Paul Cleave - The Cleaner

Sighing, I put a hand on her shoulder and ask her to tell me what’s wrong.

I’m worried that my neighbors will walk by and stare at me. I’m worried they might think this woman is my girlfriend. I can do much better than Sally. In fact, I already have.

“Sally? What’s wrong? Why are you here?”

“Because you live here,” she says, trying to catch her breath. I wonder where she got my address from.

“Okay. What do you want?”

She looks up and down the street, but for what I don’t know. There are only two parked cars. One’s empty. The other has two people in the front seat facing each other and talking animatedly. I figure the passenger is a hooker, and the driver a man short on cash.

“To talk. To ask you something.”

I suck in a mouthful of air and swallow it down. She’s going to cry even more when she asks her question and I have to reject her. One woman in my life is enough. Given the speed at which she pulled up, I figure she’s been busting for a while to get her feelings for me off her chest.

“Okay. What is it you want to ask?”

“I don’t want you lying to me anymore, Joe,” she says, her voice suddenly getting louder.

“What?”

“No more lies,” she says, and she adds anger to her increasing volume.

I’ve no idea where any of this is coming from, and I’m not sure what to say. I can’t figure out what she means by my lies. I didn’t even know people like her were aware when they were being lied to.

“Okay, Sally, just take a deep breath,” I say, and then, just to prove I’m just like her, I add, “Oxygen comes from trees.”

She takes in a deep breath and her face seems to settle, but only a little. I figure she’s preparing herself to ask the big question, but she probably isn’t preparing herself to receive the big rejection. I will have to tell her that it’s not that I’m not interested in having a relationship with her, it’s that I’m not interested in having a relationship with anybody. It’s times like this that I see that having women like me this much can be a curse.

It’s best to get this over with. “Okay, Sally, Joe can’t listen long. I’m on my way out.”

“But you’re just arriving!” she shouts, the frustration back on her face within seconds. “I saw you! I’ve been waiting since Friday night! I had to keep coming back, and back. I wanted to wait inside your apartment, but I couldn’t. I chose different corners to wait around. Sometimes I’d fall asleep. Sometimes I’d go home and rest a few hours. Sometimes I’d drive around the block, looking for you. I didn’t think I’d get a chance. I wouldn’t have, not on Friday night. Not yesterday either. But they don’t think you’re coming back. That’s why hardly anyone is left.”

Her face is red and puffy. It looks like she’s spent much of her waiting in tears. “They? Left? What are you talking about, Sally?” I ask, but of course she probably doesn’t know. She never does. Her world is full of kittens and puppies and good-natured, God-loving, extra-smiley people. She doesn’t have the ability to really understand anything at all. It’s probably a nice innocent life to be living if you aren’t aware of it.

She wipes a palm across her cheeks, smearing the tears.

“You have to tell me, Joe.”

“Look, Sally, take a deep breath and tell me what’s so important.”

“I want to know about your scars.”

Her comment throws me off balance. “What?”

“I was thinking about them. They didn’t look old enough to be from your childhood.”

I remember coming home Friday and feeling that things in my apartment were slightly out of whack by a few degrees. I’m getting that same feeling now. Only it isn’t my apartment, but the entire street. The entire world. I tighten my grip on the can of cat food. I take my hand off Sally’s shoulder and rest it next to my pocket. The one with the gun in it. The people in the car parked up the road are looking at us. The passenger door has opened slightly. The driver is talking on a cell phone, probably organizing another date. The hooker is getting ready to leave.

“Have I ever told you about Martin?” she asks, changing the subject. She obviously doesn’t care about the scars anymore. She’s probably even forgotten that she asked. She lifts a hand up to her face and takes another wipe at the tears.

“That’s your brother, right?”

“You used to remind me of him. But not anymore.”

“Okay. .”

“Are you really retarded, Joe?”

“What?”

“It was the parking ticket. That’s why I’m here. The address in your file at work is your mother’s address. The police had no idea where you live. But I. .”

“The police?” I ask, my stomach suddenly tightening and taking a sudden lurch downward. “What about the police?”

“The police don’t think you’re coming back. They waited, but you never showed. I told them where you lived because I’ve been here. I helped you, Joe. At work. In life. I helped heal you when you were attacked. It’s my fault more people have died since then.”

“You didn’t help me, Melissa did,” I snap, but of course she doesn’t know what I’m talking about. “Look, Sally,” I say, trying to sound calm, but the problem is I’m not calm. My voice is wavering; I feel like the world is crashing down on me. “What do you mean about the police?”

“You phoned me. I came around. I helped you, Joe.”

I look up and down the street. Cars are pulling into it from both ends. Vans too. Both doors on the parked car are open now. Neither of the occupants is a hooker. Both of them start toward us. The guy is tucking his cell phone into his pocket and reaching into his jacket for something else. Sally looks around at the noise of the sudden traffic. She looks surprised to see so many vehicles in such a crappy street. Her mention of the parking ticket and the police not knowing my address is setting off a lot of warning bells. It’s shifting the world off its axis. I unzip my jacket pocket and slip my hand inside. I look at the approaching cars and vans. I look at the couple walking toward us.

“I thought you were special,” she says, and she sounds disappointed.

“I. . I am special.”

“I can’t believe you killed them.”

I take a step back. Slow Sally has figured out something the police haven’t been able to.

“What are you talking about?” I ask, looking over her shoulder.

“You’re him. You’re the Christchurch Carver.”

I tighten my grip on the gun. I can’t use it out here because it’s too loud. But I can use it to force Sally up to my apartment, where I have other tools. Or to go for a drive in her car. Maybe somewhere scenic, like a trip into the bush. Anything. I just need to get the hell off this street.

“You’re wrong, and you can’t go around saying things like that. Look, come upstairs and. .”

“I gave them your address. I had to. What choice did I have? The house you went to on Friday, why did you burn it down?”

She glances over her shoulder in the direction I’m looking. Suddenly all the traffic comes to the same kind of screeching halt that Sally’s car came to a minute ago. The two people walking toward me start to run. The warning bells get louder. The world shifts even further, things are spiraling out of control.

“Jesus, what are you talking about?” I ask, watching the doors on the vans and cars opening. People in black clothing are starting to emerge. They start toward me. A wall of people wearing body armor. I recognize most of them.

“I’m sorry, Joe.”

“What have you done? What have you done?”

“Step away from him, Sally,” somebody yells. It’s Detective Schroder’s voice. No, this is impossible.