Lyla smelled the patient’s unwashed body, like canned beans boiled too long.
She stood on the front porch, texting her boyfriend:
any news?
dont no how much lngr i can do this
they got me wrkn in BFE 2nite
No other houses were visible. The only sound, apart from crickets chirping, was an unseen lawnmower down the road. The setting sun was a bullet hole in the sky.
Lyla didn’t bother knocking. Shoulder first, she shoved the door—her purse and medical supply bag slipping down to her wrists—her burner phone still in her hand.
When she’d enrolled in the nursing assistant program, she thought she’d be working in hospitals. They were clean, organized, and they had all those unwatched pills.
She could still find the pills—and other valuable-but-forgotten objects—working home health, but the houses stank. There was no cleaning staff to wash away the stench of puke, piss, and age, other than the odd frazzled family member.
Dropping her bags on the stained couch, she grabbed them up again. Roach egg casings wedged into the space between a poorly-cut wood floor and the baseboards. She hung her bags, wrapping the straps on the doorknob.
A door shut in the hallway.
A nurse in sun-and-rainbow-print scrubs tiptoed around the corner, smiling at Lyla. “Patient’s just gone to sleep. Her daughter’ll be back in a couple hours, maybe earlier, but if she needs anything, she’ll yell or ring the bell by the bed.
“I’m guessing you brought a gait belt?” Lyla nodded, and the nurse gave her two thumbs up. “Good. She’s still got the use of her right arm and most of her left, but her legs give her trouble, so you’ll have to take it slow if you need to get her to the commode. Fair warning, she’s a little combative, gets confused sometimes, but that comes with the territory.”
The nurse stepped around Lyla and opened a closet door, grabbing her bags. “I appreciate you covering for me, and I wouldn’t normally leave like this on the first day with a new patient, but . . . .” The nurse babbled her excuse.
Lyla refreshed her text messages, her stomach roiling.
Scurrying to the door, the woman glanced back, waved, and hurried out.
Lyla crossed her arms and peered around. The walls were surfaced in synthetic wood paneling. Coating the floor was a tacky, waxy residue encrusting tiny tumbleweeds of hair and dust which lined the room.
In the kitchen, piles of unwashed dishes tottered by the sink. Pots full of cold, oily water stinking of stale chicken grease soaked beneath a dripping faucet. Roach shit, like coffee grounds, dusted the counter.
Mewling rose from the carcass of the house, the old woman’s voice a flat, nasal buzzer.
Lyla rolled her eyes. Sighed. Pulling out her phone, she sent Kent another message:
whats going on????
Kent’s grandma had left him a small inheritance which he’d sunk into a dozen bad investments, the latest being defunct storage units. The idea was to buy the contents of the unit before anyone chopped the lock off and let you see them. If you were lucky, you could sell your purchase at a profit. So far, Kent had no such luck.
He and Lyla owed money everywhere and to all the worst people. If it didn’t bring some cash, today’s unit would break them.
The patient’s mewling jumped an octave.
Stuffing her phone in her hoodie pocket, Lyla grabbed the gait belt from her bag and strode into the bedroom, flipping on the light.
The creature in the twin bed covered her face and recoiled from the bare bulbs shining above. Apple-shaped and liver-spotted, she wore a pink and orange rose-print nightgown.
“I need to pee.” Eyelids peeled back from red sclerae like skin off a tomato. She blinked, scanning Lyla. “You’re not the girl from before.” Her right hand moved towards the edge of the mattress, near the bell.
Lyla crossed to the bed and half-smiled down at her. “She had to leave early so I’ll be covering her shift for the rest of the night.”
Hoisting the old woman to seated, she twined the red-and-blue-striped belt around her waist. Bracing, she heaved her to her feet.
The patient gasped. “TOO FAST.”
Visions of fastening the patient and the belt to a speeding car danced in Lyla’s head.
The two of them toddled to the bedside commode. Rolling up the old woman’s nightgown, Lyla felt around for the waistband on her underwear.
The old woman slapped her arm. “I can do that myself.”
Lyla’s lips tightened across her teeth. She gripped the belt, studying the room while the patient disrobed.
There was a window. A nightstand. Behind the old woman stood a dresser of blond wood with three columns of mostly-open drawers.
Tarnished costume jewelry sprinkled the top. Faux-gold-now-green vanity trays, posed studio photographs from the eighties, and pink funeral ribbons with flaking letters spelling Mother and Grandmother filled in the empty spaces. An ashen layer of dust covered the whole.
Out of the drawers poured fountains of polyblend clothes. More jewelry. Stacks of papers and unopened mail.
In the top right drawer, light glinted off clean silver. The object looked heavy. A knot of blouses obscured the view.
The patient squatted, and Lyla steadied her as she lowered her bulk onto the commode. Releasing the belt, Lyla straightened. “I’ll give you some privacy. Just call out when you’re done.”
The old woman squinted. “Where’s the other girl?”
“Like I said, she had to leave early.” Lyla turned and grabbed the doorknob. “I’ll be out in the living room when you’re done.”
Fastening the door behind her, Lyla whisked out her phone, refreshing her messages as she walked.
A note from Kent lit up the screen.
She trembled, pressing and reading it:
new units a bust
wont even recoop cost
Lyla balled her fists, aching to knock them and the phone through Kent’s teeth. They’d have to skip town. How far they had to go, she didn’t know, but far enough so no stray bullets would find them for running out on their debts.
Another message appeared:
n e thing were u r?
It was owing to Lyla’s ingenuity they’d lasted this long. She scrambled to keep them afloat, selling patients’ pills and belongings, but none of her recent jobs produced anything valuable. Either the families kept an eye on her, or the houses were full of junk.
Lyla thought of the silver glinting from the drawer. It was worth a try. She texted back:
maybe or not
checking
A bell clanged from the bedroom.
Pocketing her phone, Lyla rushed to the patient, hauling her to her feet and glancing at the silver object in the drawer.
Running her fingers over the belt, she wrapped her arms around the old woman, leaning her over her shoulder. “Hold on, gotta adjust something here.”
Using her left hand to fiddle with the strap, she slipped the phone out of her pocket with the right, pressed it into the open drawer, and took a picture.
“What was that?”
Lyla stowed the phone and righted the patient. “What was what?”
“It sounded like a camera click.” The old woman’s top lip curled. “Are you takin’ pictures a me?”
Lyla knew how to deal with this. Slicking her voice with concern, she raised her eyebrows. “Do you hear camera clicks a lot? Like, do you think people are taking pictures of you when you’re not looking?”
The old woman’s nostrils flared. “Don’t talk to me like I’m crazy. And I’m not deaf, I know what I heard.”
“All I know is I need to get you back in bed.”
Inching the patient in that direction, Lyla laid her back on the pillow, covered her with a scratchy, bow-print comforter, and exited, flipping off the lights as she went.
Hurrying to the kitchen, she opened her photos. Zoomed in on the silver.
Even with a slight blur, she recognized the object with its cylinder, hammer, trigger, and grip. A gun. Old by the look of it. On the grip was a metal plate with the words ‘presented’ and ‘Sixth.’ Gouged into the plate in crooked scrawl, covering the rest of the inscription, was the word ‘MERCY.’
Cropping the image, she sent it to Kent:
wat u think?
He messaged back:
i no a guy
gimme a few
bttr pic wud help
Lyla tried to plan. Guns, especially old ones, went for lots of money, but the family would notice the loss. And the patient’s daughter would be back soon.
She took a second look at the picture. The item was obscured at the bottom of a drawer. They wouldn’t miss it for a while. By the time they did, she and Kent would have new burner phones and an apartment in the next county. If the money was good.
Lyla slumped against the wall. Scrolling housing adds, she tracked the minutes. The patient needed time to fall asleep before she could attempt the removal. Once she had the gun on the kitchen table, she could snap all the pictures they needed.
After twenty minutes, she crept back to the door. Listened.
Breath hummed like a kazoo through the old woman’s nose.
Turning off the hall light, Lyla gripped the knob and inched the door open.
Hinges creaked, and the patient’s breath softened.
Lyla froze, waiting for the hum.
When it began again, she slunk to the dresser, gripping the drawer with both hands and pulling.
It stuck, swollen with humidity.
Lyla dug her fingernails into her palms.
The phone in her pocket buzzed.
Turning her back to the patient, she read Kent’s message:
tlkd to my guy
thinks its Star arms ruvolvr
miltary, civil war
past thru famlys
even w damag on tag worth 15k
A prickling warmth spread through Lyla’s chest. Fifteen grand. They could pay their debts and have some fun, even if they had to switch counties.
Another message from Kent popped up:
but only if u find the twin
She stared at the last word.
The bed creaked.
She couldn’t hear the kazoo anymore.
Lyla spun to face the old woman.
A pair of headlights flashed from the driveway through the window.
Illuminated, the patient’s hand emerged from between mattress and box spring, gripping silver.
Fifteen grand’s worth.
A blast of fire shook the room, knocking Lyla on her back, a searing poker running her through.
She clawed the floor. Fought to turn over and let the rising, choking blood drain out of her mouth.
In the whistling air, the patient screamed. “YOU MAY’VE KILLED THE OTHER GIRL BUT YOU DIDN’T GET ME. NOT ME.”
The revolver fell from her hand, thudding to the ground.
The room exploded with light.
Another woman’s voice popped in and out of Lyla’s hearing. “MOM . . . OH GOD . . . .”
Dragging herself towards the new voice, Lyla’s hand found heat and metal. Her sight was a faraway light in a collapsing tunnel, but she could make out the word gouged into the tag on the twin revolver’s grip: ‘RECKONING.’
END
If you enjoyed this story . . .
Eeeexxcellent.
It was like a midwestern Tell Tale Heart. Absolutely loved it. You’re a modern day Poe.