Ryan Jahn - Low Life

Samantha grabbed a dry loofah from the edge of the tub, soaked it in the water, squeezed it out, and scrubbed Simon’s back.

‘How did you get home?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Your car’s been in the garage.’

‘Oh, right.’

‘So?’

‘I took the train,’ he said, despite the fact that he had never used the city’s public transportation system. He had seen the tracks near Union Station, and occasionally saw one of the light rail trains rolling to or from Pasadena, and every once in a while walked over subway grating on the sidewalk, in Hollywood and Koreatown, but he’d never actually ridden one of the city’s trains, or even one of its busses. Still, it was the first thing that came to mind, and it seemed to do the job – Samantha asked no more questions.

She scrubbed at his back silently for a couple minutes.

‘My show’s tonight.’

‘Your show?’

‘My exhibition. My paintings.’

‘Oh.’

‘I have to go. Gil’s been planning it for weeks.’

‘Okay.’

‘What do you want to do?’

‘I’ll stay home if you want.’

‘I don’t feel comfortable leaving you home alone.’

‘Then I’ll come with you.’

‘Do you think you’ll be okay? I know you hate crowds, and on top of everything else—’

‘I’ll be okay.’

‘Sure?’

He nodded.

Samantha bent down and kissed the back of his head.

‘Okay. Now wet your hair.’

Then she shoved his head down, forcing it underwater.

There were still beads of water dotting his naked back, and his clean underwear was spotted with moisture. He stood in front of his side of the closet – Jeremy Shackleford’s side of the closet – looking at ten suits, five of them gray, three black, one brown, one dark green. They were hanging on wooden hangers, and they were all facing in the same direction. To their right, about a dozen dry-cleaned white shirts. To the right of the shirts, cardigan sweaters in various colors, about half of them plaid. And at the end of the closet, a tie rack with at least a dozen silk ties hanging from it, each facing out so that Simon – Jeremy – could examine the patterns and pick which one he wanted. On a shelf above all this, several white T-shirts – no yellow sweat stains in the pits of these – folded and stacked neatly.

Simon grabbed one of the T-shirts off the shelf and slipped into it. It took a bit of effort because the moisture on his body clung to the fabric, but soon enough he had it on. He grabbed the brown suit and pulled the pants off the hanger, tossing the jacket to the mattress behind him. He slipped into them, wondering how they would fit. They were a bit big around the waist – which was nothing a cinched belt couldn’t fix – but otherwise the fit was nice.

Samantha walked in wearing a paint-splattered pair of jeans and a T-shirt. She was carrying two cups of coffee. She handed him one of the cups and the warmth of the porcelain against the palms of his hands felt good.

‘Thank you.’

He sipped his coffee. She’d prepared it just how he liked – lots of milk, no sugar.

‘You’re still wearing those glasses.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Well, I hate them.’

‘Oh.’

‘Please don’t wear them.’

‘Okay.’

‘There’s contact lenses in the medicine cabinet. I checked.’

‘Okay.’

He sipped his coffee again, and then set it down on the dresser. He grabbed a white button-up shirt from the closet and put his arms into it and buttoned it, starting at the bottom to make sure the buttons were lined up, and then sliding the rest through their buttonholes and into place. Then he grabbed a green checkered cardigan, put that on, and started looking for a tie.

‘Are you going somewhere?’

‘I thought I’d go to the college. Do I have a class today?’

Samantha nodded. ‘In an hour. You have that one Monday class. The history of geometry or something.’

‘It’s Monday?’

Samantha nodded. ‘But are you sure you’re ready to go back to work?’

‘I think so.’

‘You’re okay?’

‘I’m fine. I want to get back to work.’

I want to find out why Jeremy Shackleford wanted me dead.

‘Howard’s been covering your classes. He can cover one more.’

He had no idea who Howard was.

‘How many did I miss?’

‘Several.’

‘Several?’

‘A week’s worth – six. Classes only started a week ago or you’d’ve missed more.’

He nodded.

‘What did you tell him?’

‘Who?’

‘Henry.’

‘Howard?’

‘Howard.’

She paused and there was concern in her eyes. She looked like she might say something about him using the wrong name, but then she didn’t. ‘I said you’d had an accident and I didn’t know when you’d be able to work – and with that fucking scar on your face—’ She sighed. ‘Anyway, I think everything’s okay.’

‘Good,’ Simon said. ‘Thank you.’

Samantha nodded.

‘I made you a two o’clock appointment with Dr Zurasky.’

A pulse of pain throbbed just above Simon’s left eyebrow and his eye began to water. He pinched his eyes closed, opened them after several blinks, and looked at Samantha.

‘How did – how did you know about Zurasky?’

‘Of course I know about Zurasky. My sister referred us to him.’

‘When?’

Samantha said nothing for a long time. She just stared at him. Then: ‘Are you sure you should be going to work?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘You don’t seem fine.’

‘Well, I am.’

‘You don’t seem yourself at all.’

‘I’m just— When did I start seeing him?’

‘You saw him a few times two winters ago, I think, then last June— You know this. I don’t know why we’re having this conversation.’

‘I don’t remember.’

‘I don’t think you should go to work.’

‘I’m going.’

‘I’m against it.’

‘I need to. I don’t want to feel like – I don’t want to feel like an invalid.’

Samantha bit her lip.

‘If you think—’

‘I’m fine.’

He took the disposable contact lenses from their boxes in the medicine cabinet, first the right one and then the left. He peeled the foil from the top of the right lens case, being careful not to spill the saline solution, and then got the lens on the pad of his index finger. He examined it a moment to make sure it was right side out and once he was sure it was he held his right eye open with his left hand, and settled the lens gently onto the green of his eye. He blinked a few times, wiped at the water running down his cheek.

He closed his left eye and looked at his own reflection with his right. It was somewhat blurry, but not as blurry as he had expected it to be, and the blur might be the result of his being unused to wearing contact lenses. He might be able to get away with wearing these despite the fact that the prescription wasn’t made for him.

He peeled the foil off the container for the left lens and repeated the process. He blinked both eyes several times. He felt something in his left eye, looked closely at his reflection and thought he saw an eyelash floating around in there, rinsed it out with saline solution, blinked again, wiped the water off his face again, and looked at his own reflection again.

‘I’ll be goddamned,’ he said.

His car was a Saab. At first he thought it was the same Saab that killed the mutt he had fed, but there was no blood on the rear license plate and it didn’t look like it had been washed recently. It was covered in a thin coat of grime. Also, Samantha said it had been in the garage. And Jeremy, being dead, couldn’t have driven it back here. Death tended to hinder such activity.