Rotters by Daniel Kraus Read Free Book Online Page B

while still alone.
    There was plenty evidence of hard work—an upside-down boot healing beside a curled tube of superglue, a pair of work gloves with fresh patches meticulously sewn over worn fingers, a pyre of misshapen shovels and hoes—butnowhere did I see proof of my father’s occupation. If he picked up trash, where was his garbage truck? His uniform? Pay stubs from his monthly check? Yet the more I kicked through the crap that blanketed the floor and angled up the walls, the more comfortable I became with the moniker. He was the Garbageman because of the garbage of his life strewn out all around him: piteous scraps of food, mud-matted carpets, expired medicine, spare change in a mason jar, a brush so old it still clutched nongray hair in volume.
    I opened drawers and cabinets—a few plates, a plastic bowl full of coffee grains, a scattering of utensils as random as twigs on a forest floor. Beneath the sink, to my surprise, I found an abundance of industrial-strength cleaning products. The abrasive perfumes of pine and bleach unsettled my empty stomach, but at least briefly overtook the gamey odor. Given the cabin’s state, I considered placing a cleaning product atop each newspaper tower in the room—who knew, maybe he would take the hint. Instead I threw open the front door and all the windows. Through the final window I discovered a small garden between the cabin and the river. Unlike the house, it was tidy, even meticulous.
    Near the floor by the fireplace I found a phone outlet, but nowhere was there an actual phone.
Technophobe:
the word fit my father perfectly. No phone, no computer, no television, not even a radio. I dreaded oppressive nights spent here in this tiny space with nothing to fill the silence.
    Already on my knees, I began scanning the titles of the books bottommost to the ten or twelve stacks. Most of these were quite old, and my eyes resisted their small print and faded colorings. I hopped into a squat to better read some of the spines. There were two disintegrating books rubber-banded together:
Antropologium
and
Mikrokosmographia
. I tookthem between my fingers, but as I did so, the floor-to-ceiling pile bulged sinuously. I left them alone. Above them,
Historical Sketch of the Edinburgh Anatomical School
and
Great Medical Disasters
. There was a pattern here, but it could be explained away: this was an unrepresentative sample, a grouping of books perhaps collected from the discards of a hospital library. I shifted to another pile several feet away.
The Confessions of an Undertaker
. An audiotape titled
Highlights About Wood Caskets
. A thick yellow brick of magazines called
Casket and Sunnyside;
a smaller stack of a publication titled
American Funeral Director
. And creating stability concerns near the ceiling, the massive
Gale Directory of Publications and Broadcast Media
. At least this title had some tie to the newspapers surrounding me.
    This was the personal library of Ken Harnett. I backed away, trying to revive the memory of the colorful and reassuring books Janelle and Thaddeus let spill into the rooms of Boris and his sisters. Instead I could only see my father’s dark and troubled face. Sanitary worker or not, this might be a man I shouldn’t meddle with; I thought again of my mother’s disfigured ear. But instead of stopping, I dove into his bedroom, tearing at his sheets, lifting coats from the floor to see what was secreted beneath.
    I found myself facing the narrowest of closets tucked behind the bedroom door. Inside, a few clean white dress shirts, a black suit, even; some ties draped over a nail. Interesting, these items—but I forgot them when I saw the safe. It was large and metal and secured with a combination lock. I kneeled in front of it and gave the handle a pull just in case. Nothing. I tried 10-20-30. I tried the combination of my old gym locker, 32-0-25. Nothing. I gave the safe a push to gauge its weight. It did not budge.
    Behind the safe, wedged between it and