Free The Last Days of Ptolemy Grey by Walter Mosley

guardian’s great-uncle before throwing it almost all away in big black garbage bags. There were stains on her little black dress, and her hair was getting wild. But she laughed a lot and seemed to enjoy reporting to Ptolemy.
    “Do you want this old toothbrush, sir?” she asked with a knowing smile.
    He had to study everything she brought to him. At first he didn’t know what it was he was looking at, and then, when he identified the object, he’d get lost trying to remember where it came from.
    “That bresh was Sensie’s, I’m pretty sure,” he said. “She got it at the Woolworth’s . . . No. Maybe not. I don’t know where she got it at.”
    “But do you want to keep it?” Robyn asked again.
    “I guess not. No. You can th’ow it away . . . I guess.”
    Hours and hours Robyn cleaned, taking breaks now and then to discuss bits of detritus found in Ptolemy’s bathroom. She filled five thirty-nine-gallon lawn bags with the debris from just that one room. She scrubbed and swept and mopped, and then scrubbed and swept and mopped again.
    Once she found an old sepia photograph way down under the sink. It was the picture of a huge brown woman holding the hand of a skinny, frowning little boy.
    “Who is this, Mr. Grey?” she asked, coming out to see him.
    Ptolemy had set his folding stool right at the door so that he could see everything the teenager was doing.
    “Oh, don’t throw that away. No, no.”
    He took the crumbling photograph in his hand. It had once been five inches by eight but now the corners and sides had been eaten away by damp rot. The woman’s face was water-stained, as was the bottom half of the boy’s body. He held the picture gently, as if holding a wounded creature.
    “That’s my mother,” he whispered, “and her son . . . me.”
    “Let me put that away someplace safe so we can take it to the drug sto’ copycat to see if they can make a good print of it,” she said, taking the fragile memory from the man’s thick black fingers.
    After a while Ptolemy stopped watching Robyn’s every move. He could see that she knew what was important and that she looked into every corner and fold.
    “Come on in, Mr. Grey,” Robyn called in the early evening.
    The bathroom was sparkling, neat and clean. The blue tile floor was eroded in places, and there were stains and dings on the blue porcelain sink, but the bathtub was glistening white and the walls were a lovely if faded aqua.
    “There’s water damage on the ceiling,” she said, “and I can’t wear no dress the next time I come. And look ...”
    Robyn pushed the white ceramic handle on the toilet and the stained commode flushed for the first time in many years.
    “You fixed the toilet?” he asked. “You must be like a plumber too.”
    “No, I just cleaned it out and turned on the water, that’s all. It worked once it was clean.”
    This made sense to Ptolemy. He went to sit on the edge of the tub and ran his fingers over the smooth white porcelain.
    “There’s some leaks and stuff, but we can get somebody to fix all that.”
    “Landlord won’t fix nuthin’,” Ptolemy said, peering closely enough at the porcelain to see the barest reflection of his dark face in the deep whiteness.
    “I gotta go, Mr. Grey. It’s gettin’ late.”
    “I never seen nuthin’ like this,” he said. “I don’t even remembah half of what it looked like in here. How did you know?”
    “I jes’ cleaned. But I gotta go. Now you can go to the bathroom in your own house. I’ll come back day after tomorrow and we’ll start on your bedroom.”
    “Oh no,” Ptolemy said. There was a big black moth fluttering in the center of his heart. “No. Best to leave well enough alone.”
    “You need a bed, baby. A place where you can sleep up off the flo’.”
    “No.”
    “Uh-huh,” she sang. “Day aftah tomorrah I’m’a come back and we gonna tackle the bedroom together. Don’t worry, I won’t th’ow out nuthin’ you don’t want me to.”
    “But