Page 28 of The Vacancy In Room 10

“Tell me you know, like really, really know that what he did was not about you. He was depressed. I mean, I just hope you don’t blame yourself or...”

“No. I know,” I say, cutting her off. And actually forgetting for just a moment that nobody else knows it was foul play. I can’t tell her. I can’t even say the words out loud. I just need to know more before I start to publicize this and then subsequently drown in the pity and questions and unsolicited advice. I need to stay clear and focused. For Henry.

The whoosh and sputter of a match being lit behind Monica’s head makes her whip around in her chair and spill a splash of mimosa onto her blouse. “The fuck!” she yelps.

“Oh, hey, ladies.” It’s Babs. She wears a pink housecoat and yellow flip-flops. She inhales deeply on her cigarette and smiles at us.

“Jesus,” Monica says, likely out of shock at the woman’s appearance. She looks to me for an explanation, then back to Babs.

“Smoke?” Babs asks.

Monica shakes her head and looks to me again with raised eyebrows.

Babs leans over the railing, releasing a hearty cough that somehow turns into a laugh. She gestures with her cigarette. “Little Kevin pooped in the pool again.” We look down to see very pregnant Crystal crying as she tries to fish it out with a tiny butterfly net and simultaneously screaming at Tiffany and Amber to get out of the pool, but they are both gleefully trying to cannonball themselves on top of it.

“They’re gonna get the pink eye,” Babs says.

Monica stands wide-eyed, with her heart to her chest.

“You new here?” Babs asks. “I’m Uncle Fester. Welcome.” She holds her hand out for Monica to shake, but Monica mumbles “excuse me” and backs up until she bumps into my apartment door, then slips inside.

“No,” I say, “she’s not a tenant, just a friend who stopped by.”

Before I can go inside behind Monica, Babs asks, “You warn Callum about Eddie? Haven’t seen either of ’em today. Just sayin’.”

“I did, yeah,” I say and then start toward my door.

“You ain’t gonna drink this?” she asks, picking up my half-empty mimosa cup.

“All yours. Gotta run.”

In the short time I’ve been here, the strangeness of the place has almost begun to feel normal somehow, and then I see how Monica looks at it with fresh eyes, and question again if I should just go. Just give all his things away. Donate the paintings, call the Salvation Army to do a pickup for the rest, and get on the next plane to a beach. Fucking anywhere, really.

It’s very tempting, but when I stand looking at the towering boxes of his whole life, I can’t do that. I’d always regret not trying to figure it out—understand what happened to my sweet Henry. Then a terrifying thought hits me. What if I can’t leave town? It seems like they think I’m a suspect. What if this goes on for years, and my life is destroyed even more than it is already?

I’m gonna find the truth, goddammit. There have to be answers in between all these pages of books and photos and scribblings.

“What are you doing?” I ask Monica as she opens and closes cupboards in the kitchenette.

“Looking for booze. This place requires vodka, not champagne. What the actual fuck?” There are only four cupboards, so she finds Henry’s minibar pretty quickly. She washes a martini glass caked in dust that I can’t imagine Henry even having, let alone using, and pours Seagram’s and expired Cran-Apple juice into it. She perches on a stool, sipping her drink, and takes the place in.

“Does Henry still have Lorazepam stashed away? I could use one. How are you staying here?” she asks, and I stop rifling through the box I’ve picked up and look at her a moment. How would she know Henry had Lorazepam? It strikes me as odd, but there’s probably an easy explanation.

“I can help, ya know,” she says.

“Help?”

“I can go through the boxes with you. We’ll order delivery from Giovanni’s, and there’s enough booze, so yeah. I just need some sweats. These are Dior.” She brushes her hands across her white pants.

I think about this a minute. She doesn’t know what we’re looking for. Hell, I don’t know what we’re looking for. Certainly not a confession note from the murderer, signed and notarized in one of the boxes. I’ll know it when I see it if it’s important, but there’s no harm in having her help. She thinks I’m just sorting it out for keep and donation piles. It would be nice, actually. Who wants to do this alone?

We order a cheese lover’s and mix martinis, and Monica is smart enough to play some neutral television show in the background—a PBS detective show, nothing that could cause me to spontaneously bawl like most songs will do these days. And we sit on the floor and start to pull off crinkly tape and rifle through endless kitsch and clutter. Mostly old textbooks, art supplies, and unframed canvases stored in neat piles with sheets of Bubble Wrap in between. I pack the mundane items back into the boxes they came from, give them a Sharpie X on top and move those in front of the kitchen counter to stay organized. After a couple hours of this, Monica is lying on the floor scrolling with her phone over her face, and I’m already tiring of this myself. What the hell am I even looking for?

Across the room, a handful of paintings catch my eye, so I cross to them and pluck out the one he painted of Monica.

“Aw, I always loved this one,” I say, touching its rough surface, remembering Henry painting Monica at a cookout we had by the lake with a few couples from church.

“Oh, God. Look how fat I was. I look like I swallowed a Christmas ham.”

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