The last time I was in this spot, Jeff, my manager, woke me up from a fitful sleep and sent me, jobless, into the bitter January cold. Ironically, he fired me for sleeping on a mattress – but the fact is, as he said, my job was to sell the mattress, not use it. Had I access to a shower during the five nights I spent in the Mattress Emporium showroom, perhaps he would have been more tolerant. If I had woken up before he arrived at 6:15 AM, I would have been just fine. But as it stands now, I’m by this same mattress, I’m working again, Jeff is no longer employed here. And the Mattress Emporium is closing in six days.
The store as it stands now doesn’t look so different than when it was just marginally underwater, financially speaking. Come to think of it, that’s probably a good indicator of why it’s closing. There’s still rows of dusty mattresses on display, with headboards plastered with cartoon sheep and raving online reviews. The exposed ceiling and the dingy, nauseating fluorescent lights are still the first thing a customer sees when they walk through the creaky automatic doors. All that I see that’s different is the walls are now covered with posters for the GOING OUT OF BUSINESS BONANZA!. It’s 9:45, and the store is pretty well empty of both customers and employees, which seems normal. Jeff, in his fury, forgot to take my key when I left. I planned to use it to get back into the store some morning, back to my mattress, a Softa SleepTech model I marked with a red “X” in Sharpie. But the last thing I needed was a breaking and entering charge, and I’ve learned the hard way that there’s always a police car right around this intersection. Here I am, though, five months later. I just didn’t expect being hired back to be part of the plan.
I pat the top of the mattress, and it’s still firm and full, like I left it. For all the time this floor model has been here, I can still feel its patented EverCool™ foam technology. It’s a welcome chill on this hot summer morning. I look around again, even though I’m pretty sure no one is here. I check my watch – 9:47. I check my pocket, and my hunting knife is still there. I slide my hand down the side of the mattress and then under it, grating my rough skin against the wooden box spring underneath it, feeling for a patch of Levi’s denim and the box on top of it. There’s – there’s someone coming behind me.
“Doug?” I strain my neck to look behind me. It’s Kim. Still here, just like the mattresses. But she’s let her hair grow out, and she’s dyed it from scarlet red back to brunette.
“Yeah?” “Whatcha doing down there?”
I turn the rest of my body toward her, hand still in mattress. “Ah… yeah.” I pull my hand out and crouch like I’m about to catch a curveball. “I just… missed the cool feeling of these mattresses. They really are ever-cool.” “Gotcha.” She purses her lips. “Have you clocked in yet?” “No, I just got here… I’ll take care of that now.” I wipe my hands on my khakis, stand up, and walk past her. “Hey, Doug,” she says, following me for a step. “How you been?” “Oh, getting there, y’know. They’re letting me move into that new apartment in a few weeks.” “Yeah, good, good.” She nods, and notices that she had stuffed her hands in her pockets to wipe the sweat on them. “Thanks for coming in on such short notice, I—” “Hey, no worries. I’m sure things have been crazy around here.” “I really appreciate the help.” “Hey, I worked here a long time. And I’m glad for the paycheck.” I pull my lips into a smile. I look over her shoulder. There’s a young couple standing near the front of the store, ten minutes early and trying to convey how perfect a match they are – same hair, same brand of footwear, same white Apple watches and navy-blue Nike jackets. I’m sure she wore that thousand-karat engagement ring when they went running or rowing or whatever the hell they did. “Should I go help them?” I ask. She looks over her own shoulder. “No, I’ll take care of them. By the looks of it, they’ll be asking for me anyway.” I hadn’t noticed the big, shiny MANAGER badge on her polo till now. “I’m gonna have you on delivery today,” she says. “Ah, okay.” I turn my foot to the warehouse door and pause. “I’ll go clock in, then.” “Cool.”
She nods and pulls her clammy hands out of her pockets again. We turn our separate ways, though I’m quicker to walk to the warehouse than she is to attend to the Nike couple. I only notice as I turn for another glance at the mattress. The box, as far as I know, is still there. I walk into the dim, dusty warehouse, and I try not to notice how few mattresses are still stacked on those sharp metal shelves. It’s more that each mattress sold means less time until I’m out of this job again than anything, but I do have some memories attached to this place. The first time I got fired from here was for racing forklifts with Bobby – we probably wouldn’t have been turned in if I hadn’t jammed a prong on the lift into one of those shelves and ruined a couple of mattresses. The second time was for the mattress.
“Hey, Doug!” “Dave?” He’s standing by one of those white folding tables, next to a cardboard Bankers Box crudely marked “TIME SHEETS.” I haven’t seen him since I last worked here, and I think he’s put on a few extra pounds. I’m envious. He walks towards me and pulls me in for a one-armed hug. “Hey, man, thought they’d never let you back in here.” He still smells like an onion and salmonella burrito from Gas-Mart. “Nah, I doubt Jeff would have, though.” “Ah, a little favor from Kim?” “No.” He’s not convinced. “Hell no.” “Oh, sure.” He leans against the table, folding his thick arms. “You back on delivery, or does she want you on the floor?” “Delivery.” “Sounds good. I’m driving.” “Well, I can think of worse ways to die.”
He punches me in the arm harder than I remembered he would. I fill in my timecard, and we get fastened into our back braces. Mine cinches a little tighter than it used to.
My phone buzzes with a text – it’s an unknown number, but I know it’s Kim. The Nike couple decided on a mattress. She doesn’t explain why she needs Dave and me to go to the showroom. As we enter the showroom, I remember the feeling of being blinded by the fluorescent lights after just a few minutes in the warehouse.
They’re standing uncomfortably close to the warehouse door, just about ten feet away. Kim is talking to the groom-to-be, who’s pointing at something on his phone screen. Is he really trying to bargain at a closing-down mattress store? The woman, meanwhile--
“Now, Mr. Davis, I can’t promise that we have any more of this model in stock, but I can have one of my employees check in back,” says Kim. “You better,” he replies. “I don’t know who the hell else has been lying on this mattress.” “Chad, honey, relax,” she says. “We’re just going to cover it with sheets anyway.”
The woman, this disgusting woman, is sitting on my mattress. She’s bouncing on it now, and I’m sure she was stretched out on it, sinking into the memory foam and daydreaming on it. I’m sure she flung herself right on top of the box. I can’t feel my fingers, but I can feel my eyes glazing over and my heart accelerating. My mouth tastes like battery acid.
“Have I seen you before?” The man raises his left eyebrow at me. “Not sure,” I reply. “Have we seen him before, Rosie? I swear I’ve seen him before.” “I don’t know, babe,” she says. She falls back against the mattress. Please, God, let the EverCool fail now. Let the foam harden. Let spikes come out of it. “Doug, Dave, could you go look in back,” Kim asks. “Sure,” I say, my eyes clearing. As I turn, I hear the woman invite her fiancé to try the mattress. A bit of vomit creeps up my throat, and I swallow it.
I check every shelf I can find, all the while shouting to Dave, asking if he’s seen the Softa SleepTech, king size. He says no every time. I already ran past the spot where the mattress would have been – seemed useful to remember at the time. It was empty. I stop to catch my breath. I haven’t peeled through the warehouse like this in a long time, probably not since my first day back after the forklifts.
My brother Alan had dropped me off that day. I’d been staying with him for a couple weeks after our sister Jane’s funeral. I promised him that Kim was letting me sleep on her couch until I found a place. Hand to God. Just to get him off my back. Maybe hoping Kim would actually do it. And to justify taking the box with me. I sprinted through the warehouse that day, always the first to carry something to the van, always volunteering to close. Whatever might tell Jeff I was worth keeping on staff. At least till I could sleep somewhere other than the showroom. Dave catches up with me. “No luck.” “Figures.” I lean against one of the shelves, and it almost cuts into my gut. “Something wrong?”
It occurs to me, it takes two to ship a mattress. Two to lift it, carry it, adjust it, put it inside a house. Dave’s gonna see the denim patch. And he’ll ask what’s inside it.
“Yeah… Dave, between you and me, that mattress… I have something inside it.” “Something inside the mattress?” “I’m gonna have to get it out.” He takes a few steps toward me, ducking and twisting his head around, looking for other workers through the gaps in the shelves. “What is this ‘something?’” “It’s a box.” I sigh. “My sister.” “Your sister’s what?” “Why do you care what it is?” He looks around again. “I know it’s none of my business, but if it’s drugs or anything like that, I don’t think I can help you.” “The… Why would you think it’s drugs?” He backs away a step and shrugs. “I… well… I mean, knowing all you had to deal with… like Jeff and your family and all that…” “Really?” “I’m just not comfortable—” “Dave, I need your help. Please.”
My phone buzzes again. Kim’s asking what’s going on. I tell her we didn’t find another one, so she tells us to get the showroom mattress into the van ASAP.
“We’ve got to go.” I stand up straight and walk past him. “Hey—” “You want them to find it before we do?” He just stands there, hands in the air, jaw hanging loose. “Come on.”
It’s a long walk between the showroom and the rear of the building. The bride-and-groom-to-be are gone, thank God, but two new employees and ten new customers walked in while Dave and I had our chat. Kim is off haggling with another stubborn couple, though judging by the unkempt hair and flabby arms, I’m guessing they’re already married with kids.
Dave nods to me as we hoist the mattress off the mock bed frame. I lean it on its side, checking for the patch – it’s still there, still with all the staples I grabbed from a part-time construction gig I worked between my stints here. I needed it originally for the tent I was using down by Prairie Creek, but it came in handy here. You can guess how much longer that gig lasted after they found out I took a staple gun. I press my left hand against the patch as we walk, concealing only about half of it, and pray as Dave backs his way through the warehouse door.
“Watch your right,” he says, and I jerk the mattress up with my left hand to avoid the corner of one of the shelves. The blue-white patch is suddenly right in my face, so I whip my hand back to it, and Dave stumbles. “Hey!” “Sorry, just…” I force my hand to release the patch. “No one’s gonna see us back here, if that’s your concern.”
We move on, guiding the bulky, likely-dust-mite-infested mattress to the exit in the back. I scratch one of my fingertips on a staple that I must have popped loose. I try to press it back into place, but I only wear a larger hole in the denim. I let the staple slip out and fall to the pavement - no use trying to fix it if I’m just going to make it worse.
The sun, as it turns out, is much more blinding than the showroom lights. Some pigeons bob between a pair of blue and purple vans, and a low tide of heat radiates from the cracked, graying pavement. Dave and I reach the back of one of the vans and open its back doors, but I stop him as he starts to lift the mattress into it. The door is coated in a thick layer of dust and a couple of unidentifiable stains.
“Yeesh.” Dave hoists his end back up to his belt buckle. “I think we have some spare cardboard back in the warehouse, I can slide that into the van.” “Yeah, go grab that. I’ll keep it off the ground.”
Dave sets his corner of the mattress on the back bumper of the van and runs inside. I crouch again, and my knees crack. After mere seconds, my left arm shakes, and my right arm feels like a bolt of lightning in my shoulder. The patch is completely exposed and bulging in the middle. The box must have shifted while we were carrying it.
Shit. A flashback. No, a nightmare? A waking one? I don’t know. I see the patch rip open right here, right in the middle of this parking lot. My throat starts to burn. I see the box tip out of the mattress, and it tumbles to the ground and cracks right open. My skin chills, and I see the pigeons flock over to the box and start to peck inside the box. The mattress slips in my now-sweating hands. I fall to my left knee, and the mattress pins my hands to the scorching asphalt.
“What are you doing lying down on the job?” Dave slaps me on the shoulder as he passes behind me, dragging a large slab of cardboard on the asphalt. “Sounds like something Jeff would say.” I hope it stings.
Dave lifts his end off the bumper and we move the mattress onto the cardboard. I hold the mattress steady as he flings the back door of the van open, and we lift the mattress with the cardboard. I still grip the patch. We slide the makeshift mattress stretcher into the back of the van and lean the mattress against the inside. My arms pulse. Dave pulls a pair of plastic booties out of his pocket and tosses them to me. I pull my knife from my khaki pocket and flick it open at my side. A car horn sounds, and I hide my knife behind my left hamstring. A shiny Lexus SUV rolls around the back lot, and it stops just barely in front of the van. The front passenger window descends, and the Nike couple appear in it, their blond hair shimmering in the 11:00 sun. The guy – right, Chad – sticks his head out of his fiancée’s window.
“Hey, guys,” he shouts. “I don’t know if you have a GPS, but if you do, you probably won’t be able to find our house on your own – it’s off a brand-new street.” “We still get lost getting there sometimes,” she adds. “So you might want to follow us there.” He still leans over her, his forearm planted in the window frame. “Sounds great,” says Dave. “We’ll be ready to go in a minute.”
Chad leans back into his seat, and the window ascends again. The Lexus remains idle.
Dave turns to me. “What about the box?” “I don’t know.” I see my knife hastily running through the patch and breaking the box in the process. “I’ll have to do it when we get there.” “You better be quick about it.”
I slide my finger down the dull part of my knife and push it back into the handle, locking it into place. Dave pulls the van keys out of his pocket and twirls them around his finger. I turn and run around the back of the van, shutting the doors in the process. The dusty windows obscure the color of the patch. I climb in the passenger door, Dave starts the van, and we follow the couple as they creep out of the back lot.
The last markers of the city pass quickly as we drive to this obscure location. I watch the woman stick her arm out her window, playing with the breeze flowing between her fingers. I also watch as she withdraws her arm and shuts her window at an intersection when a panhandler walks by. I recognize him – Jackrabbit, another guy I used to hang with around the bus stop at Eisenhower and Elmwood. His old Yankees t-shirt is filthy, so I wonder if that one church shut down its free laundry service. But I just can’t bring myself to roll my window down for him. Knowing him, he’d probably use the two dollars I could give him to buy some cigarettes off his buddy Joe. Our buddy Joe. Jackrabbit doesn’t need any more cigarettes, but it’s cheaper than that heart surgery he’s needed, and he always says it works better than rehab. Still, I’m glad when the light turns green, and he turns around without seeing me. I would have given him the money if he had seen me. And I hate that I’m glad.
It’s a long, dusty, gravel road leading off State Highway 37. Trees line the road all the way down, but the beating sun still pours into our windows. Dave has already driven a perilous 75 miles per hour the entire way, just to keep up with the Lexus, but the new pavement keeps the ride smooth. But when he takes a rough turn onto the gravel road, the whole van rattles, including the cargo in the back.
“Dave! Slow down!”
He lifts his foot off the gas for a second, and the wispy cloud of brown dust in front of the van thins as we lose speed. The back of the van still rattles.
“Sorry. What’s gotten into you?” he asks. “Nothing. Just caught me off guard.” He looks in his rear-view mirror. “The mattress is fine. I’m sure the box is, too.”
I hope to God it is.
The thinly-leaved trees and gravel road give way to half-developed dirt lots and fresh concrete. Dave takes another, much smoother turn into a neighborhood. The back of the van is silent, or at least whatever was rattling is not anymore. I’ve been choking my seatbelt with my right hand, and I loosen my grip.
The Lexus has lost its luster in the clouds of dust. It seems a little out of place in this neighborhood, where every house glistens white and the cars look like they’re washed and waxed every morning. The pristine green grass feels miraculous in the midst of the construction, even with the sprinkler systems chattering around us. Banners for McCarthy Bros. Homes flap on the lampposts lining every little road – I still owe those brothers a staple gun. I jump in my seat when a jet of water strikes my window. The Lexus flashes its turn signal and rolls into a wide driveway near the end of the street, in view of a little man-made pond. We park behind it.
Chad and Rosie climb out of the SUV, both grimacing at the heat. Dave and I crack open our doors, but before he can jump out, Chad is standing in his way.
“We’re expecting the ice sculptor to come to the house around noon,” he says, scrolling on his watch. “No worries,” Dave replies, “we’ll be out of here before you know it.”
Chad smiles and walks away, but he’s still standing a few steps away from the van. Rosie has already gone into the two-story house.
“I can’t open the mattress while he’s here,” I say.
My phone vibrates. My signal must have come back. It’s from Kim – “Can we talk later?” My thumb twitches over my phone screen. “Yes,” I type, and think of sending.
“Are you saying we’ll have to do it inside,” Dave asks. I lock my phone and slip it back into my pocket. “No… I will. You’re gonna have to distract them when we’re inside.” “Why… wait a minute.” “What?” “You really don’t want me to know what’s in that box, do you?” “What?” “Is everything alright,” Chad says from outside, checking his watch. “Yeah,” I reply. “Fine. I’ll keep them distracted. But I don’t know nothing about that box.” Dave climbs out of the van. I follow him.
Chad’s still standing in the driveway, still occasionally checking his watch. Rosie is now watching from behind the glass front door, already changed into a checkered sundress. We crack open the back doors, and I slide my end of the mattress out of the van, again barely covering the patch with my hand. I press the side of my face against the patch, hoping to cover it more. It’s still stiff with dirt. My neck starts to hurt, so move my head, exposing it. Dave struggles with his end, grunting as he lifts it out of the van. Mercifully, Chad leads us into the house, putting himself a comfortable ten feet away from me. Dave asks if there’s anything we could set the mattress on while we put on our booties, and Chad and Rosie take a minute to find something. They leave the door open, and I can hardly breathe – their vanilla air fresheners are gut-punchingly potent. All the while, I keep the patch pressed against my body.
We slide the mattress onto a blue, paint-speckled tarp on their bare wooden floor and slip on our booties. The mattress starts to tilt toward a wall, and Chad grabs it just inches from the patch as Dave lunges to keep it steady. Chad looks right at me.
“Wait, I do recognize you,” he says. “I used to see you on Eisenhower Boulevard when I drove to work. At that bus stop.” “Oh?” And did you used to lock your doors when you saw me? “Yeah.” He looks at the mattress, studying every last fiber and stitch with his eyes. “But if you were working, why…” His mouth tries to form the words, but he doesn’t need to. “I was unemployed for a while,” I say. He pauses and looks at my shoes. “Well, good to know you’re back on your feet.” He looks to Rosie, who is standing in the middle of the barely-furnished living room. “Yeah, thanks.”
Dave starts to lift his end of the mattress, and I lift mine. We stumble around a TV stand as we sidle along the wall, hiding the defaced side of the mattress. Chad guides us to the bedroom, never taking his eye off me. Its seafoam-green paint contrasts the off-whites and peach colors of the rest of the house. There’s already a bed frame and box spring in place in the room, and a packaged bedding set rests against the wall. Rosie joins us, planting herself in the doorframe.
Dave and I set the mattress on top of the box spring and slowly let it down. Dave shakes out his hands.
“Is that all,” Chad asks. “Um…” Dave looks at me. I raise my eyebrows. “Almost! Doug here is just gonna check to make sure the… box spring is… set up right.” “Okay,” says Chad. “Shouldn’t you have done that before setting the mattress down?” “Well…” “It’s to make sure the box spring can bear the weight,” I say. “Can’t really tell without the mattress on top.” “Fair enough,” Chad replies. Dave coughs. “Sorry, Mr. and Mrs…” “Davis.” He looks to Rosie, who smiles. “Well, soon-to-be.” “Right. I’m sorry to impose, but I am parched. Would you—” “Of course we can get you some water,” Rosie says. “Right this way.”
Rosie leaves first, but Chad lingers for a moment, scanning me. Dave shrugs and shakes his head as he leaves the room. No time to react. I push the edge of the mattress off the bed frame, again revealing the patch. It’s too heavy to keep up with only one hand, so I sit on top of the box spring and balance it on my shoulder. I slide my knife, which is somehow cold, out of my pocket and flick it open.
I pry the staples out with my knife, and they each tear a little bit of fabric and filling out of the mattress. The holes and tearing won’t be so much a problem – it’ll probably be a while before they notice anything is wrong with their mattress, and when they do, the Mattress Emporium will be long gone, and I’ll be in an apartment twenty miles away. I hope.
I pause for a moment, trying to listen to their conversation. It seems that Chad is regaling Dave with the story of how he got such a great deal on their countertops. There’s still a few staples stuck in the mattress, but the box is already sliding out, and bits of foam are falling onto my lap. I grab the box and cradle it, knife still in hand underneath it. I slip onto the floor and sit, letting the mattress slide down my arm even though it chafes at my skin like rope burn. It’s almost silent as it settles on the box spring.
The wood of the box is still smooth, the finish still unblemished. The weight seems right, though it has been shamefully long since I last held it. The lid, though, is loose – the ride here might have popped it open. My brother never told me how much we paid for the box, but apparently too much if it opens this easily. I place the box on the floor, and I slide the lid to look inside. There’s a few pictures on top, I’ll have to look at those later. The keychain I gave her a couple years ago, a seashell from the trip the family took to Veracruz. The bag in the bottom is still intact. It’s clear, but the ashes inside of it make the bag look white. The only thing indicating otherwise is the round metal disc, a sort of ID tag, as I think the mortician explained. I look at the pictures – I’m in almost all of them.
A scream makes me jump. Rosie is standing in the doorway, and a glass of water slips from her hand and crashes to the ground as she screams. I forgot I was still holding the knife.
Dave barrels down the hall and glares at me. Chad follows quickly with a baseball bat.
“Doug, what the hell are you doing,” Dave asks. “Stay back!” Chad shoves his way into the room, wielding the bat. “Wait, whoa, whoa!” I stand up and drop the knife, sticking my hands in the air. “I’m sorry… I…” “Rosie, go call 911.” Rosie leaves the doorframe, still shaking. Dave stands next to Chad. “I can explain, I—” “Fuck you, guy. You threatened my fiancée with a knife!” There’s a hot tear rolling down my left cheek, lodging in my beard. “Doug… what’s in that bag?” Dave points at the box. “Don’t tell me it’s…” “And you bring drugs into my house, too!” Chad points at me with his bat. “It’s not… she’s not…” “I just called 911,” Rosie says, coming into the room and clinging to Chad’s arm. I kick the knife to Dave, and he steps on it and breaks it with his bootie-covered shoe. Chad lowers his bat. I crouch down, put everything back into the box, and pick it up. I press the lid against the box so hard my thumbs turn white. I turn it over and show them the engraving: “Jane Goodwin: 1989-2017. Beloved daughter and sister.”