The conversation

A small Laundry business man gets more to launder then the clothes.

The conversation


Ben Milton slipped the money into his tight denim pocket then handed Old man McAllister a receipt. Then heaving the bulky bundles of laundry, one over his shoulder and the other carefully by his side just above the painted wooden porch surface and quickly down the steps to his old rusty but reliable pick-up truck. McAllister said little, but when he did, he meant it. A lean bent over unshaven smart mouthed angry man. He had spent most of his life in prison, for all manors of crimes and offenses. Most in town left him to himself. Tales were told he was once convicted for killing four men after a card game as a young man, two he had killed with his just his bare hands.

“You have them back here, ya hear, just like you say, tomorrow noon.” he said.

McAllister was just a new customer to Ben so he'd let the rudeness run over his back.

“Don’t you worry yourself none sir. I’ll be on time, and they'll be spotless.”

McAllister didn't answer. He watched Ben as he made his way down the dirt path to his home. Back at his converted garage laundry which shared space with all the junk of the house. Ben began the work by hauling the bags off the truck tossing them against the walls of the garage in piles by customer. This was his last haul of the day and being short a few loads he wanted to end the day early. There were ten machines in his garage. Five were washers he rebuilt and filled with the loads he had put in, in the morning and had expected them to be done.

Rachael?

Rachael!?

He paused. No answer, his heart sank a bit knowing his part-time helper had gone off once again. Pissed off for a moment, but resolved. He Put on a pair yellow rubber gloves, he'd just take care of it. And when he had all the dryers going he pulled up a lawn chair then pulling over to him one of McAllister’s laundry bags in front of him and sat a moment taking a solid draw on his smokes. Ah, now he thought, on to the favorite part of the job. Going through the laundry. You never knew what you could find. And he wanted to see what he might have. Forgotten money, pawn receipts even jewelry which would never find it way back to its owner. He’d seen all kinds of undesirable articles, scum coated lingerie, used depends pads and shit soaked socks with matching underwear. He was truly in the business of cleaning up filth, and he loved it. He sat back with six-pack in hand in knowing full well that, he was king, the boss. There was no one making any demands on him. So, when he found the clothes of a child, his world was shaken a bit. A little voice in his head began to say the things he didn't want to hear. He tried to ignored it.

What the hell is this? he said to himself.

McAllister lives alone, doesn’t he?, he thought. But, They were a child’s clothes, a girl's, dirty and with blood stains. The little voice inside him grew louder and he began to speak back aloud. He pushed the bag back with his foot and that’s when the note fell to the floor. It lie there clearly folded, but he could see the impressions of crude writing though its back. Fixated, with beer in hand, for what seemed like and hour. That voice in his head shouted to him.

Pick it up!

Examining it, the paper seemed soft, like it was damp, or had been in water a bit. Unfolding it, it read, “Help me please, I’m locked in the cellar.” And it ended with what seemed like a name. It was damp, and he instinctively began to rub on the ink when he realized the ink was drying blood.

“Oh Crap?”

He could just make out the name, Glenda Maitland. He’d never heard of her. That didn’t matter did it? He thought. Then he remembered what McAllister told him when he took the job.

“You can do the Job but remember them clothes there, is my business. You just clean’um. You do understand my meaning?”

Ben felt a cold draft slide down his back as he in front of his open garage as the machines filled the area with rhythmic mechanical vibrations and sound.

“Oh, hell no!", I’m not getting involved.”

And he quickly began to toss the clothes into the washer. Slamming the lid down and setting the machine.

He shouts aloud, to convince himself. “That’s right. It’s none of my business." repeating McAllister's words.”

Looking up and seeing a mirror hung directly behind the machine, he sees himself, and hears a familiar voice, he remembers as his mom's, Truth then speaks to him,

“You are involved Benjamin Kennith Milton and you know it is your business.”

With his finger on the start button, he pauses,

“What are you waiting for Ben, start the machine, my man? In a soft friendly voice, Denial said to him.

“Start it. Who’s to say you didn’t just dump the load into the wash and see nothing?”

She had come to his side many times before easily convincing him denial was what he needed. And Ben usually agreed.

“That... that’s right, who's to know?”

Truth, undercutting Denials thought as it finished, “Look at yourself.” You deny me! And I will haunt you with this, no matter how dark and deep a hole you slide into. You will never be free of me.”

Ben in a cold sweat, pleaded. “But, he’s going to kill me.”

Truth shouts at his heart, “He might kill you, might? He’s going to kill the child.”

Denial tries wiping his brow, “Live in reality, It’s not your child. It's none of your business. beside it safer.”

Then, Truth, “But there could be some mother out there…”

Then Denial cut in, “Yeah, yeah, yeah, c’mon, get real. there’s always some mother out there wondering about her lost child.”

And then Truth again, “And there always will be, turning to Ben, if you don’t do your part when the gauntlet falls at you feet.” You've been working on your world for the last few years. Is this how you will crown your efforts..

Ben with hand at the side of his head cries “Stop, Just stop, both of you.”

Then he silently looks out his garage, at his neighbor’s kids as their children playing up and down the street oblivious to the dark possibilities of life. Listening to the sound of russling leaves atop the sycamores in a strong warm breeze overhead, Ben walks in silence to look at himself in the mirror, but seeing in stead in his minds eye a child chained in a dark corner. A small smirk forms across his face head drops, as he pulls out his phone and dials, 9-1-1.




This story was written for entry into the Writers Cramp 24 hour Competition and has a 1000 word restraint. The story has 999 words. Written by D.S.Ferguson –Ironworker156

03-03-10