Ben Winters - Bedbugs

“Well, honey, I thought the whole point of moving was so that you could have your own space to paint?”

“Well, honey, if you’re not painting and you’re not watching Emma, then what are you doing?”

“Well, honey, what the hell?”

Susan shook her head clear, pulled a knife from the block, and helped him cut vegetables. During dinner she related a funny gossip item she’d read on a fine-arts blog, about one of the big Chelsea gallery owners and his ever-changing lineup of buxom “assistants.” But Alex’s responses were polite and peremptory, and as soon as they were done eating he turned to his computer and the barrage of e-mails he needed to send to prepare for tomorrow. Apparently there had been a screwup that day on the Cartier shoot, when a watch face was scratched by a worthless lighting assistant that Vic had hired for cheap. It was a major setback, and Susan could tell that Alex was deeply worried.

When she went upstairs to sleep, Alex remained in the living room, muttering to himself and tapping away.

Louis arrived to clean the smell from the bonus room at precisely 7:30 the next morning.

“Will wonders never cease,” Susan murmured at the sound of his knock at the door before calling out “just a sec,” pulling her robe close to her chest, and opening the door. Alex had left fifteen minutes earlier, grimly clutching his travel coffee mug, game face on for a trying day. After offering Louis coffee or tea, which he cheerfully declined, Susan got Emma going on breakfast and then stood awkwardly in her bathrobe in the doorway of the bonus room, unable to decide if it made her more uncomfortable to perch there — watching an elderly man on hands and knees, in his jeans and an undershirt, cleaning her floor — or to return to the kitchen and leave him alone in this isolated corner of her home.

“Have you been working for Andrea a long time?” she asked.

“Well, how’s forty years?” Louis looked over his shoulder with a broad, playful grin. “Would you call that a long time?”

“Forty years?”

“I kid you not. Well, now, I guess I’ve only been working for her, officially, since Howard passed away. Helping out with the odd jobs and what-have-you. Do everything I can for her, you know?”

Susan nodded as Louis settled back on his haunches, sponge dripping idly onto the hardwood. The guy was a talker, that was clear.

“I’ve been retired some years now, so I’ve got my days free. Thirty-seven years as the assistant principal at Philippa Schuyler, up on Greene Avenue. And I tell you, after all those years keeping tabs on a couple hundred young people, scrubbing the occasional floor, well, I call that a vacation.” Louis’s laugh was low, gentle, and melodious, a slow-played tympani drum roll: huh-huhm, huh-huhm, huh-huhm . “No, but I loved it, I did. Loved those kids.”

Susan thought with fondness of the assistant principal at her own middle school back in New Jersey. Mr. Crimson. Clemson? Something like that.

“You want to know the truth, I’ve known Howard and Andrea since 1970, if you can believe that. Autumn of 1970. We met right here in Brooklyn, protesting over Kent State, waving our signs in Cadman Plaza. One day I’ll bring up some pictures. As Andrea might say, you will plotz. ”

He gave the Yiddish word a thick, comical Andrea-style growl, and Susan smiled. “And when did Howard pass away?”

The pleasant grin slipped from Louis’s face, and he looked down at the floor. “Four years ago. And may God rest his poor unfortunate soul.”

A deep silence welled up, and Louis turned back to scouring the floor. As Susan watched him, she felt a twinge of remorse for the way she had sized him up yesterday: though he was clearly no kind of professional handyman, he was forceful and competent as he went about his business in the small room. He focused his efforts on no specific spot, just blasted away at the whole floor with bleach and Pine-Sol, inch by inch, the shock-and-awe cleaning method.

After a few moments, Emma called out from the kitchen. “Mama?” she said. “All done.”

“OK, baby.” From the kitchen came the scrape of a chair leg and a gentle thud as Emma lowered herself to the floor. Susan smiled: she’s growing up so fast . Louis’s memories, his nostalgic attitude, had put her in a sentimental frame of mind. My little girl .

“Hey. Uh, Susan?” She turned and saw that Louis had shifted up onto his knees and was now hauling himself laboriously to his feet. He crossed his arms over his sizable stomach and stood with evident nervousness, not meeting her eye. “Something I need to say to you.”

“All right.”

“I wasn’t looking in your little girl’s room. That night. I need you to know that.”

“Yes,” she replied, taken aback. “You said.”

There was an adamance in this declaration, a pleading quality, as if Louis was sickened by the idea of anyone thinking even for a moment that he was the kind of person who would peep at a child. Susan believed him.

“But …”

“But?”

“I was standing out there. I like to keep an eye on Andrea. Just between you and me, Susan, I get a little … just a little worried about the old girl, sometimes.”

“Worried?”

Louis looked around, discomfort emanating like sweat, his big hands knotted together. “Yeah. Since Howard died, she hardly sleeps, you know, and that’s not right. She seems … oh, just sad, I guess. Tell you the truth, this house has always had an atmosphere to it. Something. Just a whole lot of sadness in the place since Howard died. So sometimes I peek in on old Andrea. Just keepin’ tabs. Figure I owe it to my friend.”

“Huh.” Susan wasn’t sure what she thought about this information. A brief, painful surge of memory coursed through her, of her mother, her mother’s death, the stupid funeral. They had tried to make her look, right in the casket, but for God’s sake …

“And, if you don’t mind my asking,” Susan said suddenly. “What was it Howard died of, exactly?”

“No, I don’t mind.” Louis heaved a big, body-shifting sigh, juggled the bucket of supplies from one hand to another. Now the room smelled thickly of cleaning fluids, of bleach and ammonia. “He was sick. Real sick. It came on sudden, because before that, I tell you straight up, this was the healthiest person you could ever meet. We played racquetball three times a week, and if I beat him once in forty years, I can’t say when it was.”

“Wow.” Susan was blatantly prying now, but she couldn’t help it. “What did he have?”

“I don’t exactly know. A disease. Something in his blood. He didn’t let it kill him, though. That was not Howard’s style.” Louis tilted his head to one side, his eyes glinting with the memory of his friend. “He shot himself, you see? Did himself in before the disease could do it first. Shot himself right in the head.”

In the front hall, Emma eyed Louis warily, but he crouched down, tugging up the cuffs of his jeans, and grinned at her. “Hey, little sister, can I tell you a secret? I got a granddaughter just your age, and you want to know her name? Her name is Amethyst.”

Emma’s eyes widened, and she nodded, as if, yes, she had known that. “And guess what?” she asked, leaning confidentially toward Louis. “That’s a kind of jewel.”

“No kidding!” He pretended astonishment, and Emma nodded rapidly, beaming. “It is! It’s a jewel. And it’s purple. ”

As Louis stood up, a faint but clear ping filled the room.

“Ping!” Emma yelped merrily in reply.

“That’s—” Susan began, but Louis held up one hand, palm up, listening. “Hold on.”