Esme and the Money Grab: (A Very Dark Romantic Comedy) (3 page)

  I was at Mr. Galloway’s majestic front door at 10:00 A.M. on the dot. My outfit of jean cut-offs, t-shirt of an old ska band and white Converses was not something he was going like, but there was no way I was going back to my apartment to retrieve my nurse uniform. I was prepared to grovel to get my job back. I hoped that would be enough to satisfy the twisted humor of my boss.

  His home didn’t have a doorbell, only the massive silver gargoyle-like knocker. I did have a key, but I didn’t feel comfortable using it after our disagreement. I tentatively lifted it, and I mean tentatively. He would instantly know he had the upper hand in this situation and he was going to abuse it.

  Best case scenario, his amusement with me coming back to the job would pass in a few days, that were sure to be filled with taunting and meaner jokes than usual, and then we would go back to our previous relationship. Our old relationship would seem like heaven in comparison. I guess I had that to look forward to.

  I knocked several times. The heavy knocker clanking hard, echoing through the canyon. No answer. I should have known better, of course he knew it was me at the door, and of course he was going to make this as difficult as possible.

  “Mr. Galloway,” I practically stuttered, “It’s me, Esme.” I knew on a normal day it would be impossible for him to hear me. His home was well-built, noiseless inside if all the windows were closed, and they usually were. He preferred his life to be temperature controlled.

  But I sensed he was standing on the other side of the door laughing at me. I carried on for his benefit. He wanted me to cower and beg, I would cower and beg. Six more months of school and I would be free to live my own life. Goodbye forever Mr. Galloway.

  “Mr. Galloway… I’m so sorry about yesterday. I’ve been having…” What had I been having? A moment of clarity? Of dignity? I didn’t think that’s what he wanted to hear. I went with this instead, “Lady problems… My time of the month.” I crossed myself as my mother had taught me, for setting the women’s movement back by a hundred years.

  I pressed my ear against the door expecting to hear his laughter. Quiet, he was not standing on the other side. All I heard was the low hum of the air conditioning and Mila meowing. I took the key out of my pocket and stared down at it.

  I wondered if he could have me arrested for breaking and entering. Could he be that horrible? Possibly. It was a chance I was going to have to take. I put the key in the lock and turned it slowly. My heart pounded.

  “Mr. Galloway,” I called out in a singsong way. Maybe that would be the best plan of action, pretend the day before hadn’t happened. Like that would ever work.

  “Mr. Galloway,” I tiptoed across the foyer. I had no idea why I was tiptoeing.

  “Ave Maria, Madre de Dios,” I screamed out into his home. Mr. Galloway lay sprawled out on the floor, his arm extended, his fingertip touching one of the heart pills.

  I leapt to his side, muttering and mangling the prayer over and over again. English was my first language. My parents never spoke Spanish at home. My grasp on the language was light as best.

  I picked up his cold and boney hand and felt his wrist for a pulse. There was none. I unbuttoned his cardigan and shirt and placed my hand on his chest. His skin was ice.

  I jumped away, terrified. The broken pill bottle on the floor was shattered. That could only be done with force. The force of being thrown. Why would Mr. Galloway would do that? I saw the room through a detective’s eyes and it looked it like a murder scene.

  My one duty, the one I had been hired for, to give this man his pills, I had failed. More than failed, it looked purposeful, as if I had set out to taunt this frail and infirm man in his last hours. They would never believe I had left him full of life, and in high spirits, high dark spirits.

  Mr. Galloway was a menace, even in the afterlife. I found myself laughing. It was hysterical, shrill and full of tears, but the laughter was there. “You got me good, Mr. Galloway. I’m going to jail. Your fiery Mexican glorified housekeeper, who’s not even Mexican, for all intents and purposes killed you. Mazel Tov Mr. Galloway, to use the phrase of another ethnic group you had interesting thoughts on.”

  Mila slunk across the room. She was a beautiful cat, a Bengal. Mr. Galloway had doted on her, spoiling her with fresh salmon, and bowls of cream. I never thought the heavy diet wasn’t good for her, but she seemed healthy.

  She bumped her head against my knee, gently purring while I sat cross-legged on the floor enjoying my last few minutes of freedom. “Mila… you must be hungry.” I ran my hand through her silky fur.

  I sniffed the air. It was surprisingly fresh considering there was a dead body in the room and I hadn’t changed Mila’s kitty litter in three days. Mr. Galloway purchased the litter in bulk from Canada, he claimed it was the best money could buy and the most effective.

He would definitely be right about that.

  “Mila, Mila, Mila,” I picked her up and carried her into the kitchen, “What if I hadn’t come by today? You would have starved… Mr. Galloway hasn’t had so much as phone call since I started working here.” My hands trembled as I opened the refrigerator and took out the cold poached salmon she loved.

  “But if I hadn’t come back. His body probably wouldn’t have been found for months. By the time it had… It would have decomposed. I wouldn’t be going to jail.” I put the bowl on the floor and sat down next to her while she ravenously ate.

  She looked up at me purred again as if she understood what I was saying and was offended by the idea that I would put my needs before hers. “Don’t worry Mila, it didn’t happen that way. I’m more than happy to feed you, even if it did cost me my freedom.”

  She tiled her head and blinked her eyes in a way I found condescending. How do cats do that? “Mila… He was a horrible man…” I buried my head in my hands and fully broke down in to sobs. I could barely catch my breath. I worried for a moment that there would be two dead bodies on the floor soon. What would the police ever make of that situation?

  “But I never wanted him to die, ever, ever, ever, not even when I yelled it out. That poor man, what a life he had… so alone. And now I’ll pay for it with my own.”

  I grunted and stood up, a rush of anger at the absurdity of this situation replaced my sorrow, “I don’t want to go to jail. My life is just beginning. His ended long before I ever met him. I’m not going to jail. I just won’t call the police. I’ll clean up the pills, leave as I entered and he’ll be found when he’s found and that’s that.”

  I leaned down to pick her up again. This did not make her happy. She had not finished eating, “You’re coming with me Mila. I don’t know where we’re going or how we’ll live, but I’ll figure it out. I’ll take the next quarter of school. Then we’ll have enough money to relocate… Jack—

  The thought of Jack dictating my living arrangements out of my fear of him pushed me over the edge. It’s not fair to place the blame for my choices on him, but this was my frame of mind at the time. I was slightly unhinged to say the least, dear reader.

  “We’re staying here Mila,” I stated definitively to the cat who could not care less. “I’m going to go change your litter.”

  My decision was firm. All Jack knew of Mr. Galloway was that he was a wealthy and mean old man who lived in Beverly Hills. And I had told him I quit the job anyway. I would be safe here.

  How I would live in a home with a dead body in the living room wasn’t something I could figure out. Burying him in the backyard seemed like a bad idea. If I buried him, the whole situation would smack of premeditation.

  Best for him to be found eventually, once I was far, far away.

  The bags of litter were stored in the freestanding garage a few short steps from the backdoor of the kitchen. Those steps were blazing hot. The sun was too bright. The days of extreme heat were unbearable.

  A wave of air conditioning blasted me when I opened the door to the garage. I stood under it for longer than necessary, heavenly. Cool again, I picked up the heavy bag and carried it back into the house.

  Mr. Galloway’s home had maid quarters off the kitchen. He had never wanted a live-in housekeeper because he didn’t like people. A few years before, an interior designer had turned the rooms into a kitten wonderland for Mila. There were carpeted mazes of steps, feathered sticks bolted to the walls a hair out of her jumping reach and a catnip dispenser.

  She preferred to lounge at the feet of Mr. Galloway. As I said, he did dote on her. I’ll give him that.

  Her litter box was in the bathroom off the suite of rooms. I dropped the bag to the ground and lifted the liner that held the litter, out. Mila had been sick, the box was filled with the runniness of her excrement. I jerked backwards at the sight of it expecting the odor to be putrid.

  There wasn’t an odor. The room and the litter smelled fresh. His imported and expensive litter worked.

  An idea formed in my head.

  I refilled Mila’s box, disposed of the litter and ran back to the garage. I tore through it looking for a tarp, duct tape and dust cloths. I found it in the neatly organized gardening shed.

  Mr. Galloway had re-landscaped his yard a few years before to make it drought resistant. It was now a sea of stones. I know that sounds dull, but it was quite beautiful. It also freed him of the need of the “Mexican” gardeners he claimed were robbing him blind.

  Such a ridiculous man, but the lack of weekly visits from gardeners kept my plan safe.

  I grabbed another bag of kitty litter, not quite believing I was going to do what I was going to do. It was as if I weren’t quite awake. The day was dreamy, more like a nightmare.

  I ran into the living room and laid the tarp out on the floor next to Mr. Galloway. “I’m so sorry Mr. Galloway. This is only temporary. Someone will find you one day and you’ll have a glorious funeral.” I knew that wasn’t true, the funeral part at least.

  I sprinkled a thick layer of kitty litter on to the tarp, and wrapped his head and hands with the cloths, to prevent the litter from sticking to his skin. The next part wasn’t fun. Rigor mortis hadn’t set in. The icy cold room had definitely slowed the process down, but he was stiff. It felt like a sacrilege to be handling the dead in such a way. I knew that even a man like Mr. Galloway deserved better.

  I said my prayers and crossed myself numerous times.

  Finally the deed was done. Mr. Galloway was neatly and expertly packed away in the litter-filled tarp. I had taken great care to retain his body shape in the packaging. He had admired the early Egyptians ingenuity. I had wrapped him into the shape of a mummy as tribute. It was the best, or the least I could do.

  Now the hard part, carrying him to the temperature-controlled garage, which I would be turning to freezer levels of coldness.  I’m sorry to say I dragged him across the floor. I was careful not to bang him into any of the furniture. Respect for the deceased is important.

  In the garage, I propped him up in the tool shed next to the rakes and shovels. His form looked lonely. I decided to go into town later, buy some fresh flowers and lay them at his feet. Satisfied with my thoughtfulness, I securely shut the door and went back into the house.

  “Mila,” I picked her up and held her in my arms like a pillow, “What have I done?”

Chapter Five

  One would think it would be difficult to live in a house that had a dead body in the garage. For a mentally healthy person, it probably would be. But I had clearly lost my mind.

  There are not words to describe how happy I was to live in Mr. Galloway’s home. My whole life had been spent in crowded and crumbling apartment buildings. I was now living in the lap of luxury.

  I couldn’t even have explained what the phrase, lap of luxury, meant before. I now knew, and it’s heavenly. The lap would be Mr. Galloway’s bed (I had changed the sheets). Did you know rich people’s mattresses are different than poor people’s mattresses?

  His bed was like a marshmallow. The mattress conformed to my shape. I didn’t have to squirm to find the optimum position of comfort. It molded to my desires.

  I splurged at Whole Foods, ordering all the readymade and prepackaged foods I could never afford to buy before. I still couldn’t afford them, but I had found a hundred dollar bill under the sofa when I was cleaning up the spilt pills.

  Eating in bed with my mother’s blanket for comfort and Mila by my side would be the luxury. Did I mention Mr. Galloway had subscribed to every available premium cable channel? He had, and may I say there is more on television than George Lopez reruns?

  Mila and I couldn’t have been happier. That’s not completely true. I sensed Mila missed Mr. Galloway. She had grown skittish with noise, her tiny head jerked at the slightest sound, as if he would be coming home at any moment. Rubbing behind her ears helped console her.

  My classes began on day four of our bed-in, happily the first one started late in the day. I rose at noon, stretching from side to side and ran through a checklist in my head. Finding a new job was my number one priority. I wouldn’t be calling the temp agency. I couldn’t take the chance that they would try to reach Mr. Galloway to find him a new caretaker.