The Ache

Prologue

It had started with the funny feeling in her belly. 

There was a day, not too long ago, when she was just Sheila Goolsby, and her belly didn’t ache, and she weighed not much more than Tad, her husband, who was overweight but not so much overweight as Brady Berg down the street or Justice Cunningham on the news.  

And then the funny feeling came, sometime in April, when her mums started to bloom, and the sun began to linger longer in the sky, back when she’d made the season's first batch of lemonade with ginger, the way her mother used to make it. 

It had started as a tickle somewhere down past her stomach, where she thought her digestive tract probably was. She hadn't thought about it in a serious way because to do that would worry her, and it would worry Tad and if she went to a doctor, he might have told her there was something wrong. 

And Sheila didn't want there to be something wrong because she hadn't yet come to terms with the fact that she was old. Oh yes, the discounts were nice and the young men who offered to walk her across the street were nice, and it was nice that she didn’t have to work anymore. But really it wasn’t nice to be old because when you’re old, you start to worry that every headache is a stroke and every stomachache is bound to be cancer and if you fell and broke a hip it probably wouldn’t heal, and you’d have taken your last step without a cane or a walker or a grumpy nurse yelling at you to move it or lose it.  

So, early on, she hadn’t said a word.

But by May the funny feeling had turned into a raging itch, and she told Tad. Tad had called a very hairy, smart-looking doctor who had put her on a diet and said he was looking into it because he had never heard of someone's stomach itching before. 

The doctor was Shane Sharpe from Dallas, and he told her to eat fruits and vegetables and lean meats like veal and pork and certain kinds of fish. She had tried to stick to the diet. But the itch did not go away. The itch persisted, no matter what Doctor Sharpe did.  

By the Fourth of July, the itch had grown to an ache. And under the fireworks, between the cracks and booms and applause and the bright-and-pretty lights, the ache had spoken to her and told her just what might make it go away. 

1.

The first day of August was a scorcher, and the town of Auburn was woefully unprepared. Gutters sat dry and gleaming in the low sun. Flowers drooped, betrayed by a cloudless sky. Air conditioners sagged out of cracked wooden sills, fans whirring, dripping steadily onto thirsty, dead earth.  

It was hot. Hot everywhere, in the shade and in the swimming pools and even in the Glick Community Center, which was supposed to be Auburn’s designated “cool spot”. 

Even worse, it was hot in Strawberry Pint, Auburn's only ice cream shop. Brady Berg, the proud owner of the Pint, had closed the shop yesterday, for the first time in his life, hanging the “RAN OUT” sign on the shop's strawberry pink door.  

By ten o'clock, the asphalt began to squish under tire and boot. By eleven o’clock the metal signposts on Darby Street began to warp and list sideways. By noon the power lines hung like strings of freshly pulled licorice, stretching and drooping and looking ready to drip. 

Liquid mercury shimmered inside the glass thermostat hammered to the old oak doors of Saint Thomas church. When Reverend Kieran approached it, shaded his eyes, and stooped to look, it showed him that the day had reached one-hundred and seven degrees. With a sour squint to the sky, the old reverend sulked back into the church, wishing the collection box held enough to buy an air conditioner or even a revolving fan.  

Soccer balls sat bulging in yellow grass. Bikes lay tipped against mailboxes.  Yo-yos gleamed wickedly in the noontime sun, strings limp, longing for the shade of a blue jean pocket. It seemed the children of Auburn had left the heat of the outdoors for the coolness of drawn curtains and conditioned air.  

Well, all but one. 

The exception came in the lanky, rail-thin, tottering form of Todd Decker, who at half past noon set down Lorrie Street with a pail clanging at his hip and a mop hopping atop his shoulder, looking very much like he needed a glass of cold water. 

Sweat dribbled down his face and plunked sporadically to his collarbone. His shoes, beat-up Nike sneaks, squelched with each step. He was soaked all over, slick with soap scum, and caked in filth. His overalls were stiff with salt and cinched at his waist with a homemade, hole-punched belt. They chafed against him as he walked, and to subdue the pain he walked with his legs wide, knees locked, looking very much like a penguin who had somewhere taken a very wrong turn. 

On top of the heat, his knee was beginning to hurt, having earlier banged it badly against his pail. The pail, made of rusted aluminum, held sponges, cleaner, a bottle of water, and a half-eaten peanut butter sandwich on wheat. 

He shambled towards the willow tree at the corner of Lorrie and Alice, wincing all the way, muttering at each clang of the pail against his thigh.  

When the shade touched him, he staggered, spilled the pail from his hand, shrugged the mop from his shoulder, and sprawled face-first into the cool grass. His body sunk into the earth and stuck there. 

It wasn't long before he thought of his half-eaten sandwich. And it wasn’t long after he thought of his half-eaten sandwich that he stirred, crawled to the trunk of the tree, and slumped against the bark to finish what he had started.

As he ate, he pondered the day.  

Three houses cleaned. One car polished. One attic cleared. All this had put two-hundred and thirty dollars into his pocket.

He washed a gooey bite down with a swig of warm water and grimaced. There was just the Goolsby place left. Through the weeping branches of the willow tree, he could just barely spy it. The house sat quite a way down Darby Street and to Todd looked tiny against the woods behind it, which were dense and dark.

“Todd?”

Mary Anne Darcy of Mount Pleasant Street approached him, her little poodle Beauty Bea in tow, a playful smile sat on her ruby-red lips. The two had been classmates the year prior and were friends. Not great friends, or even good friends, but friends.  

“What’re you doing out here?” she asked, standing over him. 

Todd offered her a peanut-buttery grin, “Enjoyin' the heat, aren't you?” 

“God, no. Little Bea's been panting all day, and I'm fixin' to join her soon long it stays this hot! Whatcha doin' with this stuff?” she asked, poking his mop with the toe of her sneaker.  

“Just cleanin',” Todd said. He brushed the crumbs from his hands and shakily rose to his feet.  

“God, you need to quit!” she laughed, “How long you gonna stay out here?”

Todd bent to retrieve his mop and pail.  

“Just got the Goolsby house left.” 

“The Goolsby house? Todd! Uh-uh,” she said, shaking her head back and forth, lips pursed, blonde hair bobbing. Beauty Bea whined and tugged at her leash, but Mary Anne stood fast.  

“Todd,” she said and dropped her voice to a whisper, “They're weird, aren't they? I heard they were so strange. I heard...” she trailed off.  Todd stood patiently as Mary Anne shot a glance over each shoulder. Then she stamped her foot. 

“I heard they were swingers!” 

Todd laughed and set his mop against his shoulder.  

Mary Anne pouted.  

“They asked me to clean, Mary Anne. I doubt they're lookin' for any funny business. Not from me!” Todd said.  

Beauty Bea barked and tugged again at her leash. 

This time, Mary Anne allowed herself a step back towards the road.  “Well don't say I didn't warn you, Mr. Decker. It's a fine day to ditch a chore.  A fine day, indeed!” 

With that, she turned, throwing her hair back over her shoulder, and met Beauty Bea on the sidewalk.  

“Bye, Mary Anne,” Todd said, grinning, “Bye, Beauty Bea.” 

“Bye, Todd,” she said without turning, “Don't let them talk you into anything.” 

“I won't.” 

With that, he set off towards the Goolsby house.  

2.

A dead moth hung off the Goolsbys’ knocker, looking beautiful and delicate in the noontime sun. Todd flicked it aside before rapping politely on the old wooden door. He listened and heard nothing. 

After a minute, he squinted through the doorside window. He could just barely make out a bare foyer. Beyond it sat a staircase, and on that staircase a dog leash and collar. A pair of dirty sandals were beside the leash. Todd rapped the knocker again, harder this time.  

“Mr. and Mrs. Goolsby? It's Todd Decker! Here to clean your house?” Todd put his ear to the door. He could faintly hear the sound of heavy footsteps ascending on wood, growing louder. Then he heard a door slam. Then clunking steps came, soft, then loud, and then right behind the door.

CHUNK. 

The lock turned, and the door squealed open to reveal Tad Goolsby.

Having introduced himself over the phone, Todd was taken aback by the man’s appearance and even more so by his odor, which was so assaulting he had to stiffen his knees against the sudden instinct to take many steps backward, and quickly. 

“Afternoon,” Mr. Goolsby grumbled, sponging his face with a polka-dot handkerchief.

“Um, hello,” Todd replied. 

They shook hands. Todd was struck by Mr. Goolsby's grip, which was strong, despite his stature. Mr. Goolsby was short and round, but not round in the way people ought to be or usually were. He was round just around the belly, sharp everywhere else, with a beak of a nose and a collarbone that stood out farther than any Todd had ever seen. His grin was chock-full of yellow teeth and sunken into a face that was squished like a bulldog's, red, and lumpy. A few tufts of unkempt white hair stuck out from his scalp. 

He wore nothing save for an aging pair of jeans, which bulged under his potbelly so that the brass button holding it all together looked like it was about ready to pop off and fly into the stratosphere. 

On top of it all, Tad Goolsby looked and smelled like he hadn't had a bath since Christmas. 

“Sure is hot out there.” Mr. Goolsby said, squinting past Todd into the light of the day. 

“Sure is,” Todd agreed.  

Mr. Goolsby's eyes dropped to Todd's torso, then to his legs, and then to his shoes. 

“Skinnier than I thought you'd be.” Mr. Goolsby said, frowning. He looked up to Todd and waved a gnarled hand.  

“Well, come on in,” Mr. Goolsby muttered.

He stepped back into the foyer, so only the crooked tip of his nose protruded into the light. “Only gettin' hotter out there.” 

Todd obliged, stepping past Mr. Goolsby into the foyer.  

“I'm thin, but I'm a hard worker if that's what you mean,” he said, and added, “An' I can fit in nooks and crannies. I was just over at Mister Dalrumple's place and---” 

Mr. Goolsby waved his hand dismissively and said, “Set yer stuff down wherever.”  

Todd did as he was asked. When he straightened, he was hit with a stench so bad it burned his nostrils and caused his eyes to water. He coughed.

“Don’t mind the smell,” Mr. Goolsby said, “Sumthin t’ get used to.” 

Todd did mind the smell. He minded it very much. Memories of last July swam in his head. There’d been a storm, and the power had gone out for days. The Deckers had been out helping the townwide clean up, and they didn’t empty the fridge and when they came back, there had been that same smell and what was it Todd couldn’t quite place it--