Chloe

by McLeish, Cleveland

  “Not yet,” she repeats. It is a strange way to answer his questions. He supposes it means she plans on it.

  James practically flops back into bed, beset by relief. “Thank God.”

  Chloe laughs, hurriedly settling a hand on her stack of papers so they do not go sliding all over the place. She hasn’t laughed in a while. James sits up, briefly sharing in the laugh that is gradually tapering off. They stare into each other’s eyes. James’ eyes start to trace the telling path between Chloe’s eyes and her lips. He moves his lips closer to hers. She pulls away.

  “What are you doing?” she asks, eyeing him suspiciously.

  James laughs nervously and rights himself. He rubs the back of his neck, kicking himself inside. When it comes to Chloe, everything backfires. Embarrassed, “May have misread that. Thought we were about to kiss.”

  Chloe watches him from the corners of her eyes, trying to keep the heat out of her cheeks. “Why would you think that?”

  Sometimes, James just wants to shake her. And then kiss some sense into her. “Nothing,” he mutters, shaking his head while he maintains some semblance of a smile.

  As if he does not already know, “Best friends don’t kiss,” she reminds him.

  Lovelorn, “I know.”

  Chloe narrows her bright eyes. “Is there something you want to tell me, James?”

  You don’t want to know you missed something beautiful because you chose to be silent, he hears his mother say.

  And Chloe is so beautiful…

  James considers pouring his heart out—a scene he has envisioned many times before, on bended knee even. It does not feel like the right time. Then again, how should he know? Every move he has ever made has been at the wrong time. Every time is the wrong time. Besides, the way she asks that question presents him with the truth: She does know. She has probably known for some time.

  James picks up a few sheets from Chloe’s pile of work. “Are these all poems?” His eyes dart over the prose.

  “Short stories,” Chloe explains. “One novella. Think the novella would make a good movie.” She smiles excitedly.

  “A movie?” James repeats, recalling the two tickets he never uses, still collecting dust in his dresser drawer.

  “Yeah,” she celebrates. “Gonna’ stop at the book store and get some books on writing a movie script.” Her eyes practically sparkle like precious gems just beyond his reach.

  “Love your enthusiasm,” he encourages. Chloe can do anything. Of this, he is certain.

  “Only ma’ enthusiasm?” she asks, gently nudging his arm with her elbow. It is as though she is trying to get him to pour his heart out. He is probably reading too much into it. As well as Chloe writes, she is impossible for him to read. Not the work. The girl.

  So James smiles, but remains silent.

  •

  The bookstore is largely empty this afternoon. So is the complementary newspaper rack. The small coffee corner along the wall is closing shop for the day. A barista clears out the bakery display, putting the pastries, cookies, and bagels away so they will not spoil for the following morning. Soothing alternative music plays from the speakers situated in the corners of the ceiling as the world gradually winds down.

  Chloe browses through the playwriting and screenwriting sections, searching for several books on technique and formatting. She has a mind to try it. If she fails, she fails. She is having trouble deciding between several selections. More than once, she puts a book back on the shelf only to take it out again. She holds one in each hand, her attention volleying between them as though her body is a measuring scale of sorts.

  Meanwhile, the cashier is watching her from the front counter. She is young, tall, and slender with an array of piercings and a creative up-do. The right side of her head is buzzed to the skull. Her double shift is just about over and she is itching to go home. She stands, chewing her gum lazily. Her nametag reads Beth.

  Chloe decides on a few titles and hopes she will not regret buying them. It is not a waste of money if she plans to use them, right? Even as she reaches for her final decisions, she feels uncertain.

  She extracts two copies from the shelf, creating a space big enough to see the adjoining aisle, and the face of Patrick staring back at her. Chloe startles, nearly dropping the books. Clutching them tight against her chest, she quickly goes around to the other isle and peeks around the corner, but there is no one there. Chloe’s brows knit together. Finally, she shrugs.

  Chloe heads over to the cashier who greets her with a tight smile and starts scanning the books one at a time. Chloe drums her fingers on the counter, her eyes watching the price screen and the growing dollar amount. She turns her head and glances back down the aisle again. Patrick is standing at the end. He steps behind the shelf, out of sight. Chloe races back down the aisle, searching for him wildly. Beth, holding the scanner in one hand and a book in the other, is no longer smiling.

  Chloe reaches the end of the aisle. She looks in both directions, scanning the immediate area for any sign of her phantom father. Again, she finds no one. Discouraged and confused, Chloe treks back to the check-out counter, dragging her feet. She starts fishing for her wallet when Beth hands her the books, already packaged and ready to go.

  “How much?” Chloe asks, shifting the stack to her hip as she fumbles through her wallet, past old receipts and coupons that have gone unused.

  Beth blows a bubble with her baby blue gum. Chloe can smell the cotton candy flavor. She smacks the gum for a moment. Deadpan, “Already paid for.”

  Chloe looks up and meets her eyes. She frowns and blinks, waiting to see if the mistake will register with Beth. It doesn’t. “I don’t remember paying you,” she prompts.

  “You didn’t,” she declares simply, as though it should be obvious. Beth directs Chloe’s attention towards the door with a deliberate point of her finger. “He did.” Chloe knows who Beth is referring to before she even looks. Patrick is standing within view outside of the glass double doors. He is waiting by the side of the busy roadway, standing casually with his hands in the pockets of his blue jeans. Steady traffic zooms past him, which is typical during rush hour. Chloe closes her wallet.

  Chloe’s feet carry her out of the bookstore, flanked by the cheerful door-chime. She moves to join her father on the curb. The weather is balmy, buffered by a light breeze. It is all so surreal. This feels so ridiculously trivial, standing out here in the middle of plain-as-white-rice ordinary reality with him when he is supposed to be some mysterious, spectral being. She wonders if the people zooming by in their cars can see him, and if they can, if they have any grasp of the gravity of that.

  Do they have any inkling whatsoever of the implications his mere presence entails? The effect it has on her life?

  She gives him a quizzical once-over, managing to restrain herself from succumbing to the urge to reach out and poke and prod him. Beth can see him. He has substance enough to make a purchase. “You’re not a figment of ma’ imagination… are you?” she asks.

  “Afraid not,” Patrick says, turning his head and leveling her with a melancholy smirk.

  Chloe shakes her head and combs her fingers through her hair. She does not know how to respond. It almost feels like he is upset not to be just a figment. Or perhaps he is just less than thrilled to be standing here with her at all. That must be it. Chloe glances down at the books in her arms.

  “What do you want from me?” she asks softly.

  “This is not your life, Chloe,” he declares. “We are all trapped in an endless, meaningless cycle. None of us are free. Nothing is as it seems.”

  Chloe balks, narrowing her eyes and regarding Patrick in a completely different light. Trapped. She hates that word. It frightens her. She wants freedom. That is why she writes. “I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Patrick shrugs. “Guess I’ll just have to show you.”

  Before Chloe can ask him how he plans to do that, Patrick steps off of the curb and out into the
path of an oncoming bus. Chloe screams, the books spilling out of her arms. A horn blares. Breaks screech. The bus slams into Patrick.

  Chloe awakens in a cold sweat. She sits up in bed with a start and a shriek on the tip of her tongue. She frantically wipes her face, checking herself over, looking for blood. It is clean. In fact, nothing is amiss at all. Her room looks perfectly normal. Chloe exhales a great sigh of relief and flops back into bed and scrubs her face with her hands.

  She takes slow breaths to calm her hammering heart. She stretches. Her knuckles brush against a stack of books. She turns her head to discover the same books she picked up in the book store, in what she had only seconds beforehand convinced herself was only a dream. Chloe gawks in shock, struggling with what to think or say.

  Chloe’s phone beeps, alerting her of an incoming text message. She picks up the phone and thumbs the prompt open. The text message is from James.

  “Dinner. My Place. 7PM.”

  Chloe glances at the clock beside her bed, reading 7:00AM in big red block letters. She has to be ready for work in a few hours. There is no possible way she could sleep now. She sighs, sets her phone aside, and gets out of bed.

  Chapter 9

  The supermarket bathroom is done in forest green tiles that reflect the fluorescent lighting like a turtle’s shell reflects the sun. Night has arrived and so has the end of Chloe’s shift. Chloe is freshening up in front of the mirror, getting ready to leave for dinner with James and his mother. She reapplies her make-up and fixes her hair. Chloe’s eyes drift down to her spiked collar. She remembers James mentioning something about how it scares his mom, or rather that she does not like it. Being that she is going over for dinner at their house, she should be mindful of Kathleen’s feelings. She takes it off and finds, strangely enough, that she does not miss it. Chloe stuffs it in her bag.

  Everything is on the up and up… until Sandra strolls in.

  “Need you to do stock taking tonight,” Sandra informs her with her special brand of animosity.

  Chloe gestures to her things and the fact that she is no longer in uniform. “Was just about to leave,” she starts with a sinking stomach.

  Sandra cuts in quickly, raising her hands. “You took a day off this week. Been late a few mornings. Taking extended lunch breaks. Leaving work excessively early… You’re doing stock taking tonight.”

  Chloe scrambles for the right thing to say. She highly doubts Sandra has any sympathy for her, no matter how many times she has missed dinner with James and Kathleen. “Can’t I just do it tomorrow?”

  Sandra, swollen hands finding her stalky hips, pretends to think it over. Sharply, “No. But you could quit.”

  Sandra leaves, flashing Chloe a catty smile over her shoulder on the way out. Chloe takes out her phone. She calls James.

  The operator comes on with a, “You have no credit to make this call.” And Chloe hates how happy the automated voice sounds about it.

  Chloe throws down the phone, dislodging the battery and sending it sliding over the counter. She balls up her fist and hits it against the mirror. Luckily, the impact is not hard enough to break the glass. Lord knows Sandra would make her pay for that too. Then again, maybe having a bloodied up hand would get her out of stocking.

  Is the entire world united against her?!

  •

  James and Kathleen are at the dining room table. James looks at his watch, nervously chewing on the corner of his lips. The food is prepared and laid out before them: salmon, asparagus, baked peaches, and buttered crescent rolls.

  James looks at the empty seat next to him… and sighs.

  “She’s not coming,” he concludes dourly. “Work.” Or at least, that is the default reason. He hopes that is why she would pull yet another no-show after yet another invitation. James cannot find it in his heart to be angry about it anymore. It has happened once too often and he is growing numb to the disappointment.

  “You should shoot her a text,” Kathleen suggests, reaching across the tablecloth to lay her hand over his.

  James laughs shortly. “Why?”

  Kathleen fixes him in a perceptive stare, pursing her lips. She pats his hand consolingly. “So she knows you are understanding.” She adopts a kind smile. “Tell her we’re rescheduling dinner for Sunday.”

  James turns his hand over and gives her hand a squeeze. He sits up and takes the bowl of steamed asparagus with both hands. “I’ll do it later. Now we eat.” James helps himself to a serving.

  Kathleen cannot help but mark this as a rather significant moment. It is the first time she can recall that she has witnessed James put Chloe second. She shakes her head softly, wearing a disheartened expression. If that girl does not step up, she might lose him. And that would be a tragedy indeed. He is such a good young man…

  Maybe Chloe losing him is precisely how it should be.

  •

  An old purple Sentra pulls up into the driveway and Cleopatra climbs out of the passenger side. She shuts the door and waves at the driver—her shopping friend, Rachel. She cannot tell if she is waving back because the windows are so heavily tinted. (Rachel’s boyfriend is involved in a number of shady things. He usually uses this car.) Plus, the porch light is busted.

  Rachel pulls out of the driveway and speeds down the street.

  Cleopatra rummages in her bag for her house keys. She unlocks the front door and walks into the house. She does not notice that Greg is watching through a window. He releases the curtain. Cleopatra closes the door, locks up, and puts her keys back in her bag. She drops the shopping sack from a nearby thrift store on the kitchen counter. Greg is standing by the coach drinking.

  “Who was that?” he asks, swirling the last of the contents of his bottle of Jim Bean.

  His tone immediately puts Cleopatra on the defensive. “Excuse me?”

  Greg sways slightly, gesturing with a fling of his arm towards the window. “Whose car did you just step out of?”

  Cleopatra glances at the window and then back to Greg. She rolls her eyes and shrugs her purse off of her shoulder, letting it fall and slump onto the couch. Flippantly, “You’re drunk. And you’re overreacting.”

  Greg scoffs, cocking his jaw out of alignment and shaking his head. And she knows then that she has said precisely the wrong thing. “Knew it was just a matter of time.”

  “It was a taxi,” Cleopatra dismisses. It is a lie, but telling Greg she was out shopping with one of her girlfriends, or rather her only friend that is a girl, will only heighten his anger too, especially when he has been drinking. The story is more unlikely than a taxi. Again, the attempt to mitigate the situation and keep things from escalating backfires. It always does.

  “All the sudden we have money for a taxi?” he challenges. “You think I’m a fool don’t you?”

  Cleopatra assumes a gentle, consoling tone. Her steps carry her towards him. She means to butter him up with a smile and the sultry sway in her hips. “Baby, you’re not thinking straight.”

  Greg swiftly backhands her. She yelps, falling into the couch and clutching her cheek. He looms over her. “You look thirsty,” he comments with a sinister glint in his eyes. Greg’s hand juts out, planting his sweaty palm squarely in the center of her chest so he can shove her against the cushions. He promptly sticks the mouth of the bottle between her lips and tips the back up, dumping fluid into her mouth.

  Cleopatra has no choice but to drink. She swallows and gags on the pungent, unforgiving alcohol. It burns in the worst possible manner all the way down her throat.

  “See?” Greg remarks snidely, spreading his arms. “I’m not such a bad guy. I share my stuff with you.” His demeanor darkens, as though there is a cloud over him. He lays his hand on the couch cushion beside Cleopatra’s head. Leaning in close, “Who you been sharing your stuff with?” His breath reeks of alcohol.

  “Get off of her!” Chloe exclaims.

  Greg turns to see Chloe standing by the door, holding her purse in her hand as though it is a weapon. She
must have arrived not a moment after Cleopatra did. “Hello, prodigal daughter,” Greg growls. “Now the whole family is here.”

  “You are not ma’ father. And you are not part of this family,” Chloe hisses, outraged. The Taylors are already pretty screwed up. They do not need another loose cannon like Greg.

  Cleopatra pushes Greg hard and he falls backward into their small coffee table. Greg surges to his feet, glass still falling from his ragged clothing. He seizes Cleopatra by the arm and reels her towards him like a fish on a lure.

  Just then, Chloe hits him over the head with her bag. A trail of blood leaks down his face. There is a dazed look in his eyes. Greg snatches her bag, ripping it out of her hands, and empties it onto the floor. A stone from the yard falls out, along with a wallet, chapstick, and an assortment of makeup.

  Greg reaches up and touches his face. His fingers come away stained in glossy warm red.

  “You made me bleed,” he sneers, the tempest that is his anger now directed at Chloe. Greg grabs Chloe up and slaps her across the face. Chloe’s head snaps aside, her hair falling over her shoulder. Cleopatra quickly picks up the stone and hits Greg’s head a second time. He falls to the floor amidst the makeup and glass, utterly unconscious.

  “You ok?” Chloe asks her mother, rubbing her cheek.

  Cleopatra inclines her chin, her attention darting to Chloe in fleeting, shamed glances. She cannot make eye contact for very long. Even now, the words from their last fight are ringing in her head. Is being abused her thing?

  “Had it under control,” Cleopatra quips.

  Chloe rolls her eyes. She kneels and starts collecting her things, dropping them back into her purse. “I know you did.” And Cleopatra is sure she is mocking her.

  Meanwhile, Cleopatra takes out a pack of cigarettes from her back pocket. She brings one to her mouth, taking it between her lips. Chloe quickly snatches it away. She also relieves her mother of the carton. “This is still ma’ house,” Cleopatra protests, incensed. “I will smoke if I want to!”