Paul Cleave - The Cleaner

When I open the bathroom door the cat races out, and I feel bad because I’d actually forgotten about him. I take a shower, clean myself up, and dress in tidy clothes, hoping Mom won’t be able to find anything in my appearance to complain about. I put the cat back into the bathroom when I finish, making him a promise that I’ll pick up some food later on tonight.

I steal a car and park a block away from Mom’s house. The sound of the beach brings a smile to my face. I imagine walking down there and going for a swim. I don’t imagine hard enough to get wet.

I’m halfway to the door when Mom opens it and comes outside. She looks better than I’ve seen her in years. Before I can even say anything, she’s hugging me. I hug her back-while subtly shielding my crotch-to stop her from clipping me over the ear.

“I’m so happy to see you, Joe.”

“I’m happy to see you too, Mom.”

She pulls away from me, but keeps her hands on my shoulders. “Walt’s taking me out to lunch tomorrow. You know, I haven’t seen Walt since the funeral, and your father’s been gone six years now.”

“Eight years, Mom.”

“Time does fly,” she says, then leads me inside.

It flies when you’re having fun. I can’t see how it could have flown for Mom, though. “So where are you going?” I ask.

“He hasn’t told me. Said it’s a surprise. He’s picking me up around eleven o’clock.”

“That’s good.”

“I’m going to go like this.” She twirls around to show me her dress, an ugly thing with long sleeves that looks like it’s been made from recycled sackcloth, then dipped in blood. “What do you think?”

“I can’t remember the last time you looked so good, or so happy, Mom.”

“You’re saying I never look happy?”

“I’m not saying that at all.”

She frowns. “So, you’re saying I never look any good, then.”

“I’m not saying that either.”

“Then what are you saying, Joe?” she snaps. “That I don’t deserve to be happy?”

“I’m not trying to say anything,” I say, “other than you look really nice. I’m sure Walt will be thrilled.”

I manage to say the right thing, because her face breaks out in a smile. “You think so?”

“He’d be crazy not to think so.”

“You don’t have a problem with it?”

“A problem? With what?”

“Your father has been gone six years now-”

“Eight.”

“And I’m only going to lunch with Walt. I’m not marrying him. I’m not asking you to call him Dad. ”

“I know that.”

She leans forward, and instead of hitting me, she hugs me again. “We have you to thank for this, Joe,” she whispers. “If it wasn’t for you, he would never have called.”

She dishes dinner. Instead of meatloaf, she’s cooked up one of the chickens she bought on special last week. It’s too damn big for two people, but she’ll throw half of it into the fridge as leftovers. Thankfully she’s cooked the chicken to perfection. It’s one thing my mother manages to get right. It’s juicy and full of flavor, and chicken fat starts dripping down my fingers.

“I’ll ring you tomorrow night, Joe, and tell you all about our lunch.”

“Uh huh.”

“Maybe this weekend the three of us can go out for dinner. Would you like that?”

“Sure. That’d be nice,” I say, unable to think of anything worse. I clutch at a napkin Mom gave me. She’s always saying I’m a sloppy eater.

She takes the empty plates and begins to clean up. I wrap some chicken into a napkin and put it into my briefcase for the cat. My hands are covered in chicken fat.

“I’m just going to wash my hands, okay, Mom?”

“Good boy, Joe.”

I walk to the bathroom, eating a piece of chicken on the way. Stepping past the toilet brings images of her sitting in there with her nightgown hitched up around her waist, her glasses resting on the tip of her nose as she puts a few more pieces of her jigsaw puzzle into place. I crouch to my knees and hang my head, focus my eyes on the bath mat. The nausea starts to fade. When I turn on the bathroom light, my hand slips from the switch. I pull back the shower curtain. Mom has one of those combined shower baths, but she always uses the shower. I try to turn on the tap, but my hands keep slipping off it, so I crouch down and begin smearing the chicken fat at the end of the bath instead. I spend a minute spreading it out, covering a good-sized area. It comes off my fingers easily enough, and off my palms. It’s clear too, so Mom won’t notice the mess. The only way she’ll see it is if the angle and light are just right. I eat the rest of the chicken. It’s cold now. I grab the tap, and this time it turns easily enough. I wash my hands, then head back to the kitchen.

“Walt was so nice on the phone, Joe.”

Walt. I’m regretting letting him go. “He seemed nice, Mom.”

I sit at the dining table while she finishes off the dishes. I offer to dry them, but she says no. I keep watching her, wondering how this could be the woman who gave me life. How can she think I’m gay? What have I done to this woman to make her possibly think that? I’m her son, and she won’t even give me the benefit of the doubt.

I’m not gay, Mom. I’m not gay.

She drones on about Walt for another hour or so before finally letting me leave. As I stand on the doorstep, surrounded by night and the sound of the beach and by the muggy air touching my damp skin, I glance up at the stars, all of them overlooking my mother. One day her spirit will be floating up there, finding Heaven and finding God. She’ll be off to talk to Dad again.

I start grinning. Both God and Dad are going to be in for a hard time.

I give her a hug before I go. I’ll miss her.

I park the same stolen car a block from home. Friday is quickly approaching and. .

Jesus Christ!

I drop my briefcase and run over to the goldfish bowl. Some of the knives slip out of their restraints and they sound like drum cymbals being smashed. I put both hands onto the glass bowl. The water inside is murky. A few dozen scales are floating on the surface. I thrust my hand in and grope for either of my fish and, while I’m searching, I find them with my eyes. One is in front of my bed. The other near the kitchen. Each is covered in bloodless scratches. Melissa’s message is obvious.

I make my way over to Pickle when the cat runs out from beneath the bed, hooks the dead fish in its claws, fires it across the room, chases it, gets it in its mouth, then runs back toward the bed. The fish falls from its mouth, but the cat keeps on running, either knowing it’s been spotted and is about to be in a world of trouble, or still thinking it has the fish in its mouth. Either way, it’s running as if its leg was never broken, and I realize that Melissa hasn’t done this at all.

“Fucking cat,” I yell, striding over to Pickle and kneeling down next to him. He looks dead. I pick him up-he’s cold, but fish are cold anyway, right? I carry him over to the fishbowl and drop him in, hoping I have him back there in time. I pick up Jehovah, and carry her over and drop her in. Pickle is already floating on his side. A few seconds later, Jehovah joins him.

I swirl them around in the water, pushing them forward into a forced swim, and then I press on their little chests, and even though it seems none of this is of any use, I persist for another ten minutes before finally giving up. I whirl around and face the bed. This fucking expensive cat has killed my two best friends. I storm over, grip the edges of the bed, and lift it up on its side. A whole bunch of crap falls onto the floor. The mattress slides off and so do all the sheets. My groin is starting to hurt, but not as much as my heart. The cat looks up at me with shock, its head is tilted and its eyes wide open. When I lean down to pick it up, it backs away. Its ears are pricked back and it looks ready to kill me. I lean forward and try to stomp on its back, but it sees this and stops just before me, forcing me to stretch forward to correct my aim, and as I do, my groin screams out in pain. I stomp on the floor where the cat has just been, and the shooting pain in my phantom testicle drops me to my knees.