by Paul Cleave
As I approach her, Melissa stops watching me, as if I’m not even important enough for her to keep an eye on, and she doesn’t look back up at me until I’m only a meter away. I become aware of how painful my crotch still is. Like the remaining testicle is feeling pangs of loss, and is now feeling fear being in the presence of the woman who took away its brother. She remains sitting. My heart is beating hard, in time with my throbbing testicle. I can’t fathom why I’m suddenly so afraid.
“Take a seat, Joe.” She keeps a tight hold of her smile.
I shake my head. “Next to you? You’re kidding.”
“You still upset with me? Come on, Joe. It’s time to move on.”
Move on? I heard that after Dad died. People hear it all the time. Calhoun probably heard it after his son hanged himself. Are we living in such a throwaway society that we’re not even allowed to hang on to our hatred and remorse? I want to leap forward and show her that I’ll move on once I’ve taken care of a few things. But I can’t. Too many people around. Too many risks. Even if I could break her neck and get away, I have no idea where my gun is. I’m guessing it’s with somebody who will send it to the police if something ever happens to her.
“Quite the job you have, Joe.”
I shrug. I see where she’s going with this, but force her to carry on.
“The cleaner at the police station. That must allow you access to some privileged information-evidence, reports, photographs. It must be fun seeing where the investigations are going. Tell me, did you ever want to become a cop? Did you try and fail? Or not try because you knew they’d realize what sick thoughts you harbored?”
“How about you, Melissa? Did you ever try?”
“Do you ever try to contaminate the evidence?”
If this is all she has to say, then I’m not in any trouble. “You’re jealous.”
“Of you?”
“Of me working among all those cops, all that information.”
She raises her left hand to her lips and begins rubbing her finger slowly back and forth, the same way she did the other night. She moistens her finger and keeps rubbing. Then she quickly pulls it away, brushes it against her chest on the way down, and rests it in her lap.
“We’re not that different, you and I, Joe.”
“I doubt that.”
“Do you notice the smell in there?”
“What smell?”
“Working there every day, you’re probably used to it. But there’s this smell in there. Smells slightly like sweat and damp blood, but it’s power. Power and control.”
“It’s the air-conditioning.”
“It was fun in there today, Joe. I got to see something you see every day. Seems like menial work for somebody like yourself.”
“I do it for the love of the job.”
“Does it pay well?”
“Does it need to?”
“You know what confuses me?” she asks.
“Several things?”
Her smile stretches. “How you can afford an expensive gun, nice clothes, a good watch, yet you live in a rat hole of an apartment.”
I hate the fact that she’s been in my apartment. I hate the fact that this is the woman who tidied up my messy wound. No way in hell am I going to thank her for that. “I have a good accountant.”
“Being a cleaner pays well, huh?”
“It pays the bills.”
“Lucky you earn cash from other areas.”
“What’s your point?”
“My point is you must have some money stored away.”
“I have a couple of hundred dollars. Why?”
“Bullshit, Joe. How much you got?”
“I just told you.”
“No you didn’t. It’s time you were honest with your partner, Joe.”
“What?” I ask, and suddenly I know what game we’re playing.
“You heard,” she says.
“Obviously I didn’t.”
She rolls her head back and laughs. Hard. This really pisses me off. Nobody’s laughed at me like that since those days at school when the laughter accompanied the words Numb Nuts everywhere I went. Other people are looking around. Nothing I can do but wait her out. Finally she finishes. “We’re partners, Joe, whether you like it or not. Especially after what I’ve just done for you.”
“And what’s that?”
“Given the police a composite of what you look like.”
I tighten my fists.
“Calm down, big guy. I gave them a description of somebody else.”
“Why?” But I know the answer: it’s because she wants money.
“Why not?”
“Stop being so damn evasive,” I say.
“You don’t like it? What do you like, Joe?”
“How about I tell you what I’d like to do?”
“I can imagine. You know,” she says, “it was nice to go in there and talk to the detectives, to see for myself just how smart they really are, or, in this case, just how smart they aren’t. They’re easier to fool than I could ever have imagined. I always saw them differently, I guess. But they’re just people, Joe. Real people, like you and me. I guess that’s why you’re so successful. It was disappointing, really. In a way.”
“I’m not sure there’s anybody like you and me,” I say.
Slowly she nods. “I guess you’re right.”
“So why did you do it? Why go in there?”
“For the money.”
“We’re back to that, huh? You really ought to start listening. Let me explain it a little slower for you. I. Don’t. Have. Any. Money.”
“Come now, Joe, don’t be so modest. I’m sure that if you don’t have any money, a man of your abilities would be able to get money. A hundred grand should do.”
“You’ve seen my place. How do you suggest I get that kind of money?”
“You seem to be full of questions, Joe, when you should only be full of answers. Yes and no. That’s all I want to hear from you.”
“Look, it just isn’t possible to raise that kind of cash.”
“You could always turn yourself in. That’d cover half.”
Melissa is referring to the fifty-thousand-dollar government reward available to whoever provides the information that gets me caught. I can’t believe it’s so little, and surely it can’t stay that way. If Melissa wanted that kind of cash, she would have turned me in already. Either it isn’t about the money, or she’s waiting for it to climb up in value before she turns me in. She’ll just torment me and make some cash on the side first. I’m just an investment for her. It’s like she’s buying a piece of stock.
“I’m going to kill you. You do know that, don’t you?” I tell her.
“You know, Joe, I’m going to enjoy working with you. You really are quite a laugh.” She stands up, straightens her tailored outfit, sweeps her hair back. She’s so beautiful it’s heartbreaking. I wish she were dead. She hands me a box.
“What’s this?”
“A cell phone. Keep it on you, because I’ll be calling in a couple of days.”
“When?”
“Five o’clock. Friday.”
I look at the box. The phone is brand new. I wonder if she bought it with cash she stole from the dead hooker.
“You know, Joe, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful relationship. Isn’t that what they say?”
It isn’t what I say. So I tell her to go to hell.
“Obviously, it goes without saying that if anything should happen to me, the remaining evidence I have on you goes directly to the police, along with a detailed statement.”
Sure. It isn’t the only thing that goes without saying. Obviously I’m going to kill this woman at some point. I just need to do my homework first. That’s something I’m good at. Life’s all about homework. And I have until Friday at five o’clock to get my assignment done. She starts telling me the rules of her game. I’m to charge the phone when I get home because she’ll be in touch. She reminds me that she still ha
s my gun, which has my fingerprints on it. It can be used as a future murder weapon. She tells me she wiped my fingerprints off the knife before telling the police where they could find it, but it doesn’t brighten this nightmare.
After she walks away, I stare at the water, drumming my fingers against the top of my briefcase while watching the birds. I tap some rhythm that I’ve never heard before. It seems my life is following that rhythm. Some of the ducks look back at me. Perhaps they want money too.
One hundred thousand dollars is an amount I can’t fully comprehend, and I already know I’ll never be able to raise it. Does Melissa know that too? Even if by some miracle I could get the money, nothing is stopping her from asking me for more in another year, or another month, or even another day.
The bus driver is some bored forty-year-old guy who wears a hearing aid and yells Hello at me as I get on, and Have a nice day when I leave, even though the day is winding down. When I get home the light on my answering machine is flashing. I push it, only to hear my mother’s voice, insisting I go around there for dinner tonight. When she insists, it’s best I go. She also tells me Walt Chadwick called and asked her out for dinner. She’s accepted, and tells me of their entire phone call until my machine eagerly runs out of tape.
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 w
ay, 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.
Puss stops in the center of the room and sits down. He looks at me silently. His ears are no longer pricked back. I loosely cup my remaining testicle. Okay. Time to change tactics.
“Here, kitty. Come on, fella. I just want to pet you.” I start clicking my Goddamn fingers because it seems to be the sort of thing that cats like. I keep clicking them, and in my mind a movie plays with me in the leading role, wringing the stupid cat’s neck. The cat must be watching the same movie, because it won’t come near me. I make my way toward my briefcase. Both the cat and I look at the knife I pull out, and both of us know what it can do. It knows I’m about to test the adage and see just how many ways I can skin the little bastard. I can see the reflection of my eyes in the blade. For a few seconds I just keep looking at them, and all I can think of is how I have my father’s eyes. Thinking of Dad makes me feel suddenly sadder at losing those I love, and then I get angry at the cat for making me feel sad.