Paul Cleave - The Cleaner

She spends the day at work fixing a section of faulty air-conditioning. It’s a job that has taken the last few weeks of her time. It breaks down every year or two, and the government isn’t prepared to budget more money for police, let alone make their surroundings slightly more comfortable. So she does what she can-stopgap measures that will keep it working until the day those measures fall short.

Yet her mind keeps returning to Joe. She’s sure he doesn’t know that he’s not the only cleaner employed here. After six o’clock every night, well after Joe has gone home, a team of cleaners come through and do their thing. They vacuum, wipe, dust, sanitize the bathrooms, refill the paper towel dispensers, clean and put away the dishes in the coffee rooms, replace dirty towels with clean ones, and empty the trash cans. Some of these things Joe will do once a week, or once every few weeks, but he doesn’t know other people are taking care of them every single day. Joe is here during the day to keep things tidy and, she suspects, to keep people happy. Special people like Joe can struggle to find work, and in a world where they must contribute, where they must fend for themselves, sometimes the government must step in and create positions for them. She knows nobody has told Joe he’s not alone in his profession here because it might shatter the image he has of his importance. Sweet, sweet Joe.

She doesn’t see Joe when she leaves work. Only a few people finish at four thirty, and because of her father’s illness, she’s one of them. She heads down Cashel Mall, a shopping street that runs through the center of town that’s a few blocks from the Christchurch Cathedral, the city’s most iconic church that’s made of stone and was built well over a hundred years ago. She tried once to go inside and sit in the silence, only there wasn’t any-too many tourists for that. She doesn’t make it as far as the church today, instead she pauses outside shop windows and occasionally goes inside, searching, hunting, trying to find a gift for her dad that he will appreciate. She needs a card too. Something funny. Something that for the briefest of moments will take his mind off his failing body and her late brother. Just what do you buy for the parent who’s losing everything?

The answer is a DVD player. With the salesman’s advice, she finds the simplest-to-use player in her price range, and she chooses four classic westerns she’s confident her father will love. All have Clint Eastwood in them. Could there be anything better?

She carries her purchases back to her car, pausing only to give Henry another small bag of sandwiches. She wonders if a guy like Henry ever tries to save for anything. How hard it must be to have goals in life when you have nothing. It’s not like the poor guy can buy a suit and go to a job interview. It’s not like he can show up to one dressed the way he is. She thinks she ought to try and help him out there.

“Jesus loves you,” he reminds her, opening the bag. “Remember that, Sally, and everything will be okay.”

By the time she reaches her car, she feels like crying. Not even thinking about Joe’s smile can cheer her back up.

I pull out the latest cassette tape from the conference room and listen to the private words falling from the small speaker of my recorder as I pace back and forth. Not just hear, but really listen. I’ve heard all of the other tapes over the months, but I was only ever listening to see how the investigation was going. Now I have something new to listen for.

Detective Taylor is for the theory that they’re looking for more than one killer.

So is Detective McCoy, who suspects the killers are working together.

Detective Hutton is still of the opinion that it’s one person.

Other theories. Mixed theories. Confused theories.

A confused investigation is a messy investigation. Nobody can agree. Nothing gets done. This makes people hard to catch. Makes things good for me.

I make some dinner. Nothing exciting. Instant pasta that cooks quickly in the microwave, and some coffee. Then I change into something more casual-jeans and a shirt. I’m looking pretty good, better than good. I put on a dark jacket. Even better.

I’m just about to go out when the phone rings. My first thought is that it’s Mom, and then I remember the bad feeling I had this morning, so my next thought is it may not be Mom, but somebody calling about Mom. I have no idea where it comes from, but an image of making funeral arrangements and sausage rolls for the after-funeral party flashes through my mind. I sit to prepare for the shock that will put both my investigation and my life on hold. My heart races as I put my hand out to the receiver. Please, God, don’t let it be so. Don’t let anything bad happen to my mother.

I pick it up and do my best to sound calm. “Hello?”

“Joe? Is that you?”

“Mom, boy, am I glad to hear from you,” I say, the words coming out in one long clump.

“It’s your mother. I’ve been trying to ring you all day.”

I look at my answering machine. The little light isn’t flashing. “You didn’t leave any messages.”

“You know I don’t like talking to a machine.” This, of course, is a fallacy. Mom will talk to anything if the opportunity is there. “Are you coming to see me tonight, Joe?”

“It’s Wednesday.”

“I know what day it is, Joe. You don’t need to tell me what day it is. I just thought you might want to come around and visit your mother.”

“I can’t. I’ve got plans.”

“A girlfriend?”

“No.”

“Oh. I see. Well, I wish you weren’t-”

“I’m not gay, Mom.”

“You’re not? I thought that maybe-”

“What do you want, Mom?”

“I thought you might want to come and see me after I was sick all night.”

“Sick?”

“More than sick, Joe. I’ve been up all night sitting on the toilet,” she says, and already that’s more information than I needed. Before I can stop her or shoot myself she carries on. “I had stomach pains. I’ve never experienced anything like it. I was squirting water.” I look around my room for a security blanket, something to keep me in reality, to stop me from fainting. To kill the imagery. Luckily I’m sitting down. Luckily I was expecting a shock. “The diarrhea was so bad, Joe, I spent an hour running back and forth soiling my nightgown before deciding to spend the whole night in there. I ended up taking a blanket because it was cold, and I took my jigsaw puzzle in with me to stop the boredom. I actually got the other corner done. It’s looking good. You should come around and see it.”

“Good thinking,” I hear myself say.

“I didn’t even need to push, Joe. It was just falling out of me like, well, like water out of a garden hose.”

“Uh huh. Uh huh.” To me my words sound like they’re coming from a mile away.

“I felt so sick.”

“I’m sorry, Mom, I’ll come over one night soon and help, okay?”

“Okay, Joe, but-”

“I’ve really got to go, Mom. Taxi’s waiting. Love you.”

“Well, okay, Joe, I love-”

“Bye, Mom.” I hang up.

I go to the sink. Gulp down a glass of water. Rinse out my mouth and pour a second glass thinking I need something stronger, then remembering the beers I transferred from the Walker fridge. I grab one and pop it open with the Walker bottle opener. Pictures of my mother sitting on the toilet with a thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle on a board on a stool in front of her and soiled underwear around her ankles are hard to shake. Cottage. . blue sky. . flowers. . trees. I walk over to the sofa and sit down with my fish. I feed them, and a second later, the phone rings. What does she want now? To tell me how many sheets of toilet paper she used? I let the machine get it.