The Downside of Redemption

The worse the smell, the better the payoff. Tony knows this from experience. So when he flips up the flimsy plastic top to the battered blue recycling dumpster and the distinctly putrid perfume of sour milk, stale beer, and sickly sweet soda wafts his way, Tony knows there are plenty of bottles and cans ready for the taking. A nickel deposit might not seem like much to some, but for every full dumpster Tony finds, he can collect bags full of free money.

“Come to papa,” he says as he reaches for the deposit bottles and cans on the surface of the pile. Once those are in his white plastic bag, Tony uses a long pole that has a grabbing tool at the end to reach into the depths of the dumpster.

“Hey Paco, what are you doing?” a voice yells from somewhere behind him. Though the voice sounds close, Tony ignores the words. Let whoever Paco is deal with it.

The voice persists.

“Paco! Hey, I’m talking to you. Why are you digging through our garbage?”

Tony turns and sees a middle-aged woman he does not recognize. She’s wearing jeans and heels and walking his way.

“You don’t live in this condominium. You’re trespassing,” she adds.

Tony grabs a few more containers and shoves them into his bag. Then he walks in the opposite direction of the approaching woman.

“I’m calling the police,” the woman yells. “You have no right to take our property.”

Tony picks up his pace. Beads of sweat start to form on his brow.

“We paid money on those bottles. You’re stealing from us.”

Tony slips around one of the apartment buildings and cuts across a picnic area to get back to the main road. He hates hecklers. They yell and threaten and chase him off their property for no reason. He’s not sure why his presence upsets them. He may not have paid the bottle deposit, but if Tony or someone like him doesn’t pick out the bottles, the deposit goes to waste. Why is wasting money better than letting someone earn it?

There are several condos along the main road. Tony heads to the back of one, partly to hide from the heckler and partly to stuff another bag with deposits. The recycling dumpster is tucked behind a wooden blind, so he can collect containers with a little more cover. Still, Tony works quickly, sifting through bottles and cans as fast as possible.

When his bags are full he carries them to the local supermarket for redemption. The bags are heavy and awkward to carry, so his progress is slow. His arms ache by the time he gets in line for the redemption machines that stand just outside the store. Several people are ahead of him, all with large, overstuffed bags. The machines are tall and imposing; one each for plastic, glass, and metal. In the middle of each machine is a menacing-looking round opening that swallows the container and possibly your arm if you put it in there too far. Red lights flash on all three machines. Each is full and has stopped accepting containers. Someone from the store will be out momentarily to empty the machines. That’s what the people ahead of him say, though they say it with a sense of hopelessness. They were promised someone would be out momentarily 30 minutes ago.

The line for redemptions soon reaches the doors to the store as more people dragging bags appear. They wait because they have no other choice, the sun beating down on them like some kind of punishment. Tony cannot decide which is worse: the heat, the boredom, or the frustration of having to collect empties in the first place.

Suddenly the sounds of scuffling come from inside the store.

“Stop! Come back,” someone yells.

“Security to exit three,” another voice calls.

A man in a gray hoodie bursts out of the exit. He sees the clusters of people congregating by their plastic bags. He leaps over the bags and runs into the parking lot.

A uniformed security guard follows the hoodie out the door. He’s older and doesn’t have a physique made for leaping. The guard heads for the front of the line and the gap between the deposit machines and the crowd. When those at the front of the line see the guard approaching they shift over to get out of his way, filling the gap. Now the only open space is right next to Tony.

As the guard runs through the space, his shoe snags on one of Tony’s bags. The guard kicks at the bag to dislodge his foot and the seam of the bag splits. Bottles and cans scatter, as if each is on a mission to escape into the parking lot. Tony scrambles after the runaway containers. A few people around him snatch up the escapees and, though some give them back to Tony, others quietly stuff them into their own bags.

 When the machines finally work again Tony walks away with twelve dollars in cash.

For the next few days, Tony finds work at his semi-regular landscaping job pruning, planting, and mowing for suburban homeowners. The work is rewarding but not regular, instead coming in bursts—40 or 50 hours one week then almost none the next. When Tony can’t find work landscaping, he trolls the condo complexes downtown and collects discarded deposit bottles. Today is a redemption day.

After visiting several condos, Tony comes to the one that had the heckler in heels. This time he avoids the main walkway and instead walks up the driveway that curves around the buildings and leads to the recycling dumpsters. The bins sit at the end of the driveway, pushed into a corner as if the condo was embarrassed by them.

There’s a green dumpster for paper and cardboard, a blue one for glass, plastic, and cans. Tony glances around in case anyone is watching.

The blue bin is nearly full which makes Tony’s job easier. He leans over the side and collects the containers, working swiftly and methodically, starting on the left side of the bin and moving toward the right. He’s just past the middle of the dumpster when he spots a ball of newspapers, a sight both surprising and confusing simply because it’s a foreign material in a sea of plastic and aluminum.

Tony picks up the wad of newspapers. It’s stained with something dark and viscous. He unwraps the bundle one sheet at a time as if what’s inside might be delicate and precious. When he pulls back the final layer of newspaper his eyes widen. Hidden in the folds of the paper is a human hand cut neatly, almost surgically, at the wrist.

“Shit,” Tony gasps. His body shudders and he drops the bundle. The hand falls away from the newspapers and lands on Tony’s feet. He sees splotches of red on his white sneakers.

“Shit, shit, shit.”

The hand is open, the fingers slightly curled as if ready to catch something. All five fingertips are blackened.

Tony uses the newspapers to pick up the hand without actually touching it. Then he shifts the bundle to his right hand and lets his left find his phone. He dials 911.

“Pick up, pick up,” he says over the sound of the line ringing.

The click of footsteps comes from somewhere behind him.

“Never come back. That’s what I told you, Paco!”

The voice startles Tony. He drops his phone and the bundle of newspapers. The phone hits the ground and skids underneath the dumpster. The bundle lands with a thud and once again the severed hand bounces onto the pavement.

Suddenly the heckler isn’t so worried about empty bottles and cans.

“Oh my God,” she screams. “Why do you have that? Murderer!”

Tony recognizes the heckler from the other day. She looks at him with a mix of horror and disgust. “Are you trying to hide that in our garbage?”

Tony panics. “No, no. I’m not…” he stammers.

“You’re going to jail!” she yells.

Tony drops to his knees and looks under the dumpster. He sees his phone but his arms aren’t long enough to reach it.

“I knew you were a criminal the first time I saw you,” the woman hisses.

This is a higher level of crazy than Tony can stand. He decides he doesn’t need his burner phone or the cans. What he needs is distance. So he runs toward the edge of the complex. An expanse of trees there will hide him until he reaches a tangle of side streets that can take him back to anonymity.

“Murderer!” he hears the woman howl. The accusation is sharp and bitter and ricochets endlessly around in his head.

Gabriella looks out the kitchen window and sees a man in the backyard standing in a cloud of smoke. She steps over to the door and sticks her head outside.

“Antonio, what are you doing here?”

Tony puts out his cigarette and trots to the back door. “My love, I need help. I’ve seen something bad.”

Gabriella frowns and pulls Tony into the kitchen. “You can’t be here. You’ll get me in trouble if the kids see you.”

Tony scans the room as if the kids might be there somewhere.

“Where are they?”

“Upstairs playing,” Gabriella answers.

“Can I use your phone?” Tony asks.

“Why? What did you see?”

“I saw something…found something. Something for the police.”

Gabriella shakes her head. “No, Antonio. I don’t care what it is. No police. We talked about this. You don’t have papers.”

Tony’s expression tells her he hears her words, he just isn’t listening.

“Please, Gabriella. The phone.”

“It’s at home,” she says, her voice rising. “The missus thinks it’s a distraction. I’m supposed to focus on her kids and nothing but.”

The screams of single-digit aged children float down from the floor above. Gabriella looks up at the ceiling then at Tony. She takes his hands into hers.

“Can we talk about this tonight?” Her voice is softer now, almost pleading. “You can tell me everything and we’ll make a plan.”

They hear a thud from upstairs followed by the sound of wailing.

“Go home,” Gabriella says then hurries toward the stairs. “I’ll see you tonight.”

Tony stands in the kitchen and feels abandoned. His eyes wander and, for the first time, he notices the many shiny stainless steel appliances and the spotless marble countertops dotted with gadgets he cannot imagine a use for. The kitchen appears to have everything. Even, he suddenly realizes, a phone hanging on the wall. He glances at the stairway to make sure no one is coming. Then he picks up the phone, dials the appropriate numbers and says as quickly as possible everything the police need to know.

Gabriella is playing hide and seek with the kids when she hears a rumbling coming from the driveway. Without looking she knows exactly who it is.

“Guess who’s home,” she says to the children.

“Mommy!” they scream and arrive at the front door just as it opens and a tall woman with dark hair appears.

“Mommy, we were playing,” they yell as if mommy is wearing ear plugs.

“Well, don’t let me interrupt,” the tall woman says.

Gabriella looks at the children. “Whose turn is it to hide?”

“My turn,” they both yell and run out of the room.

“Thank you, Gabriella,” the tall woman says.

Gabriella smiles and heads after the kids.

The tall woman tosses her jacket onto a chair then walks to the kitchen and finds something to drink. She’s gazing out the window from a stool at the kitchen island when the doorbell rings. Outside are men with badges.

“I’m Officer Dell,” one says once the front door opens. “And this is Officer Puckett. Are you Mrs. Bates?”

“Yes. Beverly Bates,” the tall woman answers.

“Is your husband home?”

“He’s at the office. What’s this about?”

“Can we come in ma’am?”

Beverly steps away from the door so the officers can enter.

“What time did your husband leave for work this morning?”

“Around 8:00. Why are you asking?”

“And he hasn’t been home since?”

“Of course not.” Beverly folds her arms across her chest. “I’m not saying another word until you tell me what this is about.”

Dell exhales slowly. Why does everyone need a reason to be helpful? He takes out his notepad then says, “We’re here about a phone call made earlier today from a number assigned to this address.”

“A phone call? That’s impossible,” Beverly says knowing there are rules against such things.

“The call came in on a recorded line. Male voice. The caller directed our colleagues to a dumpster where human body parts were found.”

“Body parts, my God.” Beverly sounds both indignant and horrified. “Is this some kind of joke?”

“So you can confirm your husband never returned home once he left this morning?”

Beverly blinks. “Of course I can’t. I was out all morning. I work part time as a teacher’s assistant.”

“So the house was empty all morning?”

“My children were here. With a nanny.”

Dell and Puckett exchange glances.

“Nanny?” Puckett says. “Can we talk to her?”

Beverly brings the officers and Gabriella to the kitchen, does the introductions, then leaves the room but doesn’t go far. The officers stand on one side of the kitchen island, Gabriella the other. She looks uncomfortable but doesn’t sit on any of the four empty stools near her.

“Did you call anyone from the house phone today?” asks Dell.

Gabriella shakes her head. “No calls.”

“Did you let anyone else make a call?”

Gabriella looks confused. “You mean the children?”

Dell shifts his weight from one leg to the other. “Friends, neighbors, acquaintances, was anyone else in the house today?”

“No. No guests.”

“And Mr. Bates didn’t return after he left this morning?”

“No.”

“Well, someone called from here,” Puckett says in frustration.

Gabriella blushes and looks down at the counter.

“I’ll go look around outside,” Puckett adds then slips out the back door.

“Perhaps this house has a ghost,” says Dell trying to lighten the mood. Gabriella does not smile.

Dell returns to his notepad. “You’ve worked here how long?”

“Two years.”

“And you like it here?”

“Very much.”

“Have you ever let someone inside the house when the owners are out?”

“No. I already told you.” Gabriella’s knees start to wobble.

“You’re not in trouble, ma’am. We know you didn’t make the call. We just need to find who did so we can ask him some questions.”

“I don’t know,” says Gabriella.

“How is that possible? Help me out here because if we believe your story then some guy randomly chose this house, snuck in while you weren’t looking, used the house phone then snuck out. And you didn’t see a thing.”

“I can’t help you,” Gabriella cries, dropping her head into her hands.

Beverly bursts into the room and puts an arm around Gabriella. “Officer really,” she says. “This is nothing short of torture.”

Dell closes his notepad.

The back door opens and Puckett walks in holding up a clear plastic evidence bag.

“I found a cigarette butt. Looks pretty fresh. Maybe the caller smoked it.”

“That’s mine,” Gabriella says too quickly.

“You smoke?” asks Dell.

“Yes, I do.”

“Really,” says Puckett as he folds the bag and slips it into his pocket.

“Officers, if I might make a suggestion in my own house,” Beverly begins. “Perhaps I can have a private conversation with Gabriella.”

The officers shrug.

The women escape to the study and close the door behind them.

“This is all so sordid, isn’t it,” Beverly says. “A missing corpse, mangled body parts, a phone call someone recorded but apparently no one made. And now I have cops in my house and a police car in the driveway. What must the neighbors be saying?” Beverly looks out the window as if she can see everyone who lives near her. After a moment she looks back at Gabriella.

“Your interview isn’t going well,” Beverly says softly. “I’m no detective, and even I can tell the story you’re spinning isn’t believable.” She sees the anguish in Gabriella’s eyes. “It’s time to tell the truth.”

“I cannot, missus.” Tears fill Gabriella’s eyes.

“Why not?”

“I just cannot,” Gabriella repeats.

Beverly surrenders. “Okay, okay. You’re protecting someone, so I hope you understand that I have people to protect too. And I can’t have my kids connected to mangled bodies and police investigations. So until this gets sorted out you really can’t come back here.”

Gabriella slumps in her seat.

“Just tell them what they want to know and all of this goes away.”

There’s a knock on the door. Dell enters. He looks at Gabriella.

“Ma’am we need you to come to the station and make a statement.”

Beverly sighs. “Is that really necessary, officer?”

Puckett appears behind Dell. The officers look immovable.

The police car does not leave discreetly. It backs out of the driveway with the emergency lights flashing. Beverly watches from the front window. Oh well, she thinks. At least the siren isn’t on.

“Why the hell isn’t she talking? What’s she hiding?” Sergeant Asciano looks at Dell and Puckett for answers they do not have.

“And the loud lady from the condo?”

“Says she saw some guy trying to hide the hand in one of their dumpsters,” Dell says.

“Did she give a description?”

“Dark hair, medium build, average height.”

“Which is as helpful as shit.” The sergeant rubs his bald head as if searching for hair. “So the nanny’s our best lead to finding this guy.”

“Seems like it,” Puckett says.

“Alright. What have we got on the nanny?”

Dell reads from his notes. “Full name: Gabriella Casasanta. Born and raised not far from here. Rents a house in the North section of town. No priors, not even a parking ticket. She’s clean.”

“If she’s so clean, why isn’t she talking?” the sergeant asks. No one answers.

“Kids? Any family in the area?”

“No family. Two kids.”

“Could she be protecting them?”

“The boy’s nine years old. The girl’s eleven.”

“Then she’s protecting her husband.”

“He died four years ago.”

“Son of a bitch,” the sergeant barks. He looks up as if the answers to the case might be written on the ceiling. “Okay, maybe she has a boyfriend.”

Puckett scowls. “She’s a 40-something-year-old mother of two. How could she be dating?”

The sergeant sighs. This is what he gets for allowing 20-year-olds on his team. He’s the only one in the room who thinks 40-something is still young.

“We need her to talk,” says the sergeant. “She’s all we got. You have to squeeze her, guys. If that doesn’t work, squeeze harder.”

“Who are you squeezing now, Asciano?” a voice behind them says. “And should I report it to HR?”

The officers turn and see Abigail Tierney standing in the doorway of the sergeant’s office.

The sergeant shakes his head. “Not today, Tierney. We have real work to do.”

“I know. Harassing and detaining nannies. That’s a new low even for you, Asciano.”

The sergeant tilts his head. “How’d you know about the nanny?”

“Guess whose case file I have.” Abigail waves the manila folder as if proving it’s real.

“You public defenders are like cockroaches,” the sergeant says. “Always crawling around places you’re not wanted.”

Abigail smiles and, without being invited to, takes a seat. “You have no evidence on her, no motive, she’s given her statement. And still another hour goes by and she’s trapped in a holding cell.”

“We have every right to hold her.”

“To what end? She’s done what you want. Let her go home to her kids.”

The sergeant scoffs. “She’s not going anywhere.”

Abigail stands and heads back to the doorway. “I tried to be nice,” she says, her back to the officers. “Let’s see what your bosses think about this situation.”

They watch her go, the sergeant muttering indecipherable curses. Once she disappears his focus is back on Dell and Puckett. He leans closer to them.

“Squeeze her,” he says.

Dell sits at a table in a small room down the hall from his desk. The room has audio equipment and a few computer screens on the table. Dell wears headphones and leans over a yellow pad while he takes notes. The door opens, yet Dell doesn’t realize anyone else is in the room until someone pulls off his headphones.

“What are you doing?” Puckett asks.

Dell puts down his pen. “Listening to the nanny interview again. Maybe we missed something.”

“And?”

“No, nothing so far. But you know what’s weird? She never asks about her kids.”

Puckett pulls over a chair and sits down.

“She’s here way after school lets out, and she’s not the least bit worried about her kids being home alone. So either she’s the world’s worst mom….”

“Or she knows someone will take care of them,” Puckett interrupts. “Maybe a neighbor. Or a friend.”

“Could be. Or maybe someone else lives there. Someone who needs protecting.”

Dell heads for the door. “Let’s go do some squeezing.”

Puckett stops him. “Didn’t you hear? She’s gone.”

“The sergeant let her go?”

“Not willingly,” Puckett grumbles. “The lawyer went over his head. Used the old ‘single mom, no evidence’ argument to get her released. So we can’t touch her tonight. But tomorrow morning, I say we head to her home and see exactly who wakes up in that house.”

Gabriella trudges down the hallway toward her bedroom, the heels of her shoes scraping along the wood floors. As she enters the room, she sees Tony on the bed. He’s staring at, but not quite reading, a page in a magazine.

“The kids in bed then?” he asks without looking up from the magazine.

“Finally,” says Gabriella.

“They were worried about you,” he says.

Gabriella nods. “I was afraid to call. If the police listened in they’d know who was here.”

She changes into her night clothes and heads to the bathroom. While she’s gone Tony pulls back the covers on her side of the bed and fluffs her pillows.

When Gabriella comes back she falls into the bed and Tony gets a whiff of lavender-scented face cream and minty toothpaste.

“We have to talk about this, my love,” says Tony.

“Not again,” Gabriella moans. “Everyone wants me to talk. I just want to sleep.”

“You must tell the truth.”

“I cannot, Antonio.”

“Because of me.”

Gabriella closes her eyes. “Because the police will talk to immigration and immigration will talk to ICE and ICE will send you back.”

“Give the police what they want and you’ll get your job back.”

“There are other jobs.”

Tony slides underneath the covers. “How will we pay the rent?” he asks.

Gabriella turns and faces him. “No police until you get papers. Remember? That’s what we agreed.” She turns onto her back and stares up at the ceiling.

“You did nothing bad,” she adds.

“No, I just found something bad.”

“And for that they will punish us. Just because they can.”

“I am sorry, my love.” Tony takes her hand and gently squeezes it before letting go.

Tony wakes while it’s still dark outside. He listens to the rhythm of Gabriella’s breathing and it almost lulls him back to sleep. He fights off a yawn and slips out of bed. From the closet, he pulls out some clothes and a knapsack he half-filled last night. Once he’s dressed he stands in the doorway of the room and looks at Gabriella. Moonlight shining in the unshuttered windows creates enough of a glow for Tony to see her head and shoulders poking out from under the covers. He watches her inhale and exhale, the line of her shoulders rising then falling. He smiles at the nightly disarray sleep brings to her hair. She will not be happy to see how it looks in the morning.

Tony steps into the hallway and shuts the door behind him so gently the latch closes with a near silent pop.

On his way down the hall, he peers into the children’s bedrooms. He lingers in each doorway as if not trusting himself to enter their rooms without waking them.

Once he’s downstairs Tony grabs a few things from the kitchen, stuffs them into the knapsack and heads for the back door. The hinges on it cooperate and he steps into the backyard without making a sound.

Tony cuts through the yards of the neighbors and emerges onto the street several houses down from the one he woke up in.

In the distance is the glow of red and purple as dawn approaches. Tony watches as the orange ball of the sun peeks over the horizon, rising quickly as if anxious to get the day started.

A car glides by. Tony sticks out his thumb hoping for a ride but not expecting one. The car pulls over.

“Where are you headed?” the driver asks.

“Bus station,” says Tony.

“I can get you close to it, is that okay?”

The car takes off, now with two occupants.

“Where are you headed?” the driver asks.

Tony wonders if he is joking or perhaps playing some kind of Groundhog Day prank.

“On the bus I mean,” the driver clarifies.

“Going North,” Tony lies. Just one of the many lies he knows he’ll have to tell from now on.

The driver nods as if this is the only detail needed to know Tony’s destination.

“Departures North don’t leave for a few hours,” the driver says.

Tony smiles. “That’s okay. I like being early.”

The car rolls through a town of empty streets, the hour, apparently, being too early for activity.

At the edge of town there’s an entrance sign to a four-lane highway. The driver pulls the car to the side of the road and keeps the engine running. He points out the window and says, “You know where you are, right? Bus depot’s two blocks that way.”

Tony nods and thanks the driver.

“Have a good trip,” the driver calls just before Tony closes the door.

At the depot Tony heads for the bus leaving in 47 minutes. A bus headed West. When the bus departs it heads back through town. Only this time town is alive with early risers: joggers, workaholics, and those who cannot ignore their caffeine cravings another minute longer.

Tony moves to a window seat. He stares outside, face almost pressed against the glass, and studies what he sees: the storefronts and their fluttering awnings, the glittering office buildings, the anxious people rushing around at this early hour. He tries to commit it all to memory for he knows if he ever sees this town again it won’t be for a long, long while.