David Nickle: The Caretakers

The meeting with Miss Erish started earlier than scheduled, in a room other than the one arranged. That meant they were all late, even Evelyn Simmons, who had flown in the day before and, unable to properly sleep owing to the time difference, risen long before the dawn.

She lingered in her room barely an hour, then took an elevator down to the lobby. It was empty but for the night manager, who dutifully inquired as to her needs and then left her to herself, to wander restlessly from chair to bench to sofa in the cold and quiet predawn.

Evelyn pored over emails, sent texts to her still-sleeping daughter back in the home time zone. Eventually, she watched the sunrise through the glass walls fronting on the parking lot as she chewed on a bagel from the continental breakfast table, slathered with most of a bubble packet of peanut butter and a dollop of strawberry jam. It had snowed the night before, and the dawn light made bright orange rinds of the frosted car hoods.

Unbeknownst to her or any of the others, the meeting had commenced at that moment, in its new room and on its new schedule, absent nearly all of them. By the time she sorted that out and arrived ten minutes early, reckoned against her understanding of the schedule, it was too late.

The skin of Evelyn’s forearms contracted in premonitory gooseflesh as she opened the double doors to the meeting room on the fifth floor, and she shivered as cold air from within washed over her. The room was empty but for its furnishings: eight black leather chairs, a conference table, and a dry-erase board, fringed with half-erased pictographs. The middle of it contained a note, written at some length in the cramped, antiquely cursive hand that Evelyn had come to recognize.

The note was accusatory: the tone was not as angry as it might have been, but nevertheless quite clearly disappointed. Evelyn stepped out of the room, and checked her email. But there was nothing, certainly no indication as yet of a rescheduling. She had not yet finished keying in a text message to the rest of the group when Leslie Hunter—of course it was Leslie Hunter—stepped off the elevator. He had cropped his hair short to his skull and gained some weight around his middle since the last time.

“Morning, Evie,” he said. “We the first?”

Evelyn started to explain about the rescheduling but Leslie shouldered past her into the room before she could finish. He read the note himself, shaking his head as he went.

“I should have known,” he said, “when I saw the note on the door.”

Evelyn had wondered that too when she read that first message taped to the door of the Cumberland Suite, where they were to have met: this one not handwritten but printed on hotel stationery, advising of the relocation.

What else had changed?

“Well, it’s too late,” she said.

“Any rescheduling email? A text?” Leslie didn’t bother with his phone but motioned to hers, which dangled in her hand at her side. “A call ?”

Evelyn shook her head no.

He rocked back on the balls of his feet and forward again, rolling his shoulders and puffing his cheeks—as though bracing himself or readying for a sprint.

“Nothing to be done,” she said.

Leslie swallowed and nodded.

“Didn’t see you at the bar last night,” he said.

“I got in late. Went straight to bed.”

“And woke up at four, am I right? Evie, Evie, Evie.” Leslie stepped nearer, touched her forearm. His hand was warm. Was it damp also? Or was she the one sweating? “You have to power through the jet lag. Just stay up as late as you can when you get in. Only way.”

And that was as close as they got to the nut of it before Andrea Retson and Bill Allen and the new one—amwilson7@gmail.com was the only name that Evelyn knew her as—got off the elevator in a group. Leslie told them what had happened and pointed to the board, but no one wanted to go inside to examine it.

“What the fuck?” amwilson7@gmail.com was a thin slip of a girl, with black hair grown past her shoulders and swooping down over her left eye… her right eye, peering out in a sleepy drawl of indifference. She’d underdressed, Evelyn thought, showing up at her first meeting in a loose off-the-shoulder sweater and black tights, dirty white winter boots with a ruffle of faux fur. The cursing didn’t aid the cause any better. “I’m supposed to read minds?”

“Nothing to be done,” said Evelyn.

“Well, fuck,” said the girl, and kicked at the carpet with one boot, a gesture that recalled the manner of a horse.

Because no one else would, Evelyn went into the meeting room, found the marker where it had been dropped on the floor, and used the cloth on the back of it to erase the note. She flicked the lights off, and without looking back, slipped out the door and pulled it shut.

At the elevator, they each of them checked their phones again to see if there were a message indicating how to proceed, then tucked the devices in purses and pockets when it was clear none had yet arrived.

“We shouldn’t go far,” said Andrea.

“Where would we go?” said Bill.

They made their way down to the hotel’s bar. It overlooked the river, which was not entirely frozen over, and a freeway on the far side. The bar was closed, so Andrea stepped away to arrange for coffee service.

Evelyn’s phone chirped from her purse, and she checked it. Her daughter had texted her back, finally. STOP, it read. Evelyn slipped the phone back into her purse.

“Any news?” asked Leslie, and Evelyn said, “Nothing.”

Andrea returned, empty-handed and flustered.

“They won’t bring it,” she said. “The complimentary breakfast ended an hour ago. The bar doesn’t open until three. Until then, they won’t bring coffee.”

“That’s not very hospitable,” said Bill.

“It seems deliberate,” said Andrea.

“Why are we—”

“You know why.” Andrea fell emphatically on the sofa and scowled at Bill.

“Excuse me a moment,” said Evelyn, and rose.

In the restroom, she set herself in a stall and keyed in the passcode to her phone. The text from her daughter hung there on the screen

STOP

Evelyn considered that word and, with her thumbs, typed in a reply:

IN A TELEGRAM STOP WOULD JUST MEAN PUNCTUATION

Her thumb hovered over the SEND button as she considered deleting her reply and composing a new one. But in her consideration, she trembled, and her thumb brushed near enough, and just like that, the decision was made.

Evelyn stood and adjusted her skirt, slid the phone away in her purse. When she finally left the restroom, she found Leslie leaning against one wall of the narrow corridor.

“I thought we should talk,” he said, his voice low. “About Amy.”

“Amy?”

“The new girl,” he said, and Evelyn got it. amwilson7@gmail.com.

“Amy,” she said. “What about her?”

“She left.”

“What do you mean?”

Leslie rested his hand on Evelyn’s shoulder and drew her nearer so he could speak in her ear. “She’s gone. Andrea went after her. Maybe she’ll convince her to come back. But for now, she’s gone .”

It had happened very quickly. Amy—her name was Amy—had been gnawing on her thumbnail and, after a moment, began to breathe rather heavily, and as Leslie frowned and started to ask what was what, she’d stood up, shook her head violently so that hair spread to the side and for an instant revealed both her eyes. “Fuck this!” she shouted. And then she turned away from them and ran, across the lobby and out the front door into the snow.