“WILLIE, LET’S GET BACK AT THE BLEACH man.”
“How?”
“Beat him at his own game.”
“What game?”
“The game of taking things that don’t belong to you.”
I motion for Willie to follow me. “Shhh—walk quiet.”
We make our way up a set of back stairs that lead from Mercy’s kitchen to a place we’re not ever, ever allowed to go—to the bleach man’s room and privy, where he’s got his own bathtub.
I once went into that tiny room when Lila sent me to collect the bleach man’s dirty towels for washing. Lila told me then that the bleach man takes his bath on Saturday evenings, eight o’clock.
When we get to the top of the stairs, we hear him. The sound of water being wrung from a washrag is our clue. He’s whistling, and swishing water, seems like. Lila was right. Saturday-night bath for the bleach man.
First thing I do is open two of the four windows in the bleach man’s room. January at night is colder than a special delivery from the iceman.
Willie starts to understand. He slides open the other two windows, using the heels of his hands.
Outside the privy, the bleach man has left his clothes rumpled and set out a robe and worn slippers. He’s even peeled the covers back on his bed. He’s looking forward to relaxing later.
When I spot his bath towel hung over the knob on our side of the privy door, I know luck has smiled on us.
The room is as still as a cellar. There’s splishy sounds coming from the privy. That’s the only noise. Willie and me have to work to be as quiet.
Now, here’s the hardest part.
The door to the privy is open a crack. I raise both palms to tell Willie, stay. On my belly, I slide to near the privy door, where first I get the towel from the knob.
I gather up the rumpled clothes and bathrobe, and the slippers, too, and shimmy backward toward where Willie’s by a window.
I’ve raised myself onto my haunches, then I’m standing. With one hurl, those clothes and robe and slippers and towel are out the window, into January-at-night.
Even Willie can’t fully believe it. I have never seen his eyes go wide, but they’re sure open big now, and he’s nodding his head—Yes!
I point to the bed.
Willie shrugs—Huh?—and just watches me, is all.
I’m gathering up the bedcovers and sheets into a bundle that fills both my arms.
Then I chuck ’em.
They’re flapping ghosts, taking off into the windy cold.
January-at-night has never had so much fun.
But I’m hardly done.
Black skies look good with puff clouds floating around them.
Bye-bye, bed pillows.
Willie struggles to hold back hard laughing.
Before we can go for more, we hear the gurgle of water being drained from the tub. The bleach man’s still whistling, and fumbling to his feet, sounds like.
We are out of there quick and quiet. Like ghosts ourselves.
Getting back at the bleach man isn’t funny without witnessing the getting-back.
We’re on the other side of the room door, low down, and peeking where we’ve got the door partway open, just big enough for our four eyes to see in.
When the bleach man comes out, his whistling turns sharp, then stops. January-at-night has snatched him up. The bleach man’s confused—and cold. He starts to dart, buck naked! Then he’s dancing like a chicken, his legs bending every which way.
He can’t make sense of it. He hasn’t figured out there’s a joke on him. I have never seen bleach run so fast!
This is getting back.
So that we don’t creak the stairs with our feet, we scurry, facedown, bellies pressed to the steps.
Once we’re on our cots in the ward, I give Willie a riddle.
“What do you call a dance that makes you naked and keeps you stepping?”
Willie doesn’t even try to answer. He’s too busy letting his laugh free.
I tell him, “A high-knee!”