Chloe

by McLeish, Cleveland

  Cleopatra knows now, or at least her heart is convinced, that Patrick was the father. She can see Patrick in her. In her blond hair and her rosy cheeks. He was always the father. There was never any need to fret, never any cause to worry. Chloe opens her eyes as much as she can in her fragile first days, staring up into Cleopatra’s face with a puckered expression. Tears stream down Cleo’s cheeks.

  Utterly heartbroken, she adjusts her baby so she can see the grave. “Chloe, meet your father.” She inhales. The air stings. “Patrick Taylor,” she chokes. Cleopatra holds her baby close. She turns and walks away from the grave.

  Chapter 4

  Twenty three years later…

  A single two door car sits in the supermarket parking lot. The engine is off, but the keys are still in the ignition. James Jones waits behind the wheel, drumming his hands to the tune of the song on the radio. He is 26 with styled black hair and wintry blue eyes.

  Bruce, the nightshift security guard, finally opens the side-door. Chloe hurries out into the night, slinging her handbag over her shoulder. Her long blonde hair is tied back in a ponytail at the base of her neck. Her frame is slender, but well proportioned. She wears heavy black makeup around her lurid green eyes and a spiked choker around her neck. She also wears dark lipstick in a color she fondly refers to as Black Cherry.

  Bruce watches vigilantly, not unlike some sort of guardian angel, as she crosses the asphalt lot and gets into the car. Only then does he retreat into the store, letting the door close behind him.

  James looks across the consul at Chloe, wearing his winning smile. The expression is not returned. Then again, Chloe is not the type to go around grinning like a drunken idiot twenty four seven either. But he is. “Really hate this job,” she mumbles, slouching back into the passenger seat, picking at the black polish on her fingernails.

  James’ dark eyebrows jump up. He is quite the animated individual. She often wonders why he did not go into acting. “The job or the people?” he presses.

  Chloe’s eyebrows jump up too, but sarcastically. “Both.” She fishes her phone from the pocket of her hoodie, the stretchy cuffs of the sleeves cut with holes for her thumbs.

  James shakes his finger, ever the optimistic. “I still think I could teach you to draw plans.”

  Chloe rolls her head towards him. She regards him sarcastically, exuding more confidence than she usually feels. “So I can steal all your clients.” With a playful smirk, “Not worth it.”

  “We really don’t have enough architects in this world to meet the growing demands,” he tempts.

  “That’s your dream,” she reminds him. “I have ma’ own.” He gives her a certain look. She rolls her eyes, trying to suppress a smile. “Can we go?” Having remembered their agenda, she checks the time and adds, “Think we can make it?”

  “We’ll make it,” he assures. She believes him… until he turns the key in the ignition. The car doesn’t respond. They exchange furtive glances. James, looking sheepish, tries again, several times. The engine makes a slew of clicking and clunking noises, but refuses to turn over. James laughs nervously. He continues trying.

  •

  Meanwhile, at home, Cleopatra’s glass is empty again. She tilts the cup from side to side, balancing it precariously on its bottom rim. Her vacant eyes stare through the transparent glass into the hopeless void beyond.

  It is moments like these, when Cleopatra is alone with her thoughts, that she remembers all the things Patrick used to say to her. She remembers the way he used to touch and dote on her. She never realized how much his words of encouragement meant to her until they were gone. She wonders halfheartedly if Patrick would be proud of her for surviving this long. If nothing else, she is still alive.

  She immediately dismisses the notion with one glance around the room. Their home is in shambles. Her daughter is headed for disaster. And Cleopatra is an old, wrinkled husk of her former self. She is glad Patrick cannot see her now. He wouldn’t even recognize her. She is the reflection of clouds on a seamless lake that, while looks authentic, is not the real thing.

  Cleopatra settles back sinking into the thinly cushioned couch that is so desperately in need of replacing. She lets her mind wander into a fantasy land. She envisions what her life might be like if Patrick was alive and they were married—just the two of them. She pictures how things might be different if Patrick had lived and Chloe had died. It is a slippery slope but she manages to maintain her footholds on the way up to her falsified paradise.

  She imagines a life of luxury with fancy cars, expensive clothes, and fine dining. She imagines a world where she is the center of someone’s universe and cherished and cared for and loved. Cleopatra suspects that Greg loves her, but not in the same way Patrick did. Greg’s love its tainted, at the risk of sounding cliché. Greg’s love could much more accurately be summed up in one word: lust. Everyone needs physical pleasure. Cleopatra needs the emotional component more.

  In theory, Cleopatra could have been someone’s woman. She could have pulled herself up by her boot straps and soldiered on through the pain and purgatory. She could have said no to the alcohol and the drugs and all manner of ways of making herself synthetically happy. But she didn’t. Instead she chose to be someone’s one night stand. She chose to be someone’s back up plan: a rebound girl.

  Feeling sorry for herself is nothing new for Cleopatra. However these days she has come to realize that she has someone she can place the mantle of blame on instead of herself. All this is Chloe’s fault and it will remain Chloe’s fault.

  And Chloe should have to pay for it.

  Not her.

  •

  Eventually, the car starts. They breathe a collective sigh of relief.

  James puts the car in gear. Wryly, “Don’t say it.”

  But she does. “You can do better than this piece of junk.” He starts muttering to himself. The car peels out of the parking lot.

  James’ car pulls up to the curb of Firehouse Bar and Grill, directly aligned with the front door. Chloe hurriedly takes her hair down. She is about to get out, prepared to meet stage fright head on. Her hopes are dashed as they watch the sign on the door window spin from open to closed. The shutters are drawn. The inside does dark. Closing time. Chloe deflates, huffing a loose strand of hair away from her lips.

  “Really could have used the extra money,” she mourns.

  James should not blame himself, but he does. In fact, James assumes a great deal of responsibility on himself when it comes to Chloe. The setback with the car took them at least five minutes. Had that not happened, they would have been here before it closed, only to be kicked out again. One disappointment for another. He wants to make it up to her. His mind races. “I know another place,” he suggests. “Orion’s Club. It’s across town. They’re open late.”

  Chloe narrows her eyes incredulously. “I sense a but.”

  James cringes, lifting his meaty shoulders in earnest. He can find no better way to say, “They don’t pay.” Chloe sighs, discouraged. She starts pouting. “I could just take you home,” James offers, feeling slightly defeated on top of guilty.

  Chloe shakes her head, setting her lips into a determined line. “Orion’s Club. Could use the extra exposure.” James smiles and pulls away from the curb.

  Orion’s is a shabby little western style dive. The air is fragrant with cologne, dirt, and beer. There are two old televisions above the liquor shelves and a dusty jukebox in the far corner, no longer in working order. The bar is dotted with several high round tables ringed by mismatched chairs. It is not a full house, but a modest audience is better than none at all.

  Chloe stands at a microphone on a small lit stage, performing an original poem.

  Patrons dressed for an evening of fun sit in a semi lit area around the tables. Some stand against the walls. Mixed drinks and pints of frothing beer are being served by waitresses in short skirts, tied blouses, and cowgirl hats. They call everyone “sugar” in harsh, phony southern accents. The c
ustomers are either distracted, or just not interested in the night’s entertainment.

  Chloe takes a deep breath and makes to speak above the buzz of their chatter. Some of them glance up. One of them whistles. She begins with the title.

  “The Agony of Being Me.

  I fear I might not make it to eternity.

  Everything I touch spoils,

  Can’t seem to say it right,

  can’t stop ma’self from annoying friends,

  who say they care.

  Can’t accept ma’self,

  but expect others to

  and to ma’ best friends

  I say,

  If I don’t make it,

  it’s not because you never tried, but help—

  —didn’t come.”

  The bar has gone silent—quiet enough for her to hear the crickets outside, as cliché as it sounds. Chloe waits for applause, but only gets one. James shows his appreciation, but does so alone. The others stare, blank faced and unmoved. Chloe steps down from the stage, disappointed and flushed with embarrassment.

  After the double whammy of let-downs, James treats Chloe to ice cream from a street side vender a few blocks from Orion’s. He orders pistachio. She orders mint chocolate chip. The traffic is largely absent at this time of night, namely in this part of town so near to the outskirts of the city.

  As they stroll side by side down the sidewalk, Chloe tries to rationalize the reaction at Orion’s, or rather lack thereof. She purses her lips thoughtfully. “Maybe I need to work on ma’ delivery. Probably not enough emotions. Facial expression. Physical gestures.” This could be a problem. Unlike James, Chloe is not an animated or eccentric individual. She is mellow and a little morbid with raw talent and wry wit.

  “I liked it,” James chimes in, as if his approvable should be enough for her.

  Chloe purses her lips tighter, scolding him with her eyes. As if saying that he does not count, precisely the opposite of how James wishes their relations went, “You like everything I do.”

  James pretends to be insulted and adopts a pout. “I thought it was good,” he justifies. His smile leaps back into place. “Really solid.”

  Chloe smirks and gently bumps up against his arm. Playfully, “Your mother know you tell lies?”

  James sighs. He could not be more sincere, or more pathetic, when he confides, “Wish you could accept that I’m not just telling you what you want to hear.”

  “How is Church?” Chloe deviates, effectively nullifying his noble sentiment. She is also not an emotional person. While James wears his heart on his sleeve, Chloe is very grounded and does not subscribe to the ideals of romance. She was never boycrazy as a child. Then again, boys were never really a problem or much of a mystery either. The majority of her friends were boys from the time she was three.

  Normally James would be irritated with Chloe for changing the subject. However, this is a subject he has been trying to get her to open up about for some time. Carefully, “You ask as if you’re interested?”

  She nods. After another bite of ice cream, “Friends do that,” she dodges.

  James tries a different approach. “Mom keeps asking me about you.”

  His tactic backfires when Chloe stops in her tracks and makes a face that smacks of disbelief. She eyes James from head to toe, but not in the way he would like her to. Chloe continues to strut down the sidewalk, stuffing one hand into the pocket of her hoodie. “Your mom don’t even like me,” she practically sings.

  James blinks. He catches up with her with a few short strides. “Just not the dark side of you,” he hurries to correct. His eyes dart to her choker. “And that spike you wear around your neck.”

  Chloe sucks a drop of ice cream from her finger. “Dark helps us better appreciate light.”

  There is no arguing with her when she is in a mood like this. In fact, normally, there is no arguing with her at all. It will only result in disaster. James double checks his watch. “Night is young. Maybe we could go see a late movie.”

  She shakes her head, wrinkling her nose. “It’s late. Need ma bed.”

  James takes out two tickets and brandishes them before her with a taunting wave. As if it seals the deal, “Already bought the tickets.”

  Chloe regards him sympathetically. “Sorry. Gotta sleep for work tomorrow. I’m sure you can find someone else to go with you.”

  James assumes a disgruntled pout as he pushes the tickets back into the pocket of his denims. “Not quite the answer I was looking for.” He swings around and meanders back down the sidewalk towards the shabby lot where his car is parked.

  Chloe hurries to catch up. “I’ll make it up to you,” she promises. “Anything you want.”

  James seizes the opportunity, presented to him on a silver platter. “You can come with me to Church on Sunday.” He smiles impishly.

  Chloe grimaces and tosses her empty ice cream cone into a trash can attached to a street sign. “Except that.”

  “A kiss good night.”

  Chloe squints one eye, the grimace morphing into a playful cringe. “And that.”

  James’ expression withers. Apparently, anything he wants has a very limited scope with lots of catches. Wryly, “You would think after 20 years I would be getting some different responses by now.” He takes a bite of his ice cream.

  Chloe reaches out and squeezes his empty hand. She releases it just as quickly, just when he is about to curl his fingers around her palm, and wanders ahead. She carelessly picks her way over the concrete. She turns towards him, proceeding backwards and never faltering. “After 20 years, you still don’t see that you get the better part of me.” She flashes him a warm smirk and promptly crosses the street, waving down a taxi.

  Meanwhile, she leaves James with his melting ice cream, frozen in thought.

  •

  Cleopatra lays lasciviously draped across the couch. Her clothing grows more scant by the second. Greg stands over her. At 45, he is hairy and built like a bear. He is in dire need of a shave, and even more so of a trim, but his rugged exterior only serves to heighten her desire. He wears a Security Guard uniform with his gun strapped to his belt.

  She bites her fingers seductively, shifting her legs to tempt him. Taking the bait, he unfastens the belt with the gun. She gives a girlish giggle. She likes to be teased. Fittingly, he likes to tease. He takes off his shirt. She knots her fingers in the loops of his trousers and pulls him down. They meet in a fierce kiss. Cleopatra has nearly unfastened his pants when Chloe comes in.

  Cleopatra scrambles out from under Greg and tries to compose herself. She combs her fingers through her thinning hair and smoothes out her blouse, which she realizes too late is nearly completely unbuttoned. She hurries to correct that. Flustered, “You were not supposed to be here for another two hours.”

  Chloe looks at the two of them, too accustomed to the lewd display and her mother’s way to be disgusted anymore, and shakes her head. “People like you are why they invented bedrooms.”

  Greg fixes her in a glare. “Chloe,” he acknowledges. It is as close to a greeting as they come from him.

  “Greg,” Chloe echoes just as ferociously. She holds her ground.

  Greg holds on to Cleopatra’s arm. He leans in, closer to her ear. Lowly, “You said we would have the place to ourselves.”

  Cleopatra suppresses a shudder and pulls her arm away from him. “Things don’t always work the way we plan.” And for some reason, that elicits a dark memory.

  •

  Cleopatra is escorted into the visitation room. This time, she is speaking to her mother through a thick panel of Plexiglas. She slides into an uncushioned orange chair and picks the phone up from the receiver. On the other side of the glass, Maud does the same.

  There is a strange, delusional brightness in Maud’s face: an unsettling mask of serenity. She remembers seeing it during their last reunion, but it is much more prevalent now. She looks like she is on drugs—on cloud nine.

  “Hello sweetheart,”
Maud greets.

  “Hello mom,” Cleopatra whispers.

  “How are you?” Maud asks, gazing at her through calm eyes wreathed in relaxed wrinkles.

  Cleopatra takes a breath, hoping the air will find her words hidden at the core of her being. The reason Cleopatra came is hard to admit, even to herself. She needs her mother’s advice. She needs to unload the burden weighing on her shoulders. She wants to tell her mother about the incident and ask whether or not she should keep the child.

  “I am alright,” she lies. “I thought I would come see you. I,” she stammers. “I need some advice.”

  “Advice?” Maud repeats with a twinkle in her gaze. “You didn’t come to me for advice, even when I wasn’t in jail.” They chuckle hollowly. There is a long moment of silence.

  “Have you ever had to make a really important choice?” Cleopatra manages. “What is the hardest choice you ever had to make?”

  “Honestly?” Maud supplies. She pauses. “Selecting the weapon to end your father with.” Cleopatra’s eyes fly open, the color draining from her cheeks. Maud merely snickers. She places her elbow on the desk and lowers her chin into the palm of her hand. “Honey, I have made a lot of choices. But most of them have been easy ones. Funny enough, most of them were bad too. Weird how those correspond… It is the good choices that take the most effort.”

  Cleopatra feels sick. “Have you ever regretted any of your choices?”

  Maud considers, chewing it over. She finally draws her lips into an indolent pout and shakes her head. “I used to. But what sense is there in regret? All it did was make me old and give me grey hair. I can’t go back and change anything. The way I see it, all ma’ choices came to a head the night I killed Trevor and were then nullified by the spilling of his blood. Trevor was, in a way, the embodiment of all ma’ choices. To free ma’self, he had to go. Now, I regret nothing.”

  “So… you can rectify a wrong choice with murder?” Cleopatra asks, the wheels gradually turning in her head.