Clean Sweep

by E. B. Lee

  “To think, that night at the Church Run, I thought you were just getting soup,” said Carli.

  “Hah! I don’t need to stand in an icy line for soup, but I need to check the lines for my people. I need to get any street intel I can,” said Grant.

  “Intel?”

  “Oh, just info.” Grant waved off the comment with a swoosh of his hand. “Like who might be lacing their food or bottled water with cyanide.”

  Carli stiffened at the thought of it. “Do you have any idea who did it?” she asked.

  “None.” Grant pursed his lips together and took in a deep breath with his mouth remaining closed. Then he repeated, “None.”

  Carli asked about the man she called Aquaman.

  “Him? That’s Harry. Funny name you gave him, but I suppose it fits. Between you and me, ’cause this stuff is kind of confidential, he spends nights with another man under the FDR Drive. Right around Forty-Second Street. You know the place?”

  Carli nodded.

  “That’s their preferred home. But sometimes they move down to Thirty-Sixth Street. Have a real nice view of the Circle Line boat tours cruising around the city’s edge. I guess Harry’s story started when his wife died. At some point, Harry moved in with his daughter, but she kicked him out on account of his PTSD. Sometimes, he makes a bunch of noise at night. It scared his little grandchild. He’s a Vet, and help’s available, but he ran into complications and gave up on the government. It’s been at least two years. Every so often, the police round him up, along with Grudge.”

  “Grudge?”

  “An amputee who parks his wheelchair alongside Harry’s trestle. They look after each other, one Veteran to another.” Grant sipped his coffee. “Occasionally, the squad puts them in a drop-in center or on a ferry to a Staten Island center, but they always go back. Sometimes, they return on the after-midnight ferry. They want to be home, and the trestle’s their home.

  “I think you know the mother/daughter duo, Lanna and Kris, from the soup kitchen,” said Grant. “They stay at a women’s shelter. The man of the house walked out years ago. Kris, the daughter, is in her mid-thirties, though she looks like she’s a teenager, and she’s occasionally, well, suicidal. Lanna’s taking classes to be a nurse. She can’t pay rent, take care of Kris, and afford food. Government assistance is all they have. Kris needs drugs to stay well but often refuses. As an adult, she has that right, except when she’s having bad thoughts. Then Lanna can step in, thank God. Hopefully, Lanna will get her degree. Then, she’ll have a paycheck and benefits, but she’ll need someone to watch her daughter.

  “You’ve seen Marvin and Leo too,” said Grant. Carli knew them as part of the talkative op-ed table. “They’re interesting,” he said. “Work the soup kitchens to the bone. Marvin usually sleeps at the drop-in room at Four Bridges with one chair per person, no bed, but a chance at breakfast and a shower. Sometimes Leo joins him, but usually Leo shacks up alongside the streets in the mid-Forties. He trusts himself more than anyone else and refuses to go on public assistance. He says it’s a matter of pride. Unlike Kris, he’d be better to leave drugs alone.”

  Most of the ones who visited the kitchen had homes of some sort, but something else was missing. A few worked night shifts and saved on money by “going to church.” What Grant made crystal clear was getting out was do-able, but it was like climbing the Empire State Building … on the outside.

  “Sorry to grill you,” said Carli. “I’ve worked with lots of people, but none were as down on their luck as the ones in the soup kitchen. Mostly, I worked with ideas. I mean, what does advertising have to do with basic needs of food and shelter?” Carli quieted. She hadn’t meant to share a word about her former work. Grant didn’t seem to care. Nonetheless, Carli tried covering her tracks with an additional thought. “I retired a short while ago,” she said, “and wanted to help. The Run intrigued me, but the soup kitchen seems better suited.”

  “Keep up the questions, and you’ll have to join Outreach. You seem to have a passion for helping. We need that.”

  Carli laughed.

  Grant looked her directly in the eyes. “Don’t assume the soup line visitors didn’t once have very different lives. Some of them even in the corporate world.” Grant’s tone had changed. “And I wasn’t kidding about joining Outreach. I’m a pretty good judge of certain things, like needing to help and having the right kind of passion. Most people ... well, they turn away from all of this as fast as they can, as though living on the street is a communicable disease. Clearly, you know it’s not.”

  Carli, with her fake name, and insecurity in her newfound world of tough lives, felt like a cad. Thank God, Grant had to leave to check a woman in the park. Carli left the diner and walked, as though drawn by a line of fishing filament, to the river along the city’s eastern edge. She stared at the blue and gold glimmer on the water. This bench, she thought, taking a seat, might be someone’s bed tonight. As her navy coat wicked heat from the air, she considered the strangers who had become family for lack of lunch money, and city-dwellers in donated suburban clothing. She envisioned a man in an aqua-striped coat, a woman thrusting her arms around the ragged tires of a worn-out wheelchair. She heard the rough outline of Grant’s laugh. And she thought of Lucy. Why was she poisoned? Carli considered her plans to take in a pair of street dogs, ready or not, and also the fact that she was living a false identity, with no easy way to erase her lies. Despite the hardship she saw at the soup kitchen, Carli felt her life was more a mess than anyone else’s now that Henry had burst back into it. A tear rolled down her coat collar to her lap. Carli wanted to return to work and leave this emotional turmoil. Writing a check would be easier than reaching out to strangers.

  Five

  Carli packed Lila and Terrance into two new crates and slid them into her car for their ride to freedom. According to Grant, Lucy had already made her trip. Once home, Lila and Terrance huddled under the kitchen table. Bits of ham and chicken lured them into the open long enough for quick snatches and retreats.

  Over the next days, Carli frequently sat on the floor across the room, content to watch and toss tidbits. She was going to give herself time to decide if they were staying, but, within days, Lila and Terrance’s scampering antics had sufficiently captivated her to know they were hers. She took great comfort in having the extra little bodies in her life. They masked some of the apartment’s quiet hum, a hum that contrasted starkly with the powerhouse energy inherent in her former day-to-day at TSW Inc. Did she miss that world? Mostly, she missed the people. On an impulse, Carli dialed Kristin McConnell, one of her creatives still at TSW Inc. and Carli’s first hire.

  “Sister!” Kristin shouted. Carli pictured her in her green-and-orange-print top with black slacks. It was funny how you got used to the office attire of co-workers, as though they were family.

  Carli shrieked in return, excited to catch Kristin on the first try. Kristin gave the scoop on a couple of old accounts and on surprising changes in personnel. Carli shared news of her latest endeavors – the Church Run, soup kitchen, and Lucy, Lila, and Terrance.

  “No!” said Kristin.

  “Yes.”

  “No,” Kristin repeated.

  “I kind of did it for Henry,” said Carli. “You know, my brother.” Carli rarely talked about Henry anymore, but Kristin and Carli went back fifteen years. In that time, they had discussed pretty much everything.

  “I get it,” said Kristin. “But you, the workaholic, got a couple of dogs?”

  “Like I said, after Lucy, I kind of had to.”

  Kristin was a dog person. Had a little French bulldog named Friedrich, a name Kristin and Carli had come up with when they recklessly tossed out names one night in Kristin’s apartment. Carli had said it as a joke, after seeing the brand name on Kristin’s room air conditioner. But then the name stuck. Carli felt like a godmother of sorts, having helped choose his name. Over time, Friedrich definitely grew into a Friedrich. He was unique. And it wasn’t beyond Kristin or C
arli to add a French accent to his name on account of his being a Frenchy. Friedrich didn’t care either way.

  “Are you getting the doggy line from Flippin’ Dog?” asked Kristin. “You know ... jackets and bandanas? Please say yes, so they match Friedrich.”

  “Oh my God, yes.” Carli knew the line well. For fourteen years, she had overseen Flippin’ Dog’s branding and advertising and had helped launch its digital. She had put them in nearly a thousand specialty boutiques and helped promote a line tailored to mass-market distribution online and brick and mortar. Carli was ready to shop. She looked at Lila and was shocked to see her reaction to Carli’s excited conversation. Not only was Lila staring intently, but she was wagging her tail. “Oh, wow! You should see Lila,” said Carli, followed by, “Oh my God, no!”

  “What’s wrong?” Kristin shouted back.

  “My car must reek. I totally forgot about Lucy’s backpack. It’s in the back of my car. Holy crap.”

  “Eww. Sounds bad. Why do you have her backpack?”

  “I just picked it up,” said Carli.

  “You took it from her?”

  “No. It was left behind. I was airing it out before I opened it.”

  “Oh my God. Sounds like a cue to ask about your paintings.”

  “Yeah, right. Good idea,” said Carli. “I’m making progress. And it’s frightening. I don’t have to sell anything, brand anything, or fit a budget. All I have to do is paint. I haven’t felt this free in forever.”

  “Sounds heavenly,” said Kristin.

  “Yes, but freedom can be overwhelming. Anyway, I started a couple of waterscapes, and I might head to the Cape for a few days. Of course, now I have to figure in a couple of dogs. Want to dog-sit for me? Even better, do you want a couple of new family members for your little guy?”

  “Friedrich!” shouted Kristin.

  Carli heard Friedrich bark. Kristin dodged the pet-sitting subject and brought up Carli’s birthday instead. “We’re throwing you a party. You know that, right?”

  “Of course,” said Carli. “Like always. Tell me when and I’ll be there.”

  Carli opened her SUV’s door and stared at Lucy’s backpack. It no longer smelled horrible, but it continued to radiate a clear message: “Danger!” Carli’s midsection tightened. She never should have taken it. Her first instinct was to toss the pack in the trash, but Carli couldn’t help but wonder what a homeless woman would keep. And whether, God forbid, it would hold a clue to her death. She decided to open it right in the garage.

  Two dog sweaters lay on top. One blue quilted and the other red and black plaid. Seeing something familiar was a relief. Carli knew immediately, from the distinct rainbow-colored logo, that they were made by Flippin’ Dog. A smiling dog, upside down and airborne, as though mid-flip, looked back at her. It was her design. She couldn’t believe it. Four pairs of dog shoes sat underneath, also Flippin’ Dog brand, and also welcome finds. At the bottom of Lucy’s backpack, Carli saw a pair of yellow dog slickers. Flippin’ Dog had decided against rainwear. Had decided to market fall and winter wear exclusively. She had never fully bought into the omission of rain gear, but that was a client decision. The rain slickers were PetWorld brand. She lifted them from the bag and inspected them. They were sturdy. The fabric was breathable. And ... there was something visible in their snap-shut pockets. Seeing it nearly caused her to drop the first slicker as though she were holding a live snake. Carli unsnapped the pockets and carefully pulled out the first of three photographs. Suddenly, Lucy had a past.

  “Of course. To keep them dry,” said Sister Anna. “I would have kept them in my own pocket, but Lucy … well, she was certainly unique.”

  Carli spread the three photographs atop Sister Anna’s desk. Together, with the spotlight of a desk lamp, and taking turns with a magnifying glass, Carli and Sister Anna inspected them.

  In the oldest, a long-roped swing hung from a tree, in front of a big Victorian home. With feet out straight, and head back, a young girl rose through the air, pushed by another girl, cut off, in part, by the picture’s ragged edge. An archway of roses, maybe red, but impossible to know from the black and white image, revealed a mid-summer scene.

  Carli flipped it over to view smudged pencil lines bobbing through creases in the paper.

  “It has an address,” she said. “Looks like Maple Lane, but it’s not clear. The house number on the door is Forty-Three.”

  “Every town in America has a Maple Lane,” said Sister Anna. “Besides, we don’t know if these were Lucy’s or if she was just a collector.”

  “Yes, but look ...” Carli flipped over the other photos.

  “Uh-hum.” Sister Anna turned one of them back to the front side. According to the caption, she was face to face with “L and T” in nineteen forty-something. A man and woman, young, beautiful, and handsome, smiled back, surely married. She, in a dark Sunday dress with matching jacket and Sunday hat, and he, in a Sunday suit. Both had dark, well-coiffed hair, and she had high cheekbones and clip-on earrings, which painted elegance across her portrait. Sister Anna said, “L and T, huh?”

  “This one is the jackpot. This couple near a lake.” Carli flipped the photo.

  Sister Anna read out loud the pencil print description. “Lucy and Will. Nineteen seventy-five. Elmsville Fair.” She looked at Carli, with eyes alert.

  Carli nodded and returned the photo image-side up. She had stayed up well past midnight the night before, searching for towns called Elmsville. There were at least sixteen on the East Coast. Aerial and street views narrowed her best bets to three. None of them looked quite right, but she was planning to visit the first one on her shortlist tomorrow.

  “It does look a little like her,” said Sister Anna. She gave a pensive nod and said, “But so long ago.”

  “I just want her off of Hart,” said Carli. “If this is her home, it’s where she belongs. Everyone deserves to go home.” Carli had considered claiming Lucy herself and paying for the homeless woman’s private burial. She stopped short when she considered someone else might try to find her. Some day.

  Sister Anna nodded again. “Of course, but if you don’t find her home or family right away, Missing Persons might do well to have these. Maybe her bag as well.”

  “I agree, but I have a feeling about this.”

  Carli addressed the soup line with little attention to the details of serving. Lucy occupied every thought. Convinced that Grant would want Lucy returned to her real home, she approached him as soon as he arrived.

  “Don’t be surprised if you don’t find anything,” he said. “Or if it’s not a happy homecoming. People have a way of moving on and forgetting. Remember that, but good luck.”

  Carli watched him do his lunchtime rounds and heard his words many times over in her mind. Had he moved on as well? But, of course, her family would want her back. She certainly did.

  Six

  Carli wound through the countryside on forest-lined roadways and thought the landscape approaching Elmsville, Connecticut, looked promising. She turned off her audiobook fifteen minutes from her destination and replaced it with inner questions. Like how she would explain her visit. And explain she was looking for a dead woman’s home. A dead woman she didn’t even know, and maybe one who had enemies. Carli noticed her grip on the steering wheel tighten as she steered her car down the highway exit.

  As roads narrowed and posted speed limits decreased, Carli suddenly smiled and shouted out loud, “Weirdness be damned!” It felt good to follow her instincts. She trusted herself and knew something good would come of her trip.

  Carli glanced at a sketchpad and pencils she had set on the passenger seat. If this was Lucy’s hometown, she wanted to capture the moment – the house and the tree ... everything. At last, she made the final turn onto the heavily shaded Maple Lane. The house numbers went down from number Two Hundred Thirty-Six. She took her foot off the accelerator and stopped at number Forty-Three. Even if it had undergone extensive renovation, the house out her wind
ow did not match the photograph. A giant evergreen stood in front, practically engulfing the house. No swing could ever fit under it; its branches were so full. In fact, the tree looked like a wonderful candidate for the Rockefeller Center tree lighting ceremony. Carli traveled Maple Lane end to end four times, scrutinizing each house. With every turn of her tires, hope melted away. It was worse than chocolate ice cream dripping from a cone onto a new white shirt. Carli didn’t bother to turn on her audiobook or radio for the hour and a half drive home.

  The next morning, Carli made copies of the photographs and relinquished the originals and Lucy’s backpack to Missing Persons. She inquired if more had been learned of her family and, equally important, cause of death. Missing Persons was getting nowhere. Lucy hadn’t matched anything in the national databases. Death by poisoning was news to them. The Medical Examiner hadn’t mentioned it.

  Carli hated admitting to Sister Anna and Grant that her visit to Elmsville was a disappointing dead end. Most of all, she hated admitting it to herself. The upside was the city escape had immersed her in more expansive landscapes. It proved valuable when she approached the partially complete canvas in her studio. Broad brushstrokes came more freely. Color options suddenly seemed plentiful. In an odd way, the Elmsville wild goose chase unlocked her arms and opened up her brain and her muscles to translate and express. Years at TSW Inc. had pushed her creativity to the limits but had drawn her away from her inner emotions and connections with the earth. Carli finished painting for the day, cleaned her brushes, and gravitated to her Elmsville shortlist, ready to schedule her next trip. Then she called Sister Anna to volunteer for another day at the soup kitchen. Maybe she could handle the emotional stuff, after all.

  “Welcome back,” said Gretchen. She made Carli feel like an old friend, exactly as her mother made visitors to her home feel ... when their family was still whole. Carli settled into the routine of food prep and set up, realizing it didn’t feel so new anymore either. Mastery was reassuring. As some of the regular diners filed past, Carli studied them with new eyes, now that she knew something of their stories from Grant. She found herself jumping into a couple of conversations, even if only for a few moments. When Marvin passed with his tray, talking over his shoulder to Leo about Yankees baseball, she mentioned the pitchers had done well in the World Series, even though it was month-old news by now. Marvin and Leo looked at Carli, looked at each other, and laughed out loud. Then Marvin said, “Sounds like we’ve got another fan here. Just what we need.” Leo agreed, and he showed it with a shout and fist pump.