Dan Fitzpatrick let his red washing bag thump to the tile floor with a sound of dismay. This couldn't be happening. Not at two o'clock in the morning.
Leaving his bag where it had landed, Dan wandered through the laundrette in disbelief. No one was in sight, but the place thrummed with activity. Soapy water churned madly in front-loading washing machines and the top-loaders hummed in monotonous harmonies while brightly colored clothes danced in the dryer windows. Mounds of dirty washing obscured the floor. Every single machine was full.
Dan's heart sank. His job interview at the hospital was set for ten a.m. and he hadn't noticed until almost midnight that every dress shirt he owned was dirty. In Ireland that would've been a problem, but not here in America. Much as he liked to grumble about the American obsession with making money, he had to admit that twenty-four hour grocers and laundrettes were extremely convenient for night-owls like himself.
Until now, at any rate.
The sickly-sweet smell of fabric softener filled Dan's nose as he threaded his way between white machines and blue folding tables. He wasn't particularly tall or muscular--the American obsession with bodybuilding still mystified him--but he had the trademark Irish red hair and green eyes, which meant his friends sometimes teased him about pots of gold. The sight of this impossibly busy laundrette, however, was more amazing that anything you'd find at the end of a rainbow. Dan was so astounded that he didn't notice the woman until he almost bumped into her.
"Hi!" she snapped without turning around. "Watch yerself!"
Dan jumped back and smothered a yelp. The woman wore a white dress and was slightly plump. Black hair sat in a limp bun on her head and the skin on her neck was sickly pale. She was standing in front of a folding table piled so high with clothes, it seemed to Dan that a sudden noise might start an avalanche.
"Sorry," Dan said. "Uh--are all these clothes yours, then?"
"They are not," the woman replied, still not turning around. She was folding clothes with swift, deft movements. "I'm just washin' them. And before ye ask, I can't be givin' up a single machine. I need every one."
Cold unease stole over Dan. Gooseflesh rose on his arms and neck, though he couldn't say why. "Ye're Irish," he said, purposefully strengthening what the Americans called his accent, though anyone with half an ear could tell who were the real manglers of his native tongue. "Look, all I need is--"
The woman turned to stare at him. Her eyes were pale and flat as bone and the front of her skirt was drenched in scarlet blood. Cold air washed over Dan and his mouth went dry. A strangled sound escaped his throat.
"All ye need is what?" she asked.
Dan tried to look away, tried to tear his eyes away and run. But he couldn't move. The woman hung before him like a bloody shroud. Her eyes bore into him for a long, horrible moment. Then she turned back to her folding.
Dan fled. He bolted from the laundrette and pounded up the lamplit sidewalk. Four blocks flew by before he paused to lean against the cool steel of a lamp post and catch his breath. He crossed himself with shaking hands and a fervor he hadn't felt in years. Thank heaven he had gotten out of there. All that blood! And her eyes--cold and lifeless, like a dead fish.
Then he remembered. He had left his washing bag on the floor. His shirts. The interview.
Dan crossed himself again. Sweet Mary, he thought. I can't go back there.
Except the orderly job was his last chance. Unless Dan found a job soon, he was going to have to swallow his pride and write Uncle Rory for money to fly home on. Uncle Rory would understand--he always understood--but Dan didn't want him to understand, was tired of him always understanding. Dan, however, doubted the hospital would hire him if he showed up in a wrinkled polo shirt and smelly socks. Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to turn and stride briskly back to the laundrette.
What're you so scared about? he scolded himself. She just had a red stain on her dress, that's all. Besides, she's a fellow Irishman. Turn on the old charm and surely she'll be letting you have one wee washer.
)
