled himself up into the dented but clean, badly parked white van with SPARKLE CLEANERS printed on the side. He started it and lurched off. His cell phone rang. Joe swerved slightly as he fumbled for it, grateful for anything that might take his mind off the scene he’d left behind.

  Chapter 3

  Jolie Walker, wearing her brown Woodfield Park Zoo uniform, stood in front of the chimpanzee habitat. She smiled in anticipation as she made a call.

  “Sparkle Cleaners, Joe speaking,” came the flat, tired voice at the other end. As always, Joe sounded as though he was doing something else and couldn’t wait to end the conversation. Jolie knew him well enough to get to the point. Today, maybe, she’d give Joe something to smile about.

  “Hi, Joe. It’s Jolie, from the zoo. I’m calling about Eddie.”

  “Oh, great.” Joe sounded irritated. “Is something wrong? Please tell me you’re going to be there tomorrow, Jolie. It’s not going to be pretty if Eddie doesn’t get to see you.”

  “No, don’t worry. I just wanted to let you know we got the grant. It’s going to cover my salary to take Eddie on his tour every week.”

  “Oh, wow.” Joe’s tone softened. “So…what do I have to do?”

  “Nothing, Joe. Just bring him. Like always.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Yep,” Jolie said. “Isn’t it great? For the next year, anyway.”

  For Jolie, it meant an automatic boost in pay. For Joe, it meant he wouldn’t have to worry about Eddie spazzing out and throwing a fit if Jolie wasn’t there. For Eddie, it meant the world. After Joe, Jolie Walker was Eddie’s favorite living person.

  “So…that’s great. I’ll tell Eddie,” Joe said. “I can tell him—it’s a sure thing, right?”

  “Sure as they get.”

  “Okay, then. See you tomorrow.”

  “Okay. Bye.” Jolie hung up.

  She’d gotten through to Joe, she could tell.

  “Hey there, Jolie. Can I talk with you a minute?”

  It was Mark Bender, her boss. Mark had recently taken on the assistant head zookeeper job. He’d been at Woodfield for about four months, and he was still having some trouble finding his place. He’d completed his MS in zoology from the University of Idaho the previous summer. Before that, he’d spent a couple of years working as a zookeeper in Salt Lake City, after getting his BS at Brigham Young. He’d grown up with animals all his life, was a 4H junior farmer and the whole bit, and early on told Jolie one of the reasons he’d wanted to come to Seattle was for the great fishing—although the hunting was apparently not as good as in Idaho.

  “Sure, Mark, what is it?”

  “Well…you were just talking to that guy, that guy’s brother…”

  “Joe. Eddie’s brother.”

  “Right. Eddie.”

  Mark wasn’t a Mormon, but he was damn conservative for Seattle. He was trying hard to fit in, though. He’d come along for beers with the zookeepers after work on several occasions, and Jolie noticed he didn’t seem to have much tolerance for alcohol. After a beer or two, he’d start getting kind of loud, even slurring a bit. Then he’d catch himself and excuse himself for the night. One time, she’d asked him if he was okay to drive. He’d looked at her with the oddest, half confused-half irritated expression, mumbling something barely audible before heading out the door.

  “I was just letting him know that the grant came through and I’ll be taking Eddie around every week.”

  ‘Yes. Well that’s great, Jolie. Listen, though. I’m not sure how to say this, but the kind of disability this young man—“

  “Eddie.” Jolie smiled at Mark’s use of “young man.” They had to be practically the same age.

  “Right, what is Eddie’s diagnoses, exactly?”

  “Why?”

  “Well…I was wondering, has he ever…acted out in any way?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Has he ever displayed any…violent tendencies?”

  “Omigod, no. Eddie’s a lamb. He’s the sweetest, gentlest person you ever want to meet.”

  “I know, but, I actually have a little experience with this kind of—is he autistic, or what?”

  “It’s a little sketchy, Mark. Something happened to him when he was a kid. It’s something like autism spectrum with some post-traumatic blah blah. What does it matter?”

  “I was just thinking maybe it would be better if we got one of the guys—“

  “In general, Mark had an awkward, halting way of talking to Jolie that was different than his normally self-assured zookeeper vibe. Jolie had a half-flattered and half-panicked impression that he wanted to ask her out. He was tall, fit, and good looking, but he so wasn’t her type. Too tucked in. Too wholesome, frankly.

  Jolie liked men a bit rougher around the edges.

  “Mark, I need the extra money on this.”

  “Well maybe we could have someone tag along–“

  “Mark. Really. I’ve been doing this tour with Eddie for nearly a year, now. It’s not a problem. I like it. I like him. It’s easy and it’s easy money.”

  As a boss Mark was generally okay, though it was still too early to tell for sure. He tended to be rigid and a little snappish when it came to minor scheduling conflicts. He also had an extremely detached style of working with the animals. Which made sense, coming from a farm where you ended up eating everything, eventually. He was also an unabashed hunter, although the blank stares he got from the rest of the zoo staff when he talked about it had pretty much shut him up on that subject. But all this clashed with vegetarian Jolie’s view of every animal as a distinct personality, as valuable and compelling as any human.

  They walked for a moment in silence.

  “Do you know what he does?” Mark said finally.

  “What difference does that make?”

  “I was just reading his file.”

  “He’s some kind of janitor.”

  “Jolie, he cleans up crime scenes. He’s around violent crimes constantly.”

  Jolie stopped walking.

  “Mark, I truly appreciate your concern. I truly do. But I don’t see what difference that could possibly make. Eddie is safe. He is easy. And he is coming tomorrow and every Saturday for the next 56 weeks.”

  “Okay,” Mark said. “But will you promise you’ll call somebody on your walkie talkie if anything happens?”

  “What? Jees—Yes…of course. But this just seems a little ridiculous. Why would anything happen?”

  “Trust me, Jolie. I have personal experience with this kind of…mental illness. I know he’s gentle and all, but these poor people—they can have hair triggers. Things can seem perfectly fine, then turn on a dime. I know what I’m talking about here. Just promise you’ll be careful. And use that walkie talkie.”

  “Sure, Mark,” Jolie said. It took a lot to resist rolling her eyes. “I promise.”

  “Good,” Mark said. “Thank you.”

  “No problem.”

  “You do great work, Jolie. I do enjoy working with you.”

  “Okay, Mark. Thanks. I should get going.”

  “Sure. Busy day!” He walked away.

  Jolie shook her head at his back. “Fucking tight ass,” she said.

  Chapter 4

  As soon as the front door clicked shut behind Joe, Eddie let himself open slightly to what was in the house.

 
A bittersweet sensation seeped in. Pain, utter loss, and helplessness all stirred together with a tingling impression of being intensely alive, powerful, and without limits.

  Ordinarily Eddie didn’t experience emotion, at least the way most people understand emotion. Even now, the sensation was primarily mental, as though he were standing outside watching it happen to someone else. That didn’t detract from its power. He forced himself to keep most of it out. He wasn’t entirely ready.

  Eddie gently removed his anti-splatter face shield. He carefully stripped and folded the white Tyvek hazmat coverall. Eddie always suited up by the book. Occupational Safety and Health Administration 29 CFR Part 1910. Bloodborne Pathogen standard, 1910.1030. Respiratory Protection standard, 1910.134. Hazard Communication standard, 1910.1200. He knew the regulations by heart. Word for word.

  He let Joe check him to make sure he was properly protected, even though his brother hadn’t taken the course. It was worth it to make Joe feel better.

  But regardless of what the rules said Eddie couldn’t work covered up. Too much information got blocked. He took off gear as carefully as he’d put it on, until he was down to the outfit he always worked in: white boxer shorts, T-shirt, socks, and sneakers. For protection he wore kneepads and surgical rubber gloves. Sometimes even the gloves were too much—but Eddie was committed to following the heart if not the letter of the law. He would limit his direct contact with bodily fluids.

  He was well aware of his transgression. But what he had to do was private. And what Joe didn’t know couldn’t hurt him. Eddie’s arrangement with Joe made sure that Eddie wouldn’t get caught. Joe never came back into a job without knocking first and getting Eddie’s permission to enter.

  Eddie had locked the door behind him at his first blood job, and Joe had come back a little before five, worried and then angry when Eddie wouldn’t answer his increasingly urgent knocking and ringing the bell. After ten minutes Joe was at the boiling point, ready to kick in the door.

  Eddie opened it in his face, fully suited up. He pulled down his mask, looked his brother directly in the eye for the first time in recent memory, and said, clear and plain, “Man-sized mess, Joe. You don’t come in until I’m done. Never never never. Knock again at five.”