Paul Cleave - The Cleaner

The restaurant is full of conversation, nice smells, good people, decent music, and a warm atmosphere. The waitresses all have perfect hair and trim bodies, shown off by tight clothing. Everybody else has gone to a lot of effort to look casual-jeans, tidy T-shirts, smart shoes.

Sally’s father is working away at a chicken dish, her mother tackling a salad, while Sally pushes a fork back and forth in her tortellini. The day has gone well. For the first time in ages, her father, fifty-five now, looks close to his age rather than several years beyond it. The DVD player went down well; it was no problem for her to install it, and her father spent ten minutes playing with the remote, learning how to drive it. The buttons were difficult to push with his shuddery hands, yet his frustration stayed at a minimum. Whether that will still be the case in another year, or even another few weeks, is anybody’s guess.

She stabs a few pieces of pasta and puts them into her mouth. She loves pasta. She could live on it quite happily, yet tonight her appetite isn’t allowing her to enjoy it. Her mother and father are laughing. She is happy for them, happy that for an hour or two they don’t look so empty.

When she finishes her meal, the friendly waitress who has been helping them all night comes over and sweeps away their plates, then just as quickly replaces them with dessert menus. She scans through the choices. She doesn’t really feel like any of them, and looking at the waitresses, she doubts any of them have touched any type of dessert in their entire lives. She looks up at her dad and identifies the strain in his features as he tries to keep his body under control. He won’t be able to hold on much longer, she thinks.

Sally is a few bites into a chocolate sundae when she starts to feel guilty about Joe. She hopes he wasn’t relying on her for his lunch today. Of course what makes her feel really bad is what he said this morning. Somebody like me. She hadn’t been aware till then that Joe knew people were treating him differently, and she was doing so too. Nobody else was making him lunch. Nobody else was pestering him to sit outside on the banks of the Avon River and throw stale bread at the ducks.

Two things occur to her then. The first is there’s a reason why Joe always has turned down her offer to have lunch together, or to be given a lift home. She has been treating him differently.

The second thing is that this sundae isn’t going to help her waistline. Anyway, it’s starting to taste plain. Just chilled soggy cream. She pushes her spoon around it, making it even more runny. What she needs to do, she realizes, is to make an effort to get to know Joe while pretending she isn’t making an effort. She smiles at her parents, glad they are having a good time. Her mother’s metal crucifix is hanging outside her blouse, the light from the candles glinting off it. Through everything, her parents still have their faith. Again she thinks that she can use faith to bring herself closer to Joe.

She looks back down at her sundae. Today is day one to become a better person, a more caring person, a thinner person. She pushes her dessert aside and promises herself never to touch one again.

The bed is no longer banging. It could be broken. The mattress might have worn out. Maybe they’ve moved to the floor. Maybe they’re spent. Thinking about it makes the corned beef sandwich threaten to come back up, and I’m threatening to let it. Problem is, it won’t just be the sandwich. It’ll be everything I’ve eaten for the week.

I’ve made my decision. I’m going to let God down by allowing them to live. Hey, I don’t owe Him any favors.

I leave the empty can on the table and the leftover makings of my sandwich on the bench. I’ve never been that domesticated. I’m wearing gloves. When Travers finds the can in the morning, I wonder if he will have it tested for a link with the bottles found at Angela’s house. It’s a big parallel to draw-too big for a policeman, anyway.

I don’t bother locking the front door behind me. If somebody else happens to break in and kill them, then who am I to interfere with God? I start to laugh at the thought of their faces in the morning when they see they’ve had a visitor. Laughter is the best medicine for what I’ve just been through. What will they do? Report it? No. Travers wants his secret kept. I can’t imagine him going to work tomorrow and telling everybody what happened. For a while he’s going to live in fear. As will his buddy. And so they should-mocking the Bible and humanity with their actions.

Mocking me with them.

I part company with the car a half mile from home and build up a sweat while walking the rest of the way. My briefcase feels heavy in the wet heat. Maybe one day I’ll buy a car.

When I get inside, I see two messages waiting for me, both from my mother. I erase them without listening to them, wondering two things at the same time. First, why I love my mom so much, and second, why she can’t be deleted just as easily.

I sit in front of Pickle and Jehovah and watch them as they swim in their endless cycle of memory loss. They see me, suspect I am about to feed them, so they race over. I haven’t fed them all day, so I don’t waste any time. I glance at my answering machine. Maybe Mom will call tomorrow. Ask me around for meatloaf. Show me her newest jigsaw puzzle. Give me some Coke. I look forward to it. I feel bad for not having listened to her messages.

Before going to bed I dig out an old alarm clock from the bottom of my small closet. Set it to seven thirty-five. This way I give myself a chance to wake up at seven thirty. It’s like a test. A test with a backup.

I wish my fish good night before going to bed. I close my eyes and try not to think about my mother as I wait for sleep to come and take me away from the pain of what I’ve seen tonight.

“Late night, Detective Schroder?”

“We found another body.”

What? I start scanning the corkboard. “Was she dead, Detective Schroder?”

Christchurch is overcast and gray. No sun. Lots of heat. Wet heat like yesterday. My sleeves are already rolled up. Schroder gives me a look as though I never cease to amaze him with my well of knowledge. I look back at him as if the characters from a Doctor Seuss story are dancing back and forth in my mind, singing songs and holding hands and doing what they can to keep me permanently entertained.

“Yeah. She is, Joe.”

I look up at the wall and it takes all my control to keep in the role of Slow Joe when I see her photograph. I point to it. The picture of Candy. “Is that her?”

He nods. “Name’s Lisa Houston. She was a prostitute.”

“Dangerous job, Detective Schroder. Being a cleaner is better.”

The photograph of Candy is one of those after shots that make people’s passport pictures look good in comparison, especially in this case because it was taken after two days spent in an upstairs bedroom in sweltering heat. Decomposition has not been kind to her. The skin slippage around her hair and face is extensive. Her skin is blotchy purple. Another day or so, it would be blotchy black. Her eyes are milky. Her arm is crooked and bruised. The skin on her hands looks like wet gloves.

“Did she die last night, Detective Schroder?”

“Longer than that, Joe. We’ll know exactly when later on this morning.”

The pathologist will figure out the day by examining the insect larvae growing around her battered face and torn vagina, and from the compound fracture in her broken arm, where the bone peeped through and said hello.

“You know, Joe, you really shouldn’t be seeing these sorts of pictures.”