Chapter 17 An Apology
An Apology
Margaret finds Joe inside the custodian’s closet readying his cart for the night’s work.
She’s impressed by his organization and preparedness.
A broom for sweeping tucked next to a mop for spills; a vinegar solution stored near cotton rags for window cleaning; an assortment of cleansers and detergents to sanitize bathrooms; a range of sponges, brushes and scrapers in various pockets; a small Shop-Vac; a bucket for assorted chores; even an adjustable wrench and two types of screwdrivers—flathead and Phillips—tucked into their own pockets.
He’s refilling a spray bottle with cleaning solution and turns when he senses her at the door. “Hey, Margaret, what’s up? Come on in.”
The room is small and windowless. There’s a battered metal desk with a computer against one wall (she supposes the college bureaucracy requires him to log every sponge and drop of soap he uses) and, across the way, shelves full of supplies.
Rolls of toilet paper and hand towels, solvents, degreasers.
Margaret opens her mouth, then closes it.
She crosses her arms over her chest, then lets them drop.
She puts her hands on her hips. Not right either.
Why is this so hard?
Finally: “It seems I’ve made a terrible mistake, and I’ve come to rectify it.” She sounds like a fussy Victorian butler.
Joe frowns. “It can’t be that bad, can it?”
“I believe it is.”
“Would a cup of tea help?”
“It might.”
Usually, Margaret has no problem being direct.
In fact, it’s one of the things people complain most about her.
During the annual Fall Founders’ Tea, for instance, the provost’s wife asked if she was enjoying the nice autumn weather and Margaret replied that, actually, it was a worrisome seven degrees above the average temperature for October.
(Apparently, you were supposed to agree, not argue that facts didn’t support a person’s statement.)
“Have a seat,” Joe says, and points to a rolling stool next to the desk.
Margaret does.
The fluorescent light in the ceiling hums and flickers. The custodian’s scar looks shiny and hard in the harsh brightness. He pours and hands her a mug of his tea, then turns a tall plastic bucket upside down. He plants himself on top of it.
“Whenever you’re ready.”
Margaret takes a gulp of tea, then another.
Just say it, she orders herself.
She begins by telling him about not finding any radioactive traces in Dr. Deaver’s office and going to Zhang’s house and overhearing what he’d said about his mother, then about the marijuana chocolates.
He nods as she talks and it’s as if a floodgate opens.
She finds herself telling him about Blackstone and his threats, about the dean and the lie of collaboration, about Dr. Deaver’s divorce petition and the canceled funeral.
She even tells him about the wolfsbane in the hallway.
“I thought it was some kind of warning at first, but now I think it’s probably just some student who made a mistake.
Dr. Deaver inspired a lot of amateur botany, which can be dangerous in the wrong hands.
Take poison hemlock, for instance, which is easy to mistake for wild carrot.
You must look for small purple dots on the stem, which differentiate hemlock from the carrot.
Some people call those dots the Blood of Socrates because it’s believed Socrates died from drinking a hemlock extract, although Plato’s account of his demise is not clinically accurate. ”
Margaret knows she is going on. She’s been accused of that by others.
Keith will often interrupt her, saying he doesn’t need all the detail she is providing, but aren’t details important in life?
Don’t they lead to greater efficiency and fewer misunderstandings?
Unlike Keith and other generalists, Joe sits quietly and absorbs every word.
“That’s it,” she concludes.
“I think you need to be careful, Margaret,” he says.
Her heart drops. Another person telling her to stop her sleuthing.
Instead, he says, “It sounds to me like your questions have touched a nerve. You’re making someone very anxious, anxious enough to threaten you.
Not in a way that would be obvious to anyone else but is a clear warning to someone like you.
” He pauses. “Have there been any notes, any threatening emails?”
Margaret shakes her head.
“Any unexpected visitors to the lab? Anything disturbed? Did you take a photo of the wolfsbane?”
Margaret finds herself flushing. “Nothing. When I saw the aconite, I ran to the basement and put it in the autoclave. It’s been destroyed. I wasn’t thinking straight, I guess.”
He waves a hand. “Those things happen. Once, I got so excited about an interview where this guy admitted to helping an Army colonel smuggle heroin out of Afghanistan in body bags, I accidentally erased the whole recording.”
“You were…?” Margaret asks.
“A journalist. The Associated Press, mostly. Some freelance magazine stuff here and there.”
“And now you work here?”
“It’s a long story, but yes.”
“But why would you give up journalism to clean toilets? I mean, there’s nothing wrong with cleaning toilets. It’s just…”
Margaret stops.
“Let’s just say I wanted a job where I didn’t have to think and where the consequences weren’t so high.
Plus, I like the fact that I can see what I’ve done at the end of a shift.
There’s the empty trash can that used to be full.
There’s the shiny floor that used to be covered in muddy footprints.
There’s the clean sink. It’s more than I got with reporting sometimes. ”
Margaret wants to ask him more, like how he got his scar and what consequences he was referring to, but even she knows that’s not appropriate.
“Well, I should get going,” she says.
“Yeah, me too. Apparently, there’s been an incident in the second-floor men’s bathroom.”
“You’re a good listener,” she says.
“Thanks. It’s what happens when you’re a reporter. Ten thousand hours and all that.” A reference to the theory that ten thousand hours is what it takes to become an expert at something.
He stands. “Maybe you should report this stuff to the county sheriff.”
“Do you think anyone would believe me?” She tells him about Bianchi and the rejected toxicology request.
He considers. “Probably not, then. You need more proof, I think.”
“Which is what I aim to find.”
“Just be careful,” Joe says. “Don’t let people know what you’re doing until it’s time to confront.
Make copies of whatever you find, record conversations and take photos if you can.
And call me if you need anything or if you want to talk war-game strategy.
I’m always around. Let me give you my number. ”
“Thank you,” Margaret says.
“Meanwhile, I’ll keep my eyes and ears open. It turns out custodians are pretty invisible. People say things, leave papers out.” He shrugs. “Who knows?”
A warmth fills Margaret. Somebody believes her.
“I’ll keep you posted,” she says.
“You do that.”
“I don’t even know your last name.” She stands. “For my phone,” she amends, although that’s not exactly true.
“It’s Torres. Joe Torres.”
She repeats the name once, then twice as she walks to her car.
Once home, Margaret showers and changes into her house clothes.
It’s cheese-omelet night and she eats it with a piece of plain wheat toast and some steamed broccoli.
She thinks of the missed dinner at Applebee’s and of what seems like Keith’s persistent unhappiness.
Why has she allowed these meals to continue?
Where did she expect they would lead? To marriage?
Certainly not. Besides, she is already married. To science.
Dinner conversation doesn’t compare to the feeling of discovering something that no one else knows.
Sharing a house is not equal to contributing even a small piece to the wealth of human knowledge.
Generation after generation building on what the one before it has found.
She doesn’t need companionship for that.
She doesn’t need someone to sit next to her on the couch to read or share chores or join her in bed.
She will thank Keith for being a faithful dining companion but will tell him there will be no more Applebee’s nights. She checks her watch: eight twenty-one. Not too late.
She phones Keith, who answers smartly on the third ring, “Keith Wilson speaking.” His precision is something she’d appreciated about him.
When she tells Keith she can no longer meet him for Applebee’s dinners and explains that she doesn’t want to waste his time because her career will always come first, his tone changes.
“You know,” he snaps, “I looked past your horsey face because you seemed semi-intelligent, but I doubt others will. Beggars can’t be choosers.”
Margaret had always attributed Keith’s slightly mean streak to late-afternoon low blood sugar, and although he might be correct about her resemblance to a horse (he’s not the only person who’s mentioned this), his unkindness makes her realize that their weekly meetings were born more from his need to feel superior than from companionship.
His bosses may have slighted him and his clients may have complained, but she was the dog he found to kick.
“I am no beggar, Keith,” she says.
“And I will have no trouble finding someone else to dine with. Goodbye,” he says.
Margaret locates her notebook:
March 19, 9:20 a.m. Zhang eliminated as suspect after announcing new business venture (cannabinoid chocolates). Possible new suspect, Veronica Ann Deaver after JMD filed divorce petition. Chemistry background? Key to his office? No funeral planned.
March 19, 5:40 p.m. Biochemistry prof. Dr. Rachel Sterling seen leaving grief counselor. Appeared upset.
March 19, 6:10 p.m. Joe/custodian offers help in investigation. Real name Joe Torres. Former journalist.
March 19, 8:21 p.m. Canceled future dinners with Keith Wilson. Relieved.
It’s been an eventful day.