6. Nimble
nimble
Nimble peeled off his leather jacket and flannel shirt and put them on the back of a wooden chair to dry a bit, then unlaced his ratty boots and worked his feet out of his wet socks. He was going to do everything he’d said he would, but first, that shower.
The last time Nimble remembered being wet all over was at the end of the previous summer, when the three of them had gotten off one freight train and headed across the rail yard to catch another.
Along the way, Blue had spotted a small motel next to the yard and someone coming out of one of the rooms to go to their car.
Blue had nudged Nimble, who looked at Star, who nodded. The room was at the back of the motel; the door was wide open, and it was the perfect opportunity.
Forgoing the train, the three of them trotted over and piled into the room, put the Do Not Disturb sign out, closed the door and locked it, and argued over who would get to take the first shower.
They did rock-paper-scissors, but then, because Nimble was sure Blue was cheating—even though Star insisted that you couldn’t cheat at rock-paper-scissors—they drew matchsticks.
Blue still won, but what did it matter? The hot water at a motel was always endless, and as Star flicked through the channels on the TV, Nimble took a snooze on the rumpled bed while waiting for his turn.
The motel was so run-down that nobody noticed how long they stayed in that room.
By the time they left, they were sparkling clean inside their grubby clothes.
They removed the sign and closed the door carefully behind them before making their way up the trash-flecked slope back to the rail yard, there to jump the next train on their way to anywhere.
Nimble remembered it being a warm, sunny day, the breeze delicious against his clean skin.
That had been a one in a million chance.
Typically, they cleaned themselves using bandannas for washcloths or coffee cups of rainwater—or spit.
He’d learned to shave dry with used plastic razors he found in the trash, learned to build a fire in a bucket on a moving train, learned to do without.
Which was why this shower was going to be absolutely fucking amazing.
Barefoot, damp hems slapping against his ankles, he padded down the semi-dark passage from the kitchen to the bathroom.
It was as wide as the kitchen, with white tiles around the sink and shower and white-painted walls, and dusty from disuse.
Along the left side were an old stacked washer and dryer and a floor-to-ceiling shelf that held tons of stuff: towels, washcloths, a rubber shower mat with suction cups all rolled up and ready for use.
There were bars of soap, cleanser, sponges, laundry detergent. And—yes!—disposable razors and two ancient-looking cans of shaving cream.
After enjoying a long, satisfying pee in the white toilet, Nimble took a razor and a can of shaving cream to the pedestal sink and pulled the chain to turn on the square light above the mirror.
He was going to let Morgan sleep off his meds, and he was going to enjoy every single damn minute of this: his first time in a real bathroom, in a real home, in a long, long time.
Hopefully, the hot water would hold out long enough for him to live it up.
He wanted to shave real close and scrub every bit of train off him, and maybe there’d be an old jar of aftershave somewhere when he was done.
Smiling at his reflection in the mirror, he quickly washed his face, then sprayed the foam into his hand and lathered himself up until he looked like a dark-haired Norwegian gnome.
Then, running the hot water a bit at a time to rinse away the foam and hair, he shaved, revealing stripe after stripe of pink-white skin, scraping away the old to reveal newness beneath.
By the time he was done, one cheek felt a little raw, as though he’d shaved too vigorously, but that was okay. He’d not realized how much he’d missed bits of civilization like this. Back home, he’d not thought twice about shaving or how nice hot water was.
He flicked a glance at himself, noting the mess of his dark hair and the grime around his eyes and across his forehead. Now, in contrast to the clean scent of the foam, he ducked his head to smell his T-shirt, his skin.
Yes, he smelled like diesel fuel and locomotive engine oil. He needed to wash the train off him before he made dinner so Morgan, when he woke up, wouldn’t get irritated all over again.
The large, square-bottomed shower with its plain, pale gray curtain pulled to the side and tucked behind a black iron hook beckoned to him. But first, something to change into after he was clean.
Morgan had said he could go into the bedroom to get clothes to borrow, and Nimble did, tiptoeing as he went along the passage and leaned into the open doorway, fumbling for the light.
The bedroom was as large as the bathroom and the kitchen combined, a vast echoing space with a ceiling fan and a long closet that took up almost the whole wall on his right.
Across the room, on the far wall on either side of a large window, were a bookcase full of books and a tall dresser with a mirror on top.
The queen bed was on his left, with a small wooden nightstand on each side.
As Morgan had indicated, his suitcases were open, both of them, in front of the sliding doors of the closet.
They spilled over with Morgan’s belongings and, along with one half of the bed, were the only things in the room that weren’t coated with dust. Even the paint, a pale blue, looked faded, as if it had wasted away since its owner had died.
Feeling as though the sheriff was about to bust in on him any minute, Nimble searched gingerly through the first suitcase, which contained a black suit, shiny shoes, and a rumpled dark blue tie, among other things.
In the second suitcase he found a pile of gray sweatpants, white T-shirts, practical briefs, and an unopened package of white socks. It was as if Morgan, coming to deal with his aunt’s estate, couldn’t put his heart into it, so he’d left his belongings on the floor like a half-done project.
Shaking off that image, Nimble grabbed a pair of sweatpants and pulled a T-shirt from the already-opened packet.
He debated grabbing briefs and socks but decided against it.
Too much. Too intimate. After his shower, he could put his clothes in the washer and dryer. Until then, he was going commando.
Now the shower. He turned the chrome knob and experimented a bit until he got a hot, powerful flow going. Then he stripped off his grubby, train-scented clothes and, with a sigh, stepped beneath the spray.
Water pounded his head, and steam roiled in front of his eyes.
He was hot and wet all over, such a good feeling that he could have stayed there for the rest of his life.
He took his time and fully enjoyed the fruit-scented shampoo and the clean, soft washcloth he used to apply the Castile soap all over.
He deserved to be clean and warm and, maybe, just a little bit safer than he’d felt in a long time.
By the time he used the matching conditioner in his hair, he was almost purring.
Still, he didn’t know how long Morgan would be out, so he hustled through rinsing off and pulled on his borrowed clothes before he was properly dry.
His hair dripped onto his T-shirt, beads of water snaking their way down his back as he stuffed his own clothes into the washer, then raced quietly to get his flannel shirt to add to the crumpled mess.
Feeling very domestic, he measured out powdered detergent, deciphered the old-fashioned dials on the simple machine, and stepped back as it hummed to life. Now he smelled like fruit, and his clothes would smell like Tide. He was all set.
He would put away the groceries, check back on the progress of his clothes at some point, and find that aftershave. Then he’d be ready to make dinner. On a stove. Using real pots and wooden spoons. And eat at a real dining table. All of which would be a real treat.
Smiling, Nimble hustled toward the yellow-and-white kitchen.