Page 27 of The Botanist's Assistant
“It’s a long story, but yes.”
“But why would you give up journalism to clean toilets? I mean, there’s nothing wrong with cleaning toilets. It’s just…”
Margaret stops.
“Let’s just say I wanted a job where I didn’t have to think and where the consequences weren’t so high. Plus, I like the fact that I can see what I’ve done at the end of a shift. There’s the empty trash can that used to be full. There’s the shiny floor that used to be covered in muddy footprints. There’s the clean sink. It’s more than I got with reporting sometimes.”
Margaret wants to ask him more, like how he got his scar and what consequences he was referring to, but even she knows that’s not appropriate.
“Well, I should get going,” she says.
“Yeah, me too. Apparently, there’s been an incident in the second-floor men’s bathroom.”
“You’re a good listener,” she says.
“Thanks. It’s what happens when you’re a reporter. Ten thousand hours and all that.” A reference to the theory that ten thousand hours is what it takes to become an expert at something.
He stands. “Maybe you should report this stuff to the county sheriff.”
“Do you think anyone would believe me?” She tells him about Bianchi and the rejected toxicology request.
He considers. “Probably not, then. You need more proof, I think.”
“Which is what I aim to find.”
“Just be careful,” Joe says. “Don’t let people know what you’re doing until it’s time to confront. Make copies of whatever you find, record conversations and take photos if you can. And call me if you need anything or if you want to talk war-game strategy. I’m always around. Let me give you my number.”
“Thank you,” Margaret says.
“Meanwhile, I’ll keep my eyes and ears open. It turns out custodians are pretty invisible. People say things, leave papers out.” He shrugs. “Who knows?”
A warmth fills Margaret. Somebody believes her.
“I’ll keep you posted,” she says.
“You do that.”
“I don’t even know your last name.” She stands. “For my phone,” she amends, although that’s not exactly true.
“It’s Torres. Joe Torres.”
She repeats the name once, then twice as she walks to her car.
Once home, Margaret showers and changes into her house clothes. It’s cheese-omelet night and she eats it with a piece of plain wheat toast and some steamed broccoli. She thinks of the missed dinner at Applebee’s and of what seems like Keith’s persistent unhappiness. Why has she allowed these meals to continue? Where did she expect they would lead? To marriage? Certainly not. Besides, she is already married. To science.
Dinner conversation doesn’t compare to the feeling of discovering something that no one else knows. Sharing a house is not equal to contributing even a small piece to the wealth of human knowledge. Generation after generation building on what the one before it has found. She doesn’t need companionship for that. She doesn’t need someone to sit next to her on the couch to read or share chores or join her in bed.
She will thank Keith for being a faithful dining companion but will tell him there will be no more Applebee’s nights. She checks her watch: eight twenty-one. Not too late.
She phones Keith, who answers smartly on the third ring, “Keith Wilson speaking.” His precision is something she’d appreciated about him.
When she tells Keith she can no longer meet him for Applebee’s dinners and explains that she doesn’t want to waste his time because her career will always come first, his tone changes.
“You know,” he snaps, “I looked past your horsey face because you seemed semi-intelligent, but I doubt others will. Beggars can’t be choosers.”
Margaret had always attributed Keith’s slightly mean streak to late-afternoon low blood sugar, and although he might be correct about her resemblance to a horse (he’s notthe only person who’s mentioned this), his unkindness makes her realize that their weekly meetings were born more from his need to feel superior than from companionship. His bosses may have slighted him and his clients may have complained, but she was the dog he found to kick.
“I am no beggar, Keith,” she says.
