By Any Chance
Chapter 8 The Postman Always Rings Twice
By: Nicholas Nocketback

The tightness in his head muted all sound. Though the television was on, he could scarcely hear it. Light from outside was dull due to cloud cover. A bleak white overcast morning illuminated the bulky pleated velour drape from behind. This was certainly Janelle’s house, but Evan couldn’t help but feel that something was amiss, carpet immaculate, not a speck of dust, and it smelled of cinnamon apple. If Janelle had a maid, Evan sure hadn’t seen her in the past six days, though many were spent unconscious. Rising to a sitting position, he squinted at the front door to focus his senses. Still fully clothed, he sat, head in hands, elbows on knees, for minutes before attempting to stand. Wanting terribly to vomit, he simply couldn’t without the aid of an index finger, which he wasn’t wiling to do at this hour.
Once up, Evan turned around, reached over the couch—an oatmeal colored micro-fiber monster that wrapped around three quarters of the living room—and parted the curtain. What he noticed initially was the sky, completely sallow. It proved more than he could stand, piercing pain shooting through his head; he closed the curtain. Looking down, he observed the spot on the couch where he slept. It was wet, as if a policeman had outlined his body with sweat instead of chalk. Evan walked through the foyer into the kitchen where he seized a bottle of Evian from a walk-in cupboard, letting the cap roll under the sink, and took a long pull from the container; rivulets meandered down his chin and white button-up shirt. With another drink, he’d finished the sixteen ounces and placed the cap less bottle on the marble counter next to the sink. Shuffling into the bathroom, Evan splashed water on his face and lathered it with the yellow bar of Dial from the shower soap dish. He observed his visage in the mirror and looked down immediately. Deciding to shave, he took Janelle’s pink Venus razor and leg gel.
After toweling off, Evan checked his pockets: keys, cigarettes, change, pen, driver’s license. It was time to leave. While Janelle was the only person he knew in Fresno, he similarly knew she was nothing but trouble—idle hands, limitless funds, drugs, and a vagina (danger in any geographic location on the map). Opening the medicine cabinet, he sifted through prescription bottles until he found some Midol caplets. All these drugs and not a single goddamn Tylenol, this must be California, he reflected. Without another option, he popped three Midol for his headache, which the bottle informed him would “knock out” his pain, as well as alleviate his bloating.
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“Janelle?” Evan questioned softly in the hallway. His shallow echo responded likewise. “Janelle, you up? Hello? You even here?”
As he inched closer toward her room, he could make out the sound of music from behind her door: “End Of The Road” by Boyz To Men. Evan grinned broadly and reflected on Jodi Abston; his literary white whale. She’d escaped after junior high and he’d heard nothing from her since. They’d gone to watch the movie Singles at a small movie house in Cambridge. Being virtually the only two viewers, aside from a vagrant snoring audibly in the front row with a beanie pulled over his eyes, they kissed. They made out as fourteen year olds do—too much tongue, enormous bruise-like hickies, wiry hands. The night lasted for an eternity, as did Evan’s pining. During the drive home, they’d been chauffeured by Jodi’s older sister, “End Of The Road” played on repeat. Jodi transferred to a private Catholic school days later and every attempt to contact her ended with abrupt, curt commentary. She’d merely lost interest, or hadn’t any to begin with.
Evan smiled and thought of the past. Where had she gone? Perhaps she was in California, in Fresno even? He tiptoed into the room so as not to awaken Janelle. If she was asleep in earnest, he’d leave a note of appreciation and be on his way. It was Evan’s time to leave prematurely for once. The door was cracked, a thin two inch beam of light slashed through the hallway, radiating the E. Munch Madonna painting adorning the left wall. Knocking lightly three times, he pushed open the door with his knuckles. The ceiling fan turned with minimal force, accomplishing only to stir the air. The music from her iBook had changed from Boyz To Men to Miles Davis’ “Sketches of Spain.” The scene was visceral, surreal; Evan couldn’t feel sick, though he wanted to. He gazed upon the room with equal parts horror and disbelief.
Janelle’s four post bed elevated her mattress four feet off the floor, maroon Calvin Klein comforter draped over the side. From where she lay, Evan could see her exposed back. She appeared to be fully nude; the only fabric being black bandanas restraining her wrists and ankles. Knees tucked under her stomach—a yoga pose of sorts—her arms were straight and extended above her neck. They could only have been forced into the position, as even a seasoned contortionist couldn’t have accomplished it. Plum bruises and swelling surrounded her pits and elbows. Janelle’s hair was plaited and silky, styled fashionably with two equal length braids tucked under each other like a pretzel, not at all what Evan remembered last night. Around her neck was a shiny metal guitar string, one of the higher tone registers. Evan moved in, leaning over the body, an art student paying close attention to detail. The string looked to be either an E or B, as it hadn’t any wiring around it. The portion that was visible pointed straight up while the residual was wrapped tightly around the neck, not detectable. What was most remarkable was the lack of blood. It had clearly taken her life but there wasn’t a drop anywhere near her head or neck. Evan shuttered and touched Janelle’s bare back. It was still quite warm. He gently tilted her to glimpse her face, the body falling over, unsteady and rigid. Her eyes were closed, which Evan was relieved by, but the gore that was so markedly absent before, was now undeniable. A pool of burgundy blood hid beneath her, a spilt bottle of pinot noir. The puddle had been absorbed by the golden sheets, leaving a large spot that resembled the continent of Australia. Further inspection revealed the source of the wound. A broken glass Perrier bottle had been inserted into her like a tampon, only the green top visible acting as a funnel with a thick blood veneer.
Evan stepped back several paces and turned to leave. Racing past the bathroom and into the foyer he stopped, hand on the brass front door knob. He pulled his sleeve over his right hand and wiped off the prints left from his sweating palm. Over and over, he smashed the cloth from his shirt into the grooves, dropping to a knee to clean out the key hole with his covered index finger. His mind leapt back to an episode of Matlock, wherein the suspect was identified from his unique sneaker brand. Evan stood up, pulled his shoes off with his feet (heel to heel), and placed them sole up on the coffee table. If he’d alerted the police, there’d be no telling what could come of it. His story was riddled with fantasy, although true, and he’d been unconscious, so an alibi was nonexistent. A frantic hunt proved positive, finding a Dyson vacuum in the front closet, Evan mouthed the word Eureka. Taking off his shirt entirely, he wrapped it around his hands and plugged the unit in. Making sure to go over any trace of his shoe print, he vacuumed the entire living room, and then moved to the kitchen, hovering over the marble floor. He unplugged the cord and changed locations. What appeared to be January’s room, although none of her things were housed there any longer, he traced the nap with the whirling monster. As it hummed, Evan could only think of the scene. He must clean that room, but her body was too much to handle. Contemplating covering it with a comforter until he’d finished, he figured any agitation of the body would cause more trouble than good. Before he touched Janelle’s room, he entered her bathroom where he’d shaved. Opening cabinets with his shirt, he spied a bottle of Mountain Fresh Clorox beneath the sink.
Washing away what sporadic facial hairs he could, he began pouring bleach along the Formica counter top and gold Moen faucet. The smell reeked, no chemical cover could impose, Mountain Fresh or otherwise. Using his shirt, Evan saturated the floor beneath him as well as the wooden cabinets. Beads of sweat began to drip from his forehead, splashing to the ground, causing him to wipe and rewipe several areas. Once finished with the bathroom, he had only a quarter of the bottle left. What was to be done with the couch? His sweat had dried, but the DNA must still be embedded. Evan walked to the living room and tipped the Clorox bottle over the area he’d slept. Realizing this would leave a stain, he tried spreading the liquid around, a failed attempt at making it appear antique due to the sheer enormity of the sofa. At the very least, it would erase his being from that area.
The sweat had now saturated his body. Entering the kitchen in damp argyle socks, he washed his hands in the sink, soaping up to his elbows with liquid antibacterial, like a surgeon in preparation. Atop the counter, Evan spotted his Evian bottle and crunched it, stuffing the bottom in his back jean pocket. He then wiped the counter and faucet with his Clorox laden shirt. Moving to the bedroom, stepping as close to the baseboards as possible so as not to make any new indentations from his feet, he wiped down the door knob and latch. Janelle remained stationary, slumped over as he’d left her. It was at this point that Evan figured this may be a set up. The person that did this knew he was there, sleeping on the couch, and let him be. There was no other physical evidence aside from the bottle and the guitar string. He knelt down on the carpet and searched beneath the bed and surrounding areas. The room was large, at least four hundred square feet. Taking the make shift towel shirt, which was now warm and damp, dark brown in color, he smoothed the small of her back where he’d touched earlier, hoping the bleach would in effect eliminate his trace.
After a proper vacuuming of the room, Evan wound the black Dyson cord with his shirt in his hand and wiped the vacuum down. Taking a Zippo lighter from Janelle’s chest of drawers—the one with the sheep etching he’d used earlier—he held the flame to the vacuum handle, watching as the plastic smoldered and began bubbling. He stopped short of completely melting the piece he touched, placing the lighter in his front coin pocket. Positioning the vacuum in its original spot in the walk-in closet, he retraced his steps, making sure to smooth over any agitated carpet with his feet as he left, backing out of each respective room. Surveying the job from the foyer, Evan looked at the couch. The room stank of bleach and his body odor. The couch had now taken on a sad, used look, like a thrift store piece, discounted for quicker sale. An eggshell colored stain covered the two cushions. It resembled marshmallow cream, ground into the nap by a frightened toddler. Grabbing the keys from his pocket, he wrapped the shirt in his hands and grabbed the handle. The doorbell, a four octave carillon bell sequence resounded throughout the room. Evan jumped back, bottom hitting the floor with a thud. He sat and stared, and then a series of small knocks followed. He felt a warm liquid fill his pants.