It was just luck that I was there again. He’d sent me home when I’d found the flyer, then called later and asked me to come back the next day. He knew better than this, really. It was July, and I was booked solid, even working Saturdays. I drew the line at Sundays, fearing God would strike me dead if I dared show my head in St. Mary’s smelling of Scrubbing Bubbles instead of bubble bath. You can complain about Catholic doctrine all you want, but resting on Sunday, well, there’s something to that. A walk on the beach, a long bath. Sometimes I cook something that takes forever, like baked beans or a short rib. But you won’t catch me cleaning. Oh no. Not even dishes. Sunday evenings, I lay in the hammock in the shade of my little porch, a thick layer of Eucerin soaking into my hands, trying to take away the damage of the week.
So no, I’d told him I couldn’t, that I had two other houses that day, and he’d asked me if I could rearrange something, come early. He said please. He didn’t mention money, but I sensed there would be money involved if I changed things, and I was right. Sixty extra dollars in the envelope on the counter. Part of me was hoping for a hundred, I’ll admit, but another part was just glad it wasn’t twenty. Twenty and I would have lost respect for the man. I’d hurried on my other two jobs so I could get here before sunset, add his in, so that was worth more than twenty, that hustling. I was hot and sticky, and I’d skipped lunch.
I worked from the top down, as always. Upstairs, nothing looked out of place. His bathroom rarely had anything but a few drops of water in the sink. No mess in the toilet, ever, no towels on the floor. Someone else did his laundry, I knew, at Holdgate’s. I’d seen the bags delivered in the laundry room. And he always said to leave the sheets in there, not the towels. I did what I was told, because that was the most important part of the job—following instructions. Just like they tell you in third grade. Before you take the test, read the instructions.
I had finished Windexing the mirrors and was working on the chrome fixtures in the first-floor powder room. That was my favorite part of my job, although it’s funny to say that. I like the way silver bits can go so quick from dull to shiny—how you can take off the layer of toothpaste and hairspray and liquid soap, and part of the bathroom shines like jewelry again. Before I leave a room, I always do the same to the doorknob too. Just as I finished doing that, I saw Billy Clayton through the window of the front door, before he knocked. He looked me square in the eyes and raised his, instead of knocking. I let him in.
“Wiping off fingerprints?” he said.
“It’s called cleaning.”
“Not in my line of work,” he said, flicking his badge with his fingers. It looked dull in the light, like he’d dripped toothpaste or soda on it. If I liked Billy better, I might’ve offered to shine that too.
“Well, that’s what normal people call it. You should try it sometime.”
“How you been, Maggie?”
“Oh, dandy. How ’bout yourself?”
“Fine, thanks. Didn’t know you worked for Mr. Brownstein every day.”
“Didn’t know you cared what I did.”
“Well, do you?”
“Do I what?”
“Work for him every day?”
“No.”
“And yet here you are, again. He told me you were the one who found the poster. Spelled your name for me correctly and everything.”
“Billy, what the hell you want this time? You have some news about what I found, or—”
“Do you have any news for me about what you found?”
I put down my rag and sighed. Billy was nice enough looking, if you squinted. If you could get past the hard facade of all the angles of his chin, the ledge of his eyebrows, the comb marks in his hair. All lines and corners, that one, his whole face a geometry lesson.
“No, but if I did, I’d call you.”
“Would you?”
“Billy, I got a house to clean! Get to the fucking point!”
“Was Mr. Brownstein home at all since you’ve been here today?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Pretty sure.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I’ve been upstairs using water, flushing toilets, and squeaking a rag around, but I didn’t hear him come home.”
“But he could have.”
“Christ on a cracker. If you wanna give me the runaround, you can start running the vacuum around and be helpful.”
I tossed the microfiber cloth in the laundry room, got another clean one from the drawer in the kitchen, and when I came back to the living room, he was still exactly where he’d been. His eyes followed me as if there was some knowledge hidden in my limbs. Was I dusting guiltily? Spraying furniture oil in a pattern that suggested I was hiding something?
“Did you drive by the Warners’ on your way here today?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Well, if you came from home—”
“I didn’t come from home. I came from another job. No.”
“No what?”
“No, I didn’t go by.”
“You just remembered that?”
“Yeah, because I came down the Cliff, came from the other direction.”
“You mind telling me which house you were at on the Cliff?”
“What, you going to arrest me now? Is that it? You following my whereabouts?”
“Just doing my job.”
“Reilly.”
“What?”
“Reilly. That’s where I came from. The Reillys’, out near Madaket Marine.”
“I don’t know them.”
“What a shame. They have a pool, and a hot college-age daughter.”
If he was getting impatient with me, it was impossible to tell. That was his superpower, his poker face.
He continued to watch me dust the table, the wooden edges of the chairs, the picture frames. It had to be boring, but he was just biding his time. We were at a kind of stalemate now, two quiet people waiting to hear what they needed to hear.
“If you think you’re just gonna wait here till he comes home,” I said finally, “you’re gonna hafta wait in your squad car.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because you don’t have a warrant to be here.”
“Don’t need to have a warrant for a friendly chat.”
“I’m not authorized to let people in.”
“He doesn’t let you offer a friend a glass of water when you’re working?”
“We’re not friends, Billy.”
“Was there a gardening crew here or anywhere on the street when you arrived?”
“Nope.”
“Are there gardening tools in the shed? Mowers, weed whackers?”
“No idea.”
“Was it possible Mr. Brownstein was in the backyard, perhaps, when you arrived?”
“I told you—”
“You hear any rustling perhaps? Trees moving, equipment being dragged, anything going through the bushes, maybe cutting through to the Warners’?”
“Why do you come to the Brownsteins’ but keep asking me about the Warners? I can barely see them from here!”
“Their property was defaced.”
“Defaced? Like with paint?”
“No, like with a mower.”
“A lawn mower?”
“Looks like it, from the size of it.”
The smile on my lips just kept getting bigger until I started laughing. I imagine I looked demonic, cleaning and laughing. Laughing and cleaning. But it felt good. It’s therapeutic, it really is, doing both at the same time. Like singing and cleaning, same thing.
“It’s not funny, Maggie. Someone mowed a swastika on their lawn. It’s a hate crime.”
“Well, I’m sorry, but—”
“But what?”
“You don’t really think Bear Brownstein has ever mowed a lawn in his life, do you?”
“It’s not that hard to mow a—”
“The man cannot hang a picture, okay? There is no hammer or screwdriver in this house.”
“What?”
“You heard me. No tools. He’s a geek. Totally, utterly inept. Hires Marine Home Center to come and hang pictures.”
“Anyone can hang a picture.”
“The man cannot hang a picture. I’m telling ya. I’m giving you useful information now, and you wanna argue with me. Classic.”
“Well, then, fine, all right. The man can’t mow a lawn. Maybe he used a weed whacker.”
“Billy, you’re killing me. This is a man who probably can’t turn on an electric knife, let alone a weed whacker.”
“Well, maybe he hired someone to do it.”
“What, you think he found and hired an angry Jewish groundskeeper to do his dirty work? You think that’s possible?”
“I think anything’s possible.”
“You’d have to, to follow your theory. You’d have to believe there are dinosaurs roamin’ the old golf course.”
“You know what I think?”
“I think you’re going to tell me what I think,” I said and sighed.
“I think you like this guy.”
“It’s time for you to go,” I said, feeling my cheeks flush. I walked to the front door, opened it, gestured.
“I think you’d lie for him if he asked you to. I know you were prone to that in your youth.”
Now my face was on fire. My Irish coming up, my dad used to say, but it had nothing to do with where I was born or how much I had to drink. It was anger, fury, pure and simple. How dare he? I hadn’t lied, those years ago. I’d been mistaken. There was a difference, and he knew it.
“Is it a hate crime to tell a cop to go fuck himself? Just wondering.”
“Well,” he said as he went outside, “it’s a crime to conceal evidence for someone. You can get away with it when you’re a juvenile. But you’re an adult now, aren’t you, Maggie?”
“Go fuck yourself, Billy,” I said. I closed the door and snapped the deadbolt shut. His face through the glass of the window was just as calm, just as unwrinkled as the sea at low tide. Giving nothing up, ever. Just waiting.
Well, he could wait forever, because I knew nothing. I knew worthless things, like what kind of toothpaste Bear used, and what kind of mug he liked. I knew what was in his house, but not what was in his heart. The man lived as if he were in a model home, not a real home. Like he was just passing through, cutting through the lawns like he did, on the way to someplace else.