Fifty-Seven

My mother’s mail splashed across my kitchen counter and spilled onto the floor. The new pile merged with a previous pile, creating a suffocating mound of crap. She’d been buried a week; her hoard was looking for a new home. I’d been piling it up but hadn’t noticed how bad it looked until Jael stood in my kitchen.

I said, “What a mess.”

Jael asked, “This is your mother’s mail?”

“Yeah. I had it forwarded to me.”

Jael picked up a menu from a Framingham pizza shop. “Why have you kept it all?”

The hoard squatted on the counter, inviting me to help it grow. A Macy’s catalog sat on top. It said, How could you throw me out? She loved Macy’s. A bill rested on the edge of the table, threatening to fall to the floor. It said, You can’t throw me out. I might be her last bill. The circulars, envelopes, credit card offers, magazines, and newspapers formed a chorus of whispers: You’ll forget her without us. She’ll be gone. Save us and save her.

I said to Jael, “You’re right. This stuff has got to go.”

I went into the kitchen, fished around under the sink, and pulled out a plastic garbage bag. I started throwing mail into the garbage bag, looking for something that wasn’t addressed to my mother. I tossed catalogs and magazines and solicitations. Bills went onto the counter. There were heating bills, electrical bills, her phone bill, and a bill for a storage facility. Apparently my mother had outgrown the house and had rented extra space. There was a cable bill, a lawn service bill, and a security company bill. Was I really going to pay the security company, given that she was murdered?

Jael said, “Can I help?”

I handed her a garbage bag. “Yeah, thanks. Just throw everything that’s not a bill in this bag. I hope there’s some mail in here for me.”

“You look unhappy.”

“Of course I’m unhappy. My mother’s crap is filling my life. Where is this goddamn ‘gift’?”

“You should not talk like that. It is profane.”

I stopped shoving crap in the bag and considered Jael, a killer who objects to profanity.

I said, “I’m sorry.”

Jael stepped into the hallway and returned with something I had overlooked as I ran up the staircase. She asked, “What is this?” and handed me a yellow padded envelope that had no stamp and the name TUCKER written on it in black magic marker. I squeezed the envelope and heard paper crinkle. It contained something hard, and something soft. My Droid spoke up, “Droid.” Uncle Walt. I put him on speaker, put the Droid on the counter.

“Tucker, where’s my truck?” asked Walt.

I turned the envelope over in my hands. “Where are you?”

“I’m at the Starbucks in Boston.”

“There’s a Starbucks every ten feet in Boston. Which one?”

“How the hell should I know?”

“Look out the window. Is there a street sign?”

“There aren’t any street signs in Boston.”

“Just look.”

I heard some grumbling and “excuse me’s” as Walt moved through a crowd.

“The sign says Cambridge Street.”

I said, “You’re right down the street from Mass General. How did you get there?”

“The cops picked me up last night after you and Lucy left me on the bench. They thought I was a drunk.”

“You were a drunk. What do you mean, Lucy left you on the bench?”

“I mean that I was sleeping and two cops grabbed me and put me in their car. Lucy wasn’t there.”

“Where is she?”

“How should I know where she is?” Walt snapped.

I tore open the envelope and shook it. Uncle Walt’s key fob fell out. The last time I had seen this, I was throwing it at Lyla.

I said, “I guess your truck is still in the garage.”

Walt shouted into the phone, “Why the hell is it in the garage? You were supposed to get it!”

I shook the envelope some more. Nothing came out. I reached inside and pulled out a slip of paper. The paper was a handwritten note.

Call Me. I have your friend. Here is proof.

It was signed T and had a phone number. Friend? What friend? Proof? I showed the note to Jael.

She read it and asked, “Lucy?”

Walt shouted from the speakerphone. “Tucker! Tucker! Are you still there? Are going to come get me or what?”

The proof was stuck in the padded envelope. I tore the envelope open and the proof fell onto the table. I thought about my night the other night with Lucy, and how she had curled up on my couch, tucking her red toenails against the black leather.

A pinky toe had fallen onto the countertop. It had red polish, the only scrid of color on a waxy bit of flesh and bone. The toe had been cut off, just after the first knuckle. My gut convulsed. Bile rose in my throat. I forced it back down.

“Tucker! Are you still there?” Walt called over the speaker.

I grabbed the Droid off the counter. “I gotta make a call. Take a cab to my house and I’ll give you your keys.”

I hung up on him and dialed the number on the note.