daughter. Her pictures, from newborn to infant, joined his own.
Trying to pile the loose photos together, Snowden noticed a white envelope lying at the bottom. It held a key inside, one
he soon found out worked on the beige safe. The safe had no money in it, just another, older envelope inside.
In the span of time it had taken Snowden to clear out most of the kitchen and what amounted to a large closet, Lester had
cleared out the living room, the bathroom, and was sweeping up the debris from his assault on the master bedroom. Along the
far walls of each room were stacked layers of blank brown boxes, topped by trash bags, plush and shiny and full. It was the
precision of repetition, of muscle memory of countless other jobs like this one. For Lester, this duty seemed to have the
meditative value of pulling a rake through a Japanese rock garden. The only thing that brought him out of the action of moving
the straw broom across the wooden floor was the way Snowden sounded at the door.
"What am I supposed to do with this?" Before him Snowden held out the white envelope like someone had just hit him with it.
The thing was so worn, the paper so dirty, uneven and stiff in his hand, it was like it had been left out in the rain for
an entire season. Lester removed the plum kerchief from his jacket's breast pocket and held the envelope with that by its
corners. When Lester took it from him, Snowden looked relieved to not hold it anymore. Inside, Lester found Polaroids with
their stiff white borders, took them in a stack and let their packaging drop to the floor with the rest of the trash.
The first picture was of a woman naked, leaning back on the couch of the room he'd just cleaned. Even if Lester was attracted
to women, he doubted this one could excite him. You could see the dark brown blotches on her legs, the even darker flesh under
eyes as wide and dead as deviled eggs. Around her skull a legion of hair had reverted to chaos, rioting in neglect. On her
breastbone was the wrinkled line of a pulled-up shirt, at her calves matching crumpled pants, both articles ready to be pulled
back into position as soon as the flash had dimmed. Lester looked at the track marks on the arm, tried to locate the fresh
one. The second photo was of a mother and her infant child, whom she held on her side as she leaned forward to fellate the
cameraman. The third was of a little girl, dressed only in her colorful braids. It took a moment for Lester to recognize her
as the one who'd just peeked out at them from down the hall, the one Snowden had been talking to. What Lester noticed the
most about this photo, as opposed to the ones of her that followed, was that you could clearly see the dollars in her hand,
gripped fiercely in discomfort.
There were at least a dozen more photos, but Lester reached for the dirty envelope on the floor, stuck the contents back inside,
took a roll of packing tape off the bed to seal it up thoroughly before reopening a trash bag along the wall and sticking
it deeply inside.
"Is that all we're going to do?" There was indignation in Snowden's voice, but there was relief too.
"There's nothing else that needs to be done. He's dead now."
"How did he die?"
"He had an accident." Lester picked up his broom and started sweeping again. Snowden needed to sit down. He walked over to
the bare mattress, became nauseous at the sight of it and opted for a bare wall and floor.
"Someone like that, someone like that deserves worse than that."
"I don't know. Apparently, his brakes went out on him on the FDR. From what I hear, it was pretty gruesome. Couldn't stop,
knew he couldn't stop. Speeding to begin with. A lot of sharp turns on that thing, heavy, fast traffic. Very narrow lanes.
Must have made for some pretty scary minutes." Lester's tone was casual, calming. It was like none of the facts present were
new to him.
"You knew about this?"
"What?" The way Lester said it, Snowden
Trying to pile the loose photos together, Snowden noticed a white envelope lying at the bottom. It held a key inside, one
he soon found out worked on the beige safe. The safe had no money in it, just another, older envelope inside.
In the span of time it had taken Snowden to clear out most of the kitchen and what amounted to a large closet, Lester had
cleared out the living room, the bathroom, and was sweeping up the debris from his assault on the master bedroom. Along the
far walls of each room were stacked layers of blank brown boxes, topped by trash bags, plush and shiny and full. It was the
precision of repetition, of muscle memory of countless other jobs like this one. For Lester, this duty seemed to have the
meditative value of pulling a rake through a Japanese rock garden. The only thing that brought him out of the action of moving
the straw broom across the wooden floor was the way Snowden sounded at the door.
"What am I supposed to do with this?" Before him Snowden held out the white envelope like someone had just hit him with it.
The thing was so worn, the paper so dirty, uneven and stiff in his hand, it was like it had been left out in the rain for
an entire season. Lester removed the plum kerchief from his jacket's breast pocket and held the envelope with that by its
corners. When Lester took it from him, Snowden looked relieved to not hold it anymore. Inside, Lester found Polaroids with
their stiff white borders, took them in a stack and let their packaging drop to the floor with the rest of the trash.
The first picture was of a woman naked, leaning back on the couch of the room he'd just cleaned. Even if Lester was attracted
to women, he doubted this one could excite him. You could see the dark brown blotches on her legs, the even darker flesh under
eyes as wide and dead as deviled eggs. Around her skull a legion of hair had reverted to chaos, rioting in neglect. On her
breastbone was the wrinkled line of a pulled-up shirt, at her calves matching crumpled pants, both articles ready to be pulled
back into position as soon as the flash had dimmed. Lester looked at the track marks on the arm, tried to locate the fresh
one. The second photo was of a mother and her infant child, whom she held on her side as she leaned forward to fellate the
cameraman. The third was of a little girl, dressed only in her colorful braids. It took a moment for Lester to recognize her
as the one who'd just peeked out at them from down the hall, the one Snowden had been talking to. What Lester noticed the
most about this photo, as opposed to the ones of her that followed, was that you could clearly see the dollars in her hand,
gripped fiercely in discomfort.
There were at least a dozen more photos, but Lester reached for the dirty envelope on the floor, stuck the contents back inside,
took a roll of packing tape off the bed to seal it up thoroughly before reopening a trash bag along the wall and sticking
it deeply inside.
"Is that all we're going to do?" There was indignation in Snowden's voice, but there was relief too.
"There's nothing else that needs to be done. He's dead now."
"How did he die?"
"He had an accident." Lester picked up his broom and started sweeping again. Snowden needed to sit down. He walked over to
the bare mattress, became nauseous at the sight of it and opted for a bare wall and floor.
"Someone like that, someone like that deserves worse than that."
"I don't know. Apparently, his brakes went out on him on the FDR. From what I hear, it was pretty gruesome. Couldn't stop,
knew he couldn't stop. Speeding to begin with. A lot of sharp turns on that thing, heavy, fast traffic. Very narrow lanes.
Must have made for some pretty scary minutes." Lester's tone was casual, calming. It was like none of the facts present were
new to him.
"You knew about this?"
"What?" The way Lester said it, Snowden
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