Ex-Purgatory: A Novel Part 2

GEORGE WIGGLED HIS fingers and settled his glove a little better on his hand. He reached up and grabbed the curved piece of gla.s.s. It was stuck in the frame of the big wall-to-ceiling window. The jagged point at the end made it look vaguely like an Arabian sword, one of the ones from the old Sinbad movies. A scythe? A scimitar. It was like a gla.s.s scimitar was buried in the frame.

Half the window had broken away. A collection of other gla.s.s swords and spikes hung in the window frame now, each a foot or two long. George had been doing this job long enough to know some kid-young adult-would end up stepping through the opening in the rush of moving day. And once one of them did, it would become a new doorway. At least, until someone got cut. Or worse. So his first priority was getting all the gla.s.s out of the frame.

He'd set up a few cones and signs from the dorm's supply closet and leaned a broom across them as a low barrier, but there were just too many people for it to do anything. A few hundred students were trying to move into the building, and most of them had at least one other person helping. There were close to a dozen bodies within five feet of his ladder at that moment.

The half-dozen shards on the ground had been easy. Now George was balanced on the ladder. He tried to lever the piece of gla.s.s away from the frame without breaking it or slashing up his gloves. Or his hands.

He pushed down on the shard's edge and felt the gla.s.s resist. The weight of his arms settled on it, then he added his shoulders. It was slow work, but rushing it would just break the gla.s.s and make a mess.

The sword-like shard tilted and slid free from the rubbery seal. George imagined it felt a lot like pulling someone out of quicksand-a slow, hesitant release. He got one hand under the two-foot piece of gla.s.s. His feet shifted on the ladder to keep his balance. The sword came away in his hands and he worked his way down the ladder.

George set the shard in the trash can at the base of his ladder. As he did, someone walked by and tossed a Taco Bell cup into the container. The paper cup popped open. Ice clattered and clicked down the gla.s.s.

He sighed and headed back up the ladder. The next piece was broad, stretching across the top of the frame. It probably weighed close to six or seven pounds. It also had a crack in it, which meant it would break apart when he tried to lever it out. The wide shard reminded him of a guillotine blade, waiting to drop. It would've been the first to go, but he'd needed to work out some of the big pieces around it.

He got one hand and part of his arm under the bulk of it and put pressure on the other side. That way, if it popped out or shattered, most of it should go away from the door, at least. The blade of gla.s.s resisted for a moment, then eased out of the frame.

"Hey, George," called Mark. "How they hanging, big man?" He dropped the sheet of plywood he'd been lugging and let it crash against the ladder. The fibergla.s.s legs wobbled and tipped, just for a second. George shifted his weight. His arms tensed.

The shard snapped with a bang. George heard the zip of fabric coming apart and felt the cold gla.s.s slide along his forearm. The first thought in his head was all the morbid tips he'd heard about the "right" way to slit your wrists, going up and down instead of side to side. The huge blade whisked down across his thigh and cut off the thought.

Half of the guillotine shattered on the pavement, turning into crystal confetti that pitter-pattered across the ground. The second half hit a beat later, slowed by its pa.s.sage through George's uniform, and added to the hail of gla.s.s. People shrieked. Mark grunted in surprise. George bit back a swear and grabbed at his arm.

"Job opening," cackled one student.

"Jesus, guy," shouted an older man. "There's kids all around here."

"Be careful, for Christ's sake!"

"Sorry," said George. "Everyone okay? n.o.body hurt?"

A few more parents muttered at him. He shot Mark a look and hopped off the ladder. "What the h.e.l.l?" he growled.

The other man looked at him, baffled. "What?"

George shook his head at the plywood. "What were you thinking?"

Mark had been an athlete in high school and college. He was one of those people who'd never quite outgrown the jock mind-set of "the quarterback can do no wrong." He looked from the plywood to George, then to the ladder, and then to the gla.s.s-covered ground. "Are you saying this is my fault?"

"You threw a sheet of plywood against the ladder I was working on."

"It's not my fault you're a wuss who freaks out three feet up in the air," said Mark. He grabbed the broom. "At least man up and admit you made a mistake. You're just lucky n.o.body got hurt."

"Yeah, well-" The sensation of the gla.s.s blade sliding down his arm and across his thigh echoed in George's mind. He felt the cool draft inside his d.i.c.kies. His pulse quickened and he glanced down.

The pants were open across his thigh, just below where the pocket ended. He could see skin and leg hair. But no blood. He'd been lucky.

He held up his arm. The shirt sleeve was slashed open from his elbow all the way to his wrist. It was a smooth cut. Like his pants, the fabric of the shirt had parted between threads without a single hitch or pull. Even the cuff of his glove was cut. The blade of gla.s.s had gone right through the doubled-over canvas hem. He'd written his name on the cuffs ages ago, and the cut went right through the A in BAILEY.

His forearm wasn't even scratched. No blood at all. He flexed his fingers and they moved in the glove without any trouble.

George wiggled his fingers again. He'd had cuts that were so clean they were almost invisible. They'd stay shut for a few moments before opening up and gushing blood. He made a fist, squeezed it, and hoped his wrist wouldn't fall apart.

Nothing. And it had been three minutes since the gla.s.s had fallen. He poked at his forearm with his other hand and stretched the skin back and forth. Then he poked at his thigh.

"d.a.m.n lucky," he said aloud.

Mark glanced up from his half-a.s.sed sweeping. "Eh?"

George held his arm a little higher and flapped the edge of the cut.

Mark looked at the sleeve for a moment. Then his eyes bugged. "f.u.c.king h.e.l.l," he said. It got a couple of angry looks from parents. "You're d.a.m.ned lucky."

"I know."

"Another quarter inch and I'd be using a mop right now instead of a broom."

"I'd like to think you'd be using the truck to get me over to the Med Center."

"Yeah, well, okay. But then I'd be mopping you up."

George squeezed his hand into a fist again, but his forearm remained whole. The memory of the gla.s.s on his skin was so vivid, he was sure it had cut him. Maybe it had just been panic, like Mark said.

He shook his head and rolled the sleeve up. "Come on," he said. "Let's pull the last of this stuff and get the board up."

"Why don't you just knock it out with a hammer or something?"

George waved his hand at the crowd in the lobby and brought it back to the door. "Because I don't want to put a piece of gla.s.s in someone's eye on their first day back."

"Oh," said Mark. "Right."

They boarded up the window and Jarvis had new a.s.signments for each of them. Mark had the truck, so he headed off to the far side of campus to deal with a blown fuse in another dorm. George had to go check on an abandoned couch in the middle of one of the parking lots. Day one and people were already abandoning furniture.

He found the couch right where it was supposed to be. He'd half hoped in the fifteen minutes it took him to get there some frustrated undergrad or parent would do the job for him. No such luck.

The threadbare piece of furniture had to be at least twenty years old. George understood why it had been abandoned. It was so ratty Goodwill wouldn't touch it. It sat kitty-corner along the dividing line of two s.p.a.ces. One end was far enough out to make a third s.p.a.ce awkward to use. As he walked up, one car proved that fact with an impressive seven-point turn.

"Who the h.e.l.l brings a couch to college?" he muttered. He looked at the dumpster, sitting fifty yards away at the far end of the parking lot.

He gave the couch a tug and found out why no one had moved it. It had a foldaway bed, complete with steel frame, springs, and extra mattress. On a guess, it weighed three or four hundred pounds.

George had a few more thoughts about the couch's former owner as he yanked the cushions off and walked them to the dumpster. It was only a couple of pounds, but he figured every bit would help. He set them in the gra.s.s next to the steel bin on the off chance someone came running out to claim ownership before he threw the whole thing away.

The couch was still unclaimed when he got back to it. He sighed, bent his knees, and heaved one end up. It wasn't as heavy as he'd first thought. It went up on one end with no problem. He looked at the metal framework between the legs and wondered if maybe it was aluminum rather than steel.

A sedan beeped at him. The driver, an Asian man, gestured at the still-inaccessible s.p.a.ce. "Can you get that out of the way," he called out to George, "so we can park?" The teenage pa.s.senger looked mortified. She winced and mouthed an apology through her window.

"Sorry," George said. "Just a second."

He decided to risk trying to lift the couch to his shoulder. It felt pretty light, and it was far enough away from the parked cars he was pretty sure he'd miss them if he had to drop it. He gave the upright couch a tug, knelt, and caught it on his shoulder. His arms wrapped around it and lifted.

The couch came off the ground. It wobbled on his shoulder for a moment and he steadied it with his hands. He took a few steps and it didn't tip. His back didn't twinge, either. He'd caught it at that perfect balance point where it seemed to weigh nothing. He turned until the dumpster came into his field of view, then started across the parking lot.

When he reached the dumpster he let the couch settle forward until one end sat on the rim. He worked his way backward, trying not to tear his shirt on the metal frame, until he had the other end in his hands. He heaved again. Gravity grabbed the couch and flipped it into the dumpster with a loud clang.

Slow applause broke out behind him. George turned and saw Nick leaning against his BMW. His friend was still wearing office clothes. The Beemer was parked in the center of the lot, blocking at least half a dozen cars.

"Very impressive," said Nick. He clapped a few more times, but his head was turned back to watch the young Asian woman unloading the backseat of the sedan.

"Don't ogle the students," said George.

"I'm not ogling," said Nick, "I'm appreciating. Look at those legs. I'm betting swimmer or gymnast."

Nick was two inches shorter than George, but made up for it with att.i.tude. His dark hair was spiked out and his eyes were hidden behind a pair of sungla.s.ses that probably cost more than George made in a week.

"So what brings you to campus?"

"I know I'm not supposed to be here," said Nick, "but I needed to talk to you. I need a favor."

"And you drove over here rather than called because ...?"

"It's a face-to-face, look-you-in-the-eyes kind of favor."

"Great," said George. "Take the gla.s.ses off."

"Hah. Hah," said Nick. A bad blood transfusion a few years back had left his eyes sensitive to light. He never took his sungla.s.ses off outside, and rarely inside. "Coldplay at the Bowl next Thursday."

"It sold out, didn't it?"

"Yes it did. And my boss got a set of complimentary tickets this morning and doesn't want them, so-score. I'm taking Nita and you need to be my wingman because her college roommate's in town."

"Which one's Nita?"

"The publicist." Even as he said it, Nick glanced over his shoulder again. The young woman was walking across the lot with a swollen backpack over one shoulder and a suitcase in either hand. "d.a.m.n, she is really cute."

"Focus."

"Fine." The dark gla.s.ses turned back to George.

"So that's it? You need a wingman?"

"Yeah."

"What's the catch?"

"I'm asking you to spend the night with a woman you have absolutely no chance with so I can spend the night with a woman I have a pretty good chance with."

George frowned. "That far out of my league?"

"More like you're that far out of her circles of interest."

"So you're setting me up with a lesbian?"

Nick shook his head. "I'm not setting you up because we're all acknowledging there's no chance of anything happening. I'm just asking you to keep a third wheel occupied."

George smiled and shook his head. "Are you buying drinks?"

"I got the tickets."

"Someone gave you the tickets. And don't you want to impress Nita the publicist with what a generous, high-powered agent you are?"

"That's not how I'm hoping to impress her," said Nick. "Fine, I've got you covered, don't worry about it. You in?"

George drummed his fingers on his thigh. "Yeah, sure."

Nick smiled and pulled out his phone. "Excellent. I'll lock things down with her right now."

"Hey," called a man. He stood by one of the cars Nick's Beemer was blocking. "D'you mind moving?"

Nick gave the man a quick wave and opened his door. "Talk more later," he said to George. "You want to meet up tomorrow night? Grab a drink or three?"

"Maybe." His Nextel chirped and he pulled it off his belt. He and Nick saluted each other with their phones.

The Nextel chirped again. "You there, George?"

George waved good-bye and the Beemer pulled out of the lot. "Yeah, what's up, Jarvis?"

"You need any help with that couch?"

"Nah, no problem."

"Get yourself back here, then. I need you to sign your timecard."

George checked the time on the phone. Half an hour until quitting time, and if Jarvis was calling him back to the office there wasn't anything left to do. Nothing that could be done in half an hour, anyway.

As he walked across campus he debated telling Jarvis about the falling gla.s.s. He didn't want to lose a day with an unnecessary doctor's visit. On the other hand, he knew a couple of people who'd held off mentioning injuries they thought were minor only to get a ha.s.sle from workers' comp later when they turned out to be serious.

Of course, as far as he could tell, the big blade of gla.s.s hadn't left any injuries, minor or otherwise.

George slipped past two families chattering away about cla.s.ses and dorm life. Someone was already blasting music out of a window. A young man whipped past him on a bicycle.

He'd have to mention the shirtsleeve. It was too slashed up for a quick fix. He'd have to replace it. That would give him a chance to get the incident on record without actively claiming an injury.

A crowd of people approached. At least two or three families. They had the absent, flitting expressions of people trying to take in a lot of details while not really paying attention.

George stepped off the concrete path to go around them. If he picked up the pace he could be back in the office in under ten minutes. There was a slim chance Jarvis would even let him punch out early.