* * *
It was stale inside his house, the smell of a home that hadn’t been lived in for a while thick in the air. He set down his suitcase and the crate before switching on the light.
It was the same. Perhaps a bit dusty.
There was his chair. His Victrola. His books.
It was all the same.
He bent down and opened the gate for Calliope.
She shot out, tail standing straight up behind her. She was damp and didn’t appear to be amused. She disappeared down the hall to the laundry room where her litter box was.
“It’s good to be home,” he whispered.
He wondered how many times he would need to say that before he believed it.
* * *
He set his suitcase at the foot of the bed.
He changed out of his wet clothes.
He donned his spare pajamas.
He fed Calliope.
He tried to eat himself, but he wasn’t very hungry.
He sat in his chair.
He got up from his chair.
“Some music,” he decided. “Perhaps I should listen to some music.”
He selected Ol’ Blue Eyes. Frank always made him happy.
He slid the record from the sleeve and lifted the lid to the Victrola. He set the record on the spinner. He switched the player on, and the speakers crackled. He lowered the arm and closed his eyes.
But what came from the Victrola wasn’t Frank Sinatra.
He must have switched up the sleeves before he left.
Trumpets flared brightly.
A sweet masculine voice began to sing.
Bobby Darin, grooving about somewhere beyond the sea.
He remembered the way Lucy had bounced in the kitchen, bellowing the words at the top of his lungs.
He put his face in his hands.
As Bobby sang, Linus’s shoulders shook.
* * *
He went to bed.
The blankets and pillow were slightly musty, but he was too tired to worry about that now.
He stared at the ceiling for a long time.
Eventually, he slept.
He dreamed of an island in the ocean.
* * *
On Sunday, he cleaned. He opened the windows to air out the house, even though it was raining. He scrubbed the floors. He wiped the walls. He washed the counters. He changed the sheets on the bed. He took a toothbrush to the grout on the tile in the bathroom. He swept. He mopped.
His back was aching by the time he finished. It was early afternoon, and he thought about lunch, but his stomach was a lead weight.
Laundry. He needed to do laundry.
And he still needed to complete his final report.
He went to the suitcase at the end of the bed. He lay it on its side and unlatched the buckles. He lifted the lid and froze.
There. On the top of his folded clothes, on top of files, on top of RULES AND REGULATIONS, was a brown envelope.
He hadn’t put it in there.
At least he didn’t think he had.
He lifted the envelope. It felt stiff in his hands.
On the top were two words, written in black, blocky letters: DON’T FORGET.
He slid the envelope open.
Inside was a photograph.
His eyes stung as he looked down at it.
Zoe must have taken the picture. He didn’t even remember seeing her with a camera. It was the first adventure they’d taken through the woods to her house. In it, Lucy and Talia were laughing. Sal sat with Theodore in his lap. Chauncey and Phee were wrestling over the last roll. Arthur and Linus sat together. Linus was watching the children with amusement.
And Arthur was watching Linus, that quiet smile on his face.
It was grief, then, that Linus felt in his little house on Hermes Way. Grief bright and glassy, unlike anything he’d ever experienced before. He was but paper, brittle and thin, and he clutched the photograph to his chest, hugging it close.
* * *
Later, much later, he sat in his chair, the final report in his lap. It still only had one sentence written on it after the introduction.
He thought it was enough.
He set it aside.
He listened to the Big Bopper bopping along. He drifted, eventually, and disappeared onto an ocean, the waves lapping beneath him, and it felt like home.
Outside, the rain fell steadily.
* * *
His alarm went off bright and early Monday morning.
He got up.
He fed the cat.
He took a shower.
He dressed in a suit and tie.
He picked up his briefcase.
He remembered his umbrella.
* * *
The bus was full. There was barely room to stand, much less to sit.
People didn’t look up at him except to scowl when he accidentally bumped into them. They returned to their newspapers as he apologized.
* * *
No one greeted him as he walked into DICOMY.
He walked through the desks, and no one said, “Welcome back, Linus. We missed you.”
There were no streamers on Row L, Desk Seven. No balloons. No paper lanterns.
He sat down, setting his briefcase beside him.
Mr. Tremblay glanced over at him from Row L, Desk Six. “I thought you’d been sacked.”
“No,” Linus said as evenly as he could. “I was on assignment.”
Mr. Tremblay frowned. “Are you sure? I could have sworn that you’d been sacked.”
“I’m sure.”
“Oh!” He looked relieved, and Linus started to feel a bit better. Maybe he’d been missed after all. “That means you can have all your cases back. Thank God. I didn’t have time for them in the slightest, so you’ll have a lot of catching up to do. I’ll dig them up for you first thing.”
“That’s very kind of you,” Linus said tightly.
“I know, Mr. Barkly.”
He said, “It’s Mr. Baker, you git. Don’t make me correct you again.”
Mr. Tremblay gaped at him.
He opened his briefcase. He lifted out the files he’d been given and his final report. He hesitated before taking out the only thing that remained.
He set the framed photograph on the desk near the computer.
“What is that?” Mr. Tremblay asked, craning his neck. “Is that a personal thing? You know you can’t have that!”
“Maybe you should consider minding your own business for once,” Linus snapped without looking at him.
“On your head, then,” Mr. Tremblay muttered. “See if I’m ever nice to you again.”
Linus ignored him. He straightened out the photograph until he had it just right.
He turned on his computer and got to work.
* * *
“Mr. Baker!”
He groaned to himself. Today had been going … Well, it’d been going. He didn’t look up as he heard the sounds of heels clicking against the floor, getting closer and closer.
A shadow fell on his desk.
The typing around him stopped as his coworkers listened in. It was probably the most exciting thing that had happened in the last month.
Ms. Jenkins stood above him, the same dour expression on her face. Gunther, of course, stood slightly behind her, his clipboard ever present. He smiled sickly sweet down at Linus.
“Hello, Ms. Jenkins,” Linus said dutifully. “It’s nice to see you.”