First impressions
Ivy stared at the best-by-date of the smoked salmon can and wondered if luck would be on her side today. After twenty-three years of less-than-stellar luck, she should have known better, but a little food poisoning wouldn’t make it worse.
“It’s only five months,” she said, cracking up the lid and shredding the contents with a crooked fork. She gobbled up the salmon between deep gulps of water and paired it with a can of black beans, slightly fresher than the overly seasoned fish.
Standing in her cramped apartment, she rushed through her late lunch as the clock ticked relentlessly, reminding her she had only ten minutes to sprint to the bus that would take her to her last assignment for the day. This last-minute extra job meant a bigger monthly bonus, and the canned food piled in the tiny pantry would only cover her meals for the week. She couldn’t rely on Mrs. Jenkins’s generosity to save on food.
“I can’t keep doing this.” The pigeons out the window nodded in agreement, appalled that Ivy had accepted a load of expired food from one of her clients for the second time in a month. Not that Mrs. Jenkins thought of her as a human trash can. The old lady suffered from empty nest syndrome after her children moved to their own places, leaving her to roam the halls of her grandiose apartment. Food hoarding was one of the unfortunate outcomes of her solitude, and adding shortsightedness to the issue led to the generous, although slightly hazardous donation.
A faint drizzle dampened Ivy’s uniform when she dashed across the street to catch her bus. I should have worn a jacket. The Bostonian summer hardly required it, but working with a wet dress only made it more difficult to clean cluttered houses.
Her second summer in the beautiful city of Boston differed vastly from the first. A year ago, Ivy had arrived with a kindle of childish hope, and a scholarship to study History at the mythical Boston University.
While a scholarship was a gift from the gods of knowledge and the apologetic school system, her overworked mom could barely provide for housing and vital feeding requirements. Not wanting to continue the family tradition of being a burden to her mother, Ivy spent every free moment her studies allowed to juggle part-time jobs. The summer vacations were a great time for extra work, saving money, and avoiding her wealthier classmates who couldn’t understand what was the appeal of riding the bus to school.
Ivy grimaced at the sensation of squishy socks inside her sneakers and hurried to climb down the bus. Despite her job at Rosemarie Cleaning Crew taking her to some of the wealthiest neighborhoods in Boston, this was the first time Ivy had set foot on the lavish streets of Beacon Hill.
The text Rosemarie sent her included the address and the details of her assignment for the afternoon. Ivy scoffed. “Single guy, soccer field size apartment, key under the rug.” At least it said the place would be empty. Vacuuming and scrubbing were far more tolerable when she didn’t have people breathing down her neck.
She walked down the picturesque street, glancing at the beautiful buildings with a pout. Ivy held the conviction that people with money weren’t mandatory assholes, but she had all the right in the world to be less than happy about her station in life. If scowling at wealth was the only way she could fight the system—because everything else was a bother—she would gladly make those shiny cars and opulent buildings feel embarrassed.
Busy inwardly reprimanding capitalism, Ivy almost missed the address she was heading to—the number hidden behind an unruly briar. Unlike its neighbors, this building showed clear signs of neglect.
Ivy pursed her lips, dallying at the base of the steps and frowning at the rusty handrail and unkempt front door. If the people who lived here allowed their front to look like a dump in the middle of the fanciest neighborhood in town, the interior couldn’t fare much better. She let out a long, exasperated sigh, imagining the horror that awaited her inside.
“I swear, if I have to scrub week-old vomit from the carpet one more time…” She climbed the steps and pushed the access code provided. A bit showy, considering they could probably spend a little money to replace most of the dead plants out front.
Silence engulfed the entrance hall as soon as she closed the heavy door behind her. Ivy rubbed at her nose, dreading the inevitable allergic reaction to the dusty air. While it wasn’t as damaged as the exterior of the property, the inside was covered in a thick layer of dust and a variety of dead insects.
“What is wrong with these people?” Stomping up the stairs, Ivy pursed her lips and thought, once again, how pretentious rich people were. Why live in one of the most expensive places in Boston when you couldn’t even afford someone to sweep and dust once a week? The building was a four-story, thick-walled, architectural jewel of the city, and neither of the four apartment owners could take it upon themselves to care for it.
She reached the top floor, curious about the quiet atmosphere. Not a sound besides her footsteps could be heard inside. Even in these large, old buildings, one usually heard muffled voices on the other side of the doors.
Ivy rolled her suitcase to lean against the wall and knocked on the door, remembering a second later the place was supposed to be empty. “Idiot,” she said under her breath and crouched to peek under the disgusting rug. One dirty key rested under it.
This is so unsafe. She thought. I guess few people pass through here.
It took some struggle, but Ivy managed to pry open the door that creaked like a well-used coffin after one determined push.
If the building hall was dirty, the inside of the apartment could only be described as catastrophic. Piles of old newspapers, magazines, and books collapsed over tables, chairs, and counters. Cobwebs dangled from the ceiling, fluttering in the breeze the closing door aroused. Dirty glasses caught the faint light coming through the murky windows, bathing the room with ghostly shimmers.
And the smell. Ivy covered her nose and mouth, convinced there was something dead underneath all that trash. The stench of dust and humidity did little to hide the root of the problem.
“Is this a joke?” Ivy gaped at the disaster in front of her. Cleaning a house with bad-mannered pets and diabolical toddlers, she could manage. Scrubbing after a decadent party, she could tolerate. But this place needed to be burnt to the ground. This level of decay could hardly be cleaned in one afternoon, and if Rosemarie expected her to work here, she needed to provide a hazmat suit, not the cutesy, impractical black and white dress she called uniform.
Ivy dialed her boss. “Rose, just get it out of your system and tell me you hate me. Why did you have to send me to this pit of despair?”
“Ivy, sweetheart. You really need to work on your attitude.” On the other side of the phone, Rosemarie sighed. “What is the problem?”
“This isn’t a one-day job! And definitely not a one-person job. There are heaps of trash and an awful smell. I don’t even want to step farther inside!”
“Now, come on, girl. Don’t speak like that. The client might hear you.”
Ivy rolled her eyes. “There’s no one here, remember? Key under the doormat and all. But I don’t believe I can clean all this.”
If not for the distinct trail of footsteps that turned around a corner, Ivy would have thought the place was abandoned. But it was clear someone constantly traipsed from, perhaps, a bedroom to the front door. Besides the path cutting through the dust on the floor, everything else appeared untouched.
“You don’t have to clean the entire house today, sweetheart. The client mentioned one bedroom was out of limits, and he would leave that door locked.”
“Oh, that’s a relief,” Ivy said, throwing a hand in the air. “One less disgusting room to scrub. Rose, I can’t—”
“Tell you what, Ivy. You clean as much as you can, and I’ll write this guy back explaining he needs to hire us for a few more days if he wants a spotlessly clean place. Just make sure you do your absolute best with at least one big room.”
There was something about the loving, motherly tone of Rosemarie’s voice that always managed to bend her will. Either the wicked woman knew the power a little tenderness had over Ivy, or she was genuinely an annoying, adorable person.
Ivy looked around, grimacing at the hidden monstrosities she would undoubtedly find beneath the visible crap, and sighed. “I’ll do my best until I have to clock out. And even a few minutes after that. But I can’t promise—”
“Oh, you’re a doll, sweetheart! I knew I could trust you.” There was a pause on the phone, probably because Rosemarie was doing a little victory dance. “You’re on your way to becoming Employee of the Month, Ivy.”
“If you’re going to hang my picture for everyone to see, I’ll quit.”
Her boss cackled. “I’ll see you tomorrow, sweetheart. Happy cleaning!”
There was a cleaner spot near the entrance, where Ivy laid down her suitcase before putting on rubber gloves. Once again regretting the lack of more appropriate clothing, she followed the existing path to inspect the rest of the apartment.
“One big room, huh?” The awful living and dining rooms shared the same space, and there was no chance of having them ready today. One quick look at the kitchen was enough to convince her that was a lost cause as well.
Ivy turned around the corner and saw a gloomy corridor flanked by four doors. “Which one is locked?” She wondered. There were no messages left by the owner, so she’d have to check each one. The path went on to the end of the hall and after closer inspection, Ivy noticed it forked between the two doors farther from her.
She rolled her shoulders and cracked her neck, readying to open a door and reveal, hopefully, a less daunting task. Let’s do this fast. If I think too much, I’ll never begin.
“Here goes nothing.” Swatting the dusty air in front of her face as she moved forward, Ivy reached for the door at the end of the hall and pushed it open.
The room was shrouded in darkness and a putrid smell invaded her nostrils the moment she stepped inside. In here, the dusty carpet was covered by a plastic sheet that rustled under her feet where she had stopped, astounded. The only light came through the open door where Ivy stood, gaping at the figure in front of her.
A tall, slender man stretched an arm above his leaned-back head, holding a translucent bag and allowing its contents to drip into his open mouth. The bag appeared to have torn because the thick, red liquid cascaded over his entire body and splattered on the plastic where he stood.
Neither uttered a word nor allowed a single breath to escape them as they gawked at each other for three heartbeats. And then, Ivy gasped.
The man was naked.
And the red liquid looked pretty much like blood.
