Properly this time, he bandaged the wound, packed the wrappings tightly and bundled layers of dressing. In the end his foot looked like a mummy’s. He didn’t even try to put a shoe back on. He just cut the leg off an old pair of sweatpants and slipped that over his foot and then tied the ends and wrapped a plastic bag around it and then duct-taped the whole thing for good measure.
The room was splattered with red. What a mess he’d made, Hawley thought. He wished he could erase his entire life, starting with his father’s death and then every step that had led him here to this crap motel room, every bullet, every twisted turn of the road he’d followed—even meeting Lily, even having Loo. Hawley wanted it all gone.
He popped another Percocet and washed it down with beer and then he started searching under the bathroom sink until he found a bucket. He filled the bucket with soap and sponges and paper towels, and then he went under the kitchen sink and found a bottle of turpentine there, and also a bottle of bleach and a pair of rubber gloves. He brought it all out to the car and then he drove back to Dogtown.
The porch light at Mabel Ridge’s house was out but there was still a pumpkin burning by the door, its jagged smile illuminated. Hawley parked in the street. He filled the plastic bucket with supplies and crept onto the path, dragging his bound-up leg behind him.
One by one, Hawley began to erase his own bloody footprints, from the sidewalk to the house. First his. Then Loo’s. It was difficult to get the stain off the pavement, and even harder to get it off the wooden stairs to the porch. He added some bleach to the bucket, and took a scrub brush and leaned his full weight against it, going back and forth, back and forth. Then he’d stop and check his work with a flashlight. Then he’d start again.
He’d been out there for maybe twenty minutes when the porch light clicked on and the front door opened. Mabel Ridge leaned against the doorknob, dressed in striped pajamas. Hawley stopped scrubbing.
“What the hell are you doing out here?”
“I’m cleaning your porch.”
“I nearly called the police.”
“I just need to finish this,” said Hawley. “It won’t take long.” And he went back to pushing the scrub brush back and forth.
“Is that blood?”
“It’s paint,” said Hawley. “I was painting and I got some on my shoes and I tracked it here so I wanted to clean it up before it dried.”
Mabel Ridge stood over him. “It looks like blood.”
Hawley was still wearing the Crest T-shirt that Mabel Ridge had made. His pupils were fixed from the drugs. But he didn’t feel high. He didn’t feel anything.
“I think your car got egged.”
“Goddammit!” Mabel Ridge came out onto the porch. Then she went back inside and flipped on more yard lights before going to inspect the damage. Hawley had noticed a few broken shells as he came up the driveway, but now he could see that the old Pontiac had been fully covered, at least two dozen yolks smeared across the windshield.
Mabel Ridge went around to the side of the house and unspooled a hose. She turned on the water and began to spray the car. “What kind of soap are you using?”
“All kinds,” said Hawley. “I wasn’t sure what would work.”
“Well, if you’ve got any dish soap, bring it over.”
Hawley carried his bucket and sponges and the liquid soap over. He refilled the bucket with water and added some soap and helped Mabel Ridge clean the car. It wasn’t what he’d planned on doing. But Hawley didn’t have much of a plan anymore for anything.
“Is Loo awake?”
“It’s the middle of the night,” said Mabel Ridge.
“So she’s asleep?”
The old woman eyed Hawley’s foot, the bandages and plastic bag sealed with tape. “Look,” she said, “I don’t know what kind of trouble you’re in. But don’t bring it here.”
“There’s no trouble,” said Hawley.
Mabel Ridge stared at him. “Are you drunk?”
“Nope,” said Hawley.
She went inside and came back with the basket of apples Loo had offered him earlier.
“Why don’t you eat something.”
“Thanks,” said Hawley. He chose one and took a bite. The fruit was crisp and juicy. The skin stuck in his teeth, the tartness coating his tongue.
A group of teenagers with masks walked by on the sidewalk carrying backpacks. Rubber faces hung on their scrawny necks, a collection of adolescent horrors—dangling eyeballs, rotting flesh. One of the boys reached into his bag. Hawley could see the egg there in the teenager’s hand, white and delicate and waiting. Then the boy lobbed it through the air toward them.
“Trick my treat!” the boy yelled.
Mabel Ridge turned the hose on them. The kids cursed and ran.
“Effective.”
“I don’t need any more nonsense tonight,” Mabel Ridge said. “I just want to clean this up and go to bed.”
“Let me get this last bit off the driveway,” said Hawley, and he was back on his knees, sponging the asphalt.
Mabel Ridge watched him work. “You’re not doing her any good skulking around like this,” she said. “You need to move on. She’s got a home here. It’s what Lily wanted.”
Hawley stopped scrubbing. He looked up at Loo’s window. The room was dark, but he could see the curtains with giraffes printed on them that Mabel Ridge had made for her third birthday, which he had missed. His daughter was behind those curtains and she was sleeping and she was dreaming and she was safe.
The old woman turned off the water. She started coiling the length of the hose, wrapping it around her elbow. “I think you should go now.”
“I will.”
Mabel let out a sigh of relief. She put the hose away. She climbed the stairs of the porch, then turned back and looked at him kneeling in the driveway. “Good night, then.”
“Goodbye,” he said.
He took his bucket and sponges to his car and drove back to the motel. When he got there he pulled out the car mats and washed them down and then scrubbed them and then he scrubbed the inside of the car, too, until any trace of his blood was gone. Then he cleaned the walkway that led to his room. He made it to the front door and then through it and closed the door behind him. His fingers reeked of disinfectant. His clothes were all wet and the sponge was black.
Now there was no trace of Hawley outside. No footsteps leading to this room. But there was still the mess inside. Hawley threw out the sponge he’d been using and got another from under the sink. He dumped the dirty water and filled the bucket again, until the suds were foaming over the top. He could barely feel his foot anymore. He could barely feel his hands, either. Even his fingers seemed distant, as if he were no longer washing the floor but sitting on the bed across the room, watching himself wash the floor.