Chloe

by McLeish, Cleveland

  When she notices that he is alone, she frowns curiously, glancing about. She asks the obvious, and the last thing James wants to hear at the moment, no matter how good her intentions are. “Where’s Chloe?”

  James drags his feet to the kitchen table where he drags out a chair and takes a seat, visibly sulking. “Not coming.”

  Kathleen deflates, but only just. Chloe has canceled on them before, many times. The girl is often unreliable in that regard. She should have known. She looks over the quantity of food she is preparing, feeling a little cheated. The woman sighs, regaining her serene smile.

  “Hope you are really hungry,” she mentions optimistically. Although, she can tell James is more disappointed and sad than hungry. He should be. Kathleen decides not to inquire as to Chloe’s reasons. “I’m sorry honey. I know how you feel about her.”

  James laughs mirthlessly, propping his chin on his folded arms, nestled into his own pity and self-doubt. He picks at one of the placemats. “My feelings are not the problem.” He stares at the tabletop expressionlessly.

  Kathleen gently pats his back as she passes him by to close the blinds. “Only someone you love can hurt you, baby.” The words throw James’ emotions into sharp relief. “Maybe you need to tell her how you feel.”

  “She’s smart,” he mumbles. Oftentimes, Chloe is too smart. “I think she knows.” He knows she knows. James cannot help but fear that Chloe’s heart is not as entrenched as he is. He cannot help but fall farther than he can afford to every time he sees her. While James probably only has a piece of her heart, she has all of his—hook, line, and sinker.

  Kathleen pins him in place with a scolding look and a lopsided smirk. “She may assume,” she reminds him, “but she can’t know unless you tell her.” Kathleen finds it funny that, when it comes to the relationship between her son and Chloe, Chloe is the clueless one. In her experience, it is typically the other way around. “You don’t want to know you missed something beautiful because you chose to be silent.” That is Kathleen’s biggest fear. That is why she became a pastor in the first place.

  She cannot be silent.

  It is her duty to spread the word and the love of God.

  Kathleen’s cell phone, laying on the island, starts to ring to the tune of When the Saints Go Marching In. She crosses the kitchen and picks it up. She looks at the caller id and pushes the phone aside, ignoring it. Kathleen returns to the stove.

  James watches her, noting the shadows of anger that float across her face. Only half-interested, “Who are you ignoring today?”

  “Your father,” Kathleen replies blandly, covering the potatoes with a lid to retain the heat. She turns the burner temperature up.

  James sits up straighter. “Why is he calling you?” he asks, a little piqued as well. James can relate better to Chloe’s family situation than she realizes. It seems that both of their mothers were conned.

  Kathleen purses her lips. She moves to the pantry to fetch some seasoning from the lazy Susan. She turns it, picking over the labels until she selects the rosemary. “Actually, he’s been hounding me for several weeks now.” James blinks in surprise. “He wants me to move back to Jamaica to live with him. He even uses the whole ‘better harvest fields’ argument.”

  Move back to Jamaica? James echoes.

  Jamaica is a place of perverse duality. To tourists, it is a tropical paradise. To the permanent residence, it is a cage and a festering sinkhole of poverty from which they will never escape. Farming, once the principal source of income for the locals, cannot compete with the growing global commercial market. Robbed of their livelihood, citizen farmers can only watch as The Man removes them from the equation.

  “The Caribbean could use more evangelists,” James relents wryly.

  Kathleen nods. “Agreed. Gave it some consideration,” she confesses. James holds his breath. “Today changed that.”

  James’ eyebrows jump up. “One getting saved?” he links.

  Kathleen nods. “First for the year,” she clarifies. “I was beginning to think I had no effect on people.” And James knows that was killing her. What good is a pastor who cannot reach the flock?

  James puts his troubles aside, happy that his mother found fulfillment in the day’s events. “Told you to stop being so hard on yourself,” he scolds playfully.

  Kathleen’s eyes dart to him and back to the potatoes. She removes the lid and sprinkles some rosemary and salt into the water. “A church with no one getting saved is a dead church. With a dead pastor.”

  James cringes. Kathleen has never been one to beat around the bush. The trick is to make her see the situation differently.

  “Chloe was the last person anyone expected to surrender.” All things considered, James had practically consigned himself to the idea that Chloe getting saved was synonymous with the chances of fifteen people accepting Jesus in the exact same circumstances. That victory, while it was only one person, is worth a lot more to him.

  Chloe had to make the choice. James could never force it upon her.

  “Including me,” Kathleen supplies with a shallow, reticent smile. “God has a way of reminding us it’s his church.”

  “And this church needs you. Guess Jamaica isn’t an option.” James smiles on the sly.

  Kathleen scoffs. “For more reasons than one.” She shakes her head and looks at her son over her shoulder. “A leopard never changes his spots.” Such is the difference between Kathleen and Cleopatra. Kathleen knows how to make good choices. By the time Kathleen pulls the finished cake from the oven, James has regained his appetite and is ready to eat.

  •

  Back at Chloe’s house, Cleopatra and Greg sit together on the couch, spotted with beer stains and cigarette burns, watching a television program. Greg is in his uniform, as it is nearly time for his shift. His arms are draped lazily over the back of the sofa. The gun belt normally wreathing his hips lays limp on the coffee table before them. Cleopatra stares at the gun. Greg stares at her. She notices his attention and redirects her eyes towards the television.

  A talk show program is airing. Two men, a host and a writer, make their way out onto the stage, greeted by a warm round of applause. They shake hands. They both have made-for-TV faces. Moreover, they have made-for-TV personalities.

  The host, Sean Silverton, holds up a book titled The Unwanted Child.

  When the in-studio audience quiets down and settles in, “Hello and good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Here with us in studio today is author, Bobby Riley: Distinguished writer of this book, and most recent release, The Unwanted Child.” To Bobby, “Welcome Bobby.”

  There is another round of applause. Bobby waves respectfully towards the audience, assuming a cheesy grin. “Pleasure,” he tells the host. He sits back and crosses his legs at the knee.

  The host begins their session together with, “I think the most obvious question, the question we all want to know now, is are you pro or post abortion?”

  Bobby calls thoughtfulness to his face, but his reply comes easily. “Margaret Sanger says it best: ‘Ignorance breeds poverty and poverty breeds ignorance. There is only one cure for both and that is to stop breeding these things.’”

  The host narrows his eyes in a politely interested manner. He steeples his fingers, propping his elbows on the armrests of his chair. Curiously, “By ‘these things’ you mean babies, right?”

  “Tissues. Just fragments,” Bobby dismisses. “They are not babies unless they are born.” The audience starts murmuring. The host nods, but his lack of acceptance and appreciation for the controversial theory is evident on his face. Bobby addresses the skeptical audience. “Understand this: poverty exists because parents are having children they cannot provide for. It’s a vicious cycle with only one alternative,” Bobby explains.

  The host pauses for effect. He sits forward in his seat. “Do we have the authority to decide if a baby lives or dies?”

  “Tissues. Fragments,” Bobby repeats.

  “Living tissues with
a soul,” the host corrects.

  Bobby fixes him in a look that smacks of disgust and disrespect. He flits his hand through the air, fluttering his fingers. “Religious bigotry.” He smiles, met by more cheers from the studio audience. Their conversation revolves around one of the most controversial topics in the world. Bobby is prepared for resistance.

  The host folds his hands over his knee calmly. He tilts his head, maintaining his composure in spite of Bobby’s attitude. “Why is killing a baby inside the womb legal but after birth, illegal. Does that makes sense to you?” Sean is not known for keeping his opinions to himself.

  Bobby laughs, making sure it sounds strained and colors Sean awkwardly. “Sensing a bit of prejudice.” The audience chuckles.

  Sean is not finished. “No, hear me out. If sex is for pro-creation and we don’t want to procreate,” he challenges, “we should be writing books on abstinence, or the idea of saving sex for marriage. Not murder,” he states.

  Bobby shrugs. “Murder is a strong, loaded word. I would like to call it a compassionate social program.”

  The host pins him in place with a look that would hold anyone accountable. Bluntly, “A baby in a trash can outside your house makes you a psychopath; but a baby in the trash can outside an abortion clinic is a compassionate social program.”

  The live television feed is suddenly terminated due to ‘technical issues beyond their control’. The striped screen eventually cuts to commercials.

  “More like social issues beyond their control,” Cleopatra murmurs. She is deep in thought. This is a subject she is well acquainted with.

  Greg notices. “Don’t let this Jesus freak get to you,” he says, gesturing languidly towards the screen. “Studio should fire him.”

  Cleopatra’s eyes linger on the screen, though she pays no real attention to the advertisements. “I wanted to do an abortion,” she confesses. “Seemed like the right thing to do then.”

  Greg’s brief laugh is unkind. He rolls his eyes, resuming his relaxed posture. “Sure seems better than raising a child who don’t love you.” The front door opens and slams. “Speak of the devil,” Greg mumbles.

  Chloe storms in. Greg and Cleopatra look up at her. She stops abruptly in the entrance to the living room where the linoleum is seamed with the carpet. “Greg,” she acknowledges.

  “Chloe,” he replies numbly, returning his attention to the television.

  Chloe rolls her eyes, gritting her teeth enough to make the muscles in her jaw jump in protest. The urgency and dire need to have her mother’s attention and, for all intents and purposes, interrogate her frays her patience even more-so than usual. “Need to speak with ma’ mother. Alone.” She is so desperate that she even manages a, “Please.”

  The word makes Greg turn his head and look at her queerly. Chloe is surprised when he does not argue. “Gotta go to work anyway,” he mutters, shifting to sit up. Greg turns his head, leans in, and tries to kiss Cleopatra. She turns her face away. His face changes color.

  Chloe suddenly remembers what a colossal jerk he is.

  She is surprised that her mother had the courage to deny him. She does not usually do so. Greg looks at Chloe and forces a smile, flavored with hatred. Greg finds his feet, snatches the belt from the coffee table, and buckles it.

  Just as Chloe predicated, her mother is now beset by guilt, feeling bereft of his affections. “Later,” Cleopatra promises.

  “What’s the point?” Greg grumbles. He nods in Chloe’s direction. “She’ll be here.” He flashes dagger eyes at Chloe.

  Chloe folds her arms across her chest. “I’m not particularly fond of you either,” Chloe rebuts.

  “Good to know.” Greg leaves, passing her by. The front door opens and slams once again.

  Cleopatra stares forlornly at the empty hallway. “You don’t like to see me happy,” Cleopatra says to her daughter, though she does not look at her.

  Chloe feigns surprise. “Wow. You know that word? Didn’t think you did.”

  Cleopatra pins her in place with an incensed frown. “I know you don’t like ma’ taste in men. Nothing wrong with pretending.”

  Chloe’s frown deepens. “Your taste in men? Ok, mom. Let’s pretend. If you’re content with massaging fists with your face,” Chloe snaps before she can stop herself, “that’s your thing and I won’t fuss about it anymore.”

  Cleopatra surges to her feet. “You don’t talk to me like that. Don’t you dare,” she rebukes.

  But Chloe did not come to talk about this. “I saw ma’ father today!” Chloe cuts her off, raising her voice to acquire her mother’s full attention.

  Cleopatra blanches. Her jaw works as though it has come unhinged. She is clearly stunned and is not sure how to respond to such a claim. “Your father is dead,” she whispers.

  “He looked pretty alive for dead,” Chloe declares.

  Tears spring to Cleopatra’s eyes. She fists her hands as they start to quake. “It’s not enough that you try to scare off all ma’ sources of income. It’s not enough that you back-talk and sass me. No. Now you come to me with this,” she hisses as if Chloe is some sort of devil child. “What do you want from me?”

  Chloe steels herself against her mother’s reaction, no matter how difficult it is to see her so upset and know it is entirely her fault. What does she want from her? Chloe wants what anyone wants, especially from their parents and mentors. “The truth.”

  “You want to hear me say your father is alive?” Cleopatra infers, jutting her jaw out as her brow creases with a frown.

  Chloe spreads her arms helplessly. “If it’s the truth!” Chloe insists.

  “Well he’s not!” Cleopatra exclaims. Her lip quivers. She seals her lips into a grim, feeble line. Her voice breaks. “He’s dead. Let me spell it for you: D.E.D. I have just begun to accept that. You should too,” Cleopatra ricochets back.

  Chloe wants to rip her hair out for the maddening confusion that is suffocating her. She is too distraught to correct her mother’s atrocious spelling, no matter how much she knows it would cut her up to be schooled by her. “If that is true, then I’m seeing dead people.”

  Cleopatra inclines her chin. “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  Suddenly, Chloe wishes she had corrected her spelling. “I saw him! I have pictures on ma’ laptop. I know what he looks like! It was him, down to the last detail!” Chloe takes a moment to compose herself. “He knew the day I was born and where,” Chloe supplies, chancing a step forward as though it will help her cause. “He knew ma’ full name. If I was imagining him, how would he know that?”

  Cleopatra rolls her eyes as though the answer is obvious. She gestures to Chloe, bracing the other iron fist on her hip. “Because you know. If he comes from your imagination, which he does, then he knows everything about you.”

  Chloe wilts. That is probably the first logical conclusion her mother has ever come to in a time she needs her to be irrational. If Chloe created this vision, then she is losing her mind. If she is losing her mind, there is no telling what other things she has merely dreamed up. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

  Cleopatra combs her fingers through her thinning hair. “Your father died on his way to the hospital,” she reminds her. “He wouldn’t know if you were born on that day or days after. Remember? You know. It’s your illusion, your mind creating whoever it is you think you saw. You saw what you wanted to see.”

  “I know what I saw!” Chloe insists, close to tears.

  Cleopatra stalks across the room to their old wooden desk. It is missing a leg and leans against the wall like a lame dog. She fetches out a crumpled business card from one of the cracked drawer. She gives it to Chloe, thrusting it out in front of her. “Here. This is the number for a very good psychiatrist.”

  Chloe balks as though she has been smacked across the face. “I don’t need a shrink!” she stammers.

  Cleopatra is undeterred and continues as though Chloe has said nothing at all. “His name is Doctor Kenneth Ross. He helped me
out once. Go see him.”

  Chloe had no idea her mother saw a shrink. She reasons that it must have been to help her cope with losing Patrick. But if the man she saw today was her father, then Patrick never died and Cleopatra never lost him. Why would she see a shrink in that case? Chloe is thinking in circles. It is making her dizzy. “I know what I saw!” Chloe persists. “I’m not crazy.” She shakes her head.

  Cleopatra shoves the card in Chloe’s hand bag. “Chloe, if you don’t get some help, none of us in this house will ever have any peace.”

  “I’m the problem?!” Chloe chokes.

  Cleopatra folds her arms across her chest and squares her boney shoulders, flexing her parental muscles for the first time in years. “You have issues that need to be addressed.” She sounds like a different person. Where is all this coming from?

  Chloe laughs brokenly. She opens her hands and thrusts her hands towards her mother. “Is that what you and Greg discuss when I’m not here?”

  “The day you were born, I had a decision to make. The hardest decision I had to make in this life. And I did it alone. Your father was not there. He was busy dying. Took me long enough to accept that. Don’t torture me with your illusions.” Cleopatra exits the room. Chloe bangs her fist against her head, shutting her eyes so tightly that she squeezes several tears out.

  •

  The following evening, James sits alone in a dimly lit restaurant with dark, rich walls and expensive decorations. He and Chloe come here often, or as often as they can in light of Chloe’s schedule. Soft music plays overhead. Outside, the sun is setting, splashing blazing colors across the partly cloudy sky. He checks his watch. Instead of taking that rain-check back at his house, James decides to spare his mother the work and disappointment and take Chloe out to dinner.

  It is so like Sandra to keep Chloe overtime when Chloe has a prior engagement.

  Chloe rushes in from work, led by the hostess. She starts taking her hair down from the ponytail at the base of her neck and hurriedly combs her finger through her hair. James wonders if she knows how gorgeous she is. She sits opposite him.