Chloe

by McLeish, Cleveland

  Chloe squares her shoulders, undeterred. “Not on ma’ watch.”

  Cleopatra rolls her eyes and motions to her daughter, clearly irritated and not in the mood to fight over a cigarette. It will ease her nerves. She needs it. She needs that and a strong drink. “You used to smoke,” she defends. In fact, “I found that pack in your room!”

  Chloe shoves the fresh cigarette and the carton into her purse with the rest of the clutter. The idea that the girl means to throw them away royally upsets Cleo. So does, “I used to do a lot of things, mom.”

  Cleopatra spreads her arms, fingers splayed to add theatrics. Mockingly, “Oh. I forgot. You found Jesus. Well, hoorah. Good for you.”

  Chloe looks stung. “Why do you hate me so much?” she whispers.

  Her mother blinks, drawing her face into a frown. It upsets her that Chloe would even think that, but not quite as much as the fact that the girl took away her crutch in her own house. “I don’t.” Cleopatra folds her arms tightly, as she has nothing to do with her hands without the cigarette and it is practically driving her nuts. “It’s just that… you remind me of him. You remind me of your father.”

  Chloe meets her eyes. “Do you still love him?”

  The question catches her completely off guard.

  This is a deep, painful subject, one so profound she cannot bring herself to entertain it aloud. This single question strikes Cleopatra like an oncoming train… or a ton of bricks. Her own questions are quick to avalanche in its wake.

  What difference does it make? Why would she want to know that? Would it change the way Chloe sees her? Thinks of her?

  Cleopatra stares at her daughter, afraid more so of her own answer, of looking into her own heart, than witnessing Chloe’s reaction. What wretched thing will lurch out of the long dead organ? Admitting this to Chloe means admitting it to herself. The woman lowers herself onto the edge of the sofa, afraid her legs cannot weather the storm her heart has endured. She begins to search for the answer in the floor.

  Cleopatra often reminisces, in the secret corners of her heart, about the time she shared with Patrick. She remembers his thousand watt smile and the ridiculous lengths he would go to bring a less vibrant version to her face.

  A cross necklace. Spaghetti dinners. Unopened cans of paint.

  He was always there for her, to the end, with a devotion and tenaciousness no other man could possibly match. Though theirs was a short romance, it was strong enough to live inside her for eternity. For any living creature to hold a candle to Patrick and his memory is an impossible feat. She is glad he cannot see her now. She can still see it. She can see it all.

  Patrick moves his chair closer to hers, sitting on the edge. He refuses to relinquish her hand. “I know we can do this,” he whispers.

  Cleopatra’s voice breaks. “I want to believe you. You have been there for me in more ways than I deserve.”

  Patrick regards her lovingly. “That will never change, Cleo.”

  She sniffs. She turns her head and meets his eyes, her face a picture of anguish. Forlornly, “No one else calls me that.”

  Cleopatra reluctantly returns to their living room, tearing herself out of the marvelous and heart wrenching memory. She exhales a sigh she has held in for decades—a weary sound that punctuates her age. Her shoulders sag as she withers.

  “Never stopped,” she whispers, unconsciously twisting her fingertips over her ring finger, where an engagement ring should be. It would be a wedding ring now. Numbly, “The pain never stopped either.”

  The pain. The pain she drowns in alcohol and masks with cigarette smoke. The choking, biting, bitter ache in her chest that never goes away. The pain is inescapable.

  The pain is a cage.

  Cleopatra combs her hand back through her hair, suppressing the tears that threaten her eyes. Every limb feels heavy and stiff, like a doll left to starve for attention in a closet corner. Years of stagnation and starch, fettering her in place.

  “I know you think I can do better with ma’ choice of men.” She shrugs haphazardly. “Maybe I can… but,” But Chloe is too young to comprehend this—to feel the absolute truth in her words. She speaks from experience. While Cleopatra is ill educated in matters of finance and business, she is well versed in those of the heart. But she knows she cannot impart this wisdom on her daughter and expect her to understand.

  Chloe must experience it for herself.

  There is a part of Cleopatra that hopes Chloe does, just so she can look back on this day and realize that her mother was right about something. Perhaps Chloe would finally cut her a break. Yet, there is an even bigger part of her that hopes for the opposite. She would never wish this pain on someone else.

  “It’s easier to lose a worm than a good man,” she confesses.

  Chloe ventures two steps towards her. “I had a recent experience at church.” Cleopatra knows all about ‘the experience’. Patrick would share his testimony as well as the testimony of others with her. Even then, she could not understand how the man could cling so fiercely to a God who took away his parents. She does not grasp how Chloe can feel the same after the life she has had to lead. “I discovered love I still think I don’t deserve,” Chloe says.

  Cleopatra does not think “He” sounds very loving.

  “Still don’t understand how a Supreme being could leave His throne to die for people like me… and people like you too. Fact is, He did.”

  After this, Cleopatra also thinks Chloe should stick to sharing by example. She is not a very compelling Evangelist. Not like Patrick. Patrick could turn anyone’s heart into warm butter. Yet, Chloe is young enough to see hope in things like God—something to believe in, something to look forward to. Cleopatra rings her hands, pressing firmly into her palms with her thumbs.

  “I see you changing,” she assures her, “and I envy you.”

  Chloe blanches. Her mother… envies her? She could not possibly have heard that right. Never in her twenty four years has she known Cleopatra to envy anyone. At least, the woman never said it aloud.

  “It can be yours,” she continues, sensing something like an opportunity. She recalls everything Phil said to her that day on the stairs. “It’s a gift. I mean, it’s like a gift. All you have to do is accept it.”

  Cleopatra rubs her hands together. “Always wanted the best for you Chloe. Just didn’t have it to give you. Glad you found God. When I needed Him, he wasn’t there. I don’t need him now.”

  Chloe wonders what Phil or Kathleen would say in a situation like this. “I will pray for you, mom.” She has heard the expression used before.

  Cleopatra manages something akin to a smile. “Whatever makes you happy, honey.”

  Will it make her happy? Aside from that Sunday with Phil, Chloe has never prayed before, to her knowledge. It did make her happy when she did it then. It could make her mother happy too. Chloe wants to say more, but does not know how to go about it. Instead, she turns her attention to Greg’s body. “What do we do about him?”

  Cleopatra lets her wonder for a moment. Finally, “I will put him where he belongs.”

  •

  A garbage truck is moving through the neighborhood. There is a huge pile up at one particular house. The men jump down from the truck and begin removing the huge pile, buried beneath which is Greg who is just beginning to rouse from his unconscious state. The men murmur to one another.

  “You ok, man?” one of them asks. The garbage men look at each other incredulously as Greg groans and goes to sit up.

  Chapter 10

  It is Sunday evening. Chloe is finally having dinner with James and Kathleen. The table is well decorated with silver salt and pepper shakers and candles and a seasonal center piece. It is beautiful. There is plenty of food, more food in one place than Chloe has seen in years: Pot roast chicken, potato salad, greens, pumpkin rice, appetizers and desserts. Her mother does not cook, albeit the occasional batch of eggs or microwave dinners. Chloe sees James glance at her from the corner of her eye.
She wears a troubled expression. She cannot help it.

  “Sunday is not an appropriate day to be thinking about work,” James reminds her. Any other time, his assumption would be accurate.

  “Not thinking about work,” Chloe counters. Her attention pans back to the smorgasbord. “This is a lot of food for three people.”

  James assumes a big, cheesy grin. “That’s my mom.”

  “I grew up in a poor family,” Kathleen explains. “Never had enough. Mentally, I prefer more than less.” Chloe can sympathize. Who wouldn’t prefer more than less? If she had the choice, she would always have more of everything. Kathleen is not through. “Would you mind saying grace, Chloe?”

  “Yes I would,” Chloe responds promptly, thankful for the change of subject. She says grace even less than she prays and hasn’t the slightest inkling of how to go about it.

  “I’ll do it,” James offers. James and Kathleen bow their heads in prayer. Chloe follows their example. “Father,” James begins, using a humble, reverent tone of voice. Father. A father who has always been there, according to Phil. “I thank you for life, health, family, friends and food. Bless this moment and this meal in Jesus name.”

  “Amen,” Kathleen concludes. Chloe waits to see if there is more to be done. After all, she did not hear the word grace used even once. “Help yourselves,” Kathleen grants.

  James takes his food in proper serving proportions. Kathleen does the same. Chloe, on the other hand, piles the food on her plate until it is practically overflowing. She eats with the fork only, setting upon the meal with gusto and the appetite of a starving soldier.

  “Tastes great!” she exclaims. She does not notice James and Kathleen staring at her and then staring at each other.

  “Thank you,” Kathleen says. They eat in silence for the first few moments, the alternate clicking of forks serving in place of conversation. Kathleen is the first to broach a subject Chloe hoped to avoid. Then again, the woman is a pastor. “Haven’t seen you in church since the day you made your commitment.”

  “Mom,” James chides in a whispery murmur.

  “It’s ok,” Chloe reassures him. She shrugs sheepishly. “Not quite used to being noticed. It’s nice.” To Kathleen, “I’ve been focused on writing and Sundays are great for inspiration,” she explains. Somehow she doubts the excuse will suffice.

  Kathleen considers over a polite mouthful of chicken. “James is always praying for you.” Chloe blinks. She recalls what she said to her mother the night before.

  “Mom,” James says, more sternly.

  “Just making conversation,” Kathleen shields. She has lost track of the times Chloe has declined or failed to show up for one of their dinners. Now that the girl is finally here, it is high time they all get to know one another. She gestures to her son with her fork, hoping to spark his nerve. “You’re just sitting there, as if you have nothing to say to this awesome young lady.” Chloe blushes, pushing a cucumber around her plate. James, doing much the same thing with his rice, wants to stick his head in some sand somewhere.

  “He’s not very good at making conversation,” Chloe says.

  Kathleen is not sure about that. More than likely, Chloe is not good at holding up her end. James is easy to talk to. Chloe seems quite laconic. Strange. Distracted. But she may as well humor her. It relieves the tension. “IKR?” Kathleen concurs, using text speak.

  Chloe smiles, turning to playfully roll her eyes at James. “OMG.”

  James’ expression goes flat. Deadpan, “I should probably excuse myself from this table.”

  “Sorry,” Kathleen chuckles, dabbing at her lips with her napkin. “I’m going to go check on the cake.”

  “I love cake,” Chloe says excitedly. Her eyes dart down to her large meal, which she has put an impressive dent in. “But I have nowhere to put it.”

  “Then you can take it home,” Kathleen suggests. She will not take no for an answer. She and James just cannot finish another cake by themselves. She exits the room.

  “Your mom is cool,” Chloe tells James, unable to hide her smile. Kathleen is practically Cleopatra’s polar opposite. She seems like a great mother and a very well put together woman. She could probably teach her mother a thing or two about parenting and about life in general, especially how to cook a decent meal. This is the most delicious thing she has ever tasted. Chloe never knew food could bring people together this way. She grew up eating in front of the television or in her room.

  James nods appreciatively for her approval. His face lights up as if a thought occurs to him. He sets his fork down. “Got something for you.” James picks up a manual from off the ground under his seat. “It’s a 2012 Writers Market.” He offers it to her.

  Chloe takes it with a wistful grin. “Oh, yeah. Almost bought one’a these in the books to—” She stops. Her brows knit together. She stares at the cover, reflecting on a certain memory that she has yet to put to rest. There is something strange about it: stories that do not match up. Chloe is lost in thought for a moment.

  “I have the books,” she whispers, picturing the stack on her bed. “So… I must have been to the bookstore… right?” She glances up at James, as though he has an answer. The sight of him is soothing, but his expression is not. James looks on from his chair, clearly not following her train of thought. Chloe shakes her head. “Don’t know if it was a dream or not. Anyway. Thank you.” She brandishes the book with a little wave of her hand.

  “What are you talking about?” he wants to know.

  Chloe shrugs, as his guess is as good as hers. “Not sure. Think I’m losing touch with reality.” James reaches out and touches her hand. Chloe pulls her hand away, using the silent excuse that she wants to hold the book with both hands, as though it is a safety blanket. “If I don’t know when I’m dreaming, how will I know when I’m awake?”

  James eyes her warily before he suggests, “Maybe you’ve been writing too much.” He uses a cautious tone. He always uses that tone when he is afraid of making her mad.

  Chloe jumps at the chance to change the subject. It has been awhile, though she cannot recall precisely how long, since she arrived at James’ house with her teetering stack of material. “Have you read any?”

  James grins. “Read them all. Why do you think I got you this book? It’s time for you to approach publishers.”

  Chloe looks at the book in her hands. Then, she hugs it to her chest. “You really think so?”

  “You’re an awesome writer. The world needs to know your name, and they will.”

  Suddenly, there is a loud crash coming from the kitchen. James and Chloe quickly push their chairs back and move towards the sound. James is the first to round the corner of the scene.

  The dishwasher is open. The cake is sitting on an oven mitt, cooling on the stovetop. There is a small stack of glass dessert plates beside it. Kathleen is picking up glass shards from off the tiled kitchen floor. Apparently one of the plates did not make it onto the stack. James kneels and begins to help her. Chloe is worried that they will cut their hands.

  Kathleen, who appears to be shaken, answers the question that everyone is thinking. “Thought I saw a man standing outside the window.”

  Chloe hurries to the window, leaning over the sink so her eyes can scrutinize the yard through the glass and the reflection of the kitchen behind her. Patrick is her first thought. Patrick is always her first thought when something bizarre happens. If Kathleen, a pastor, can see him, that is saying something, right? She looks out in all directions, but does not see anyone. James looks up at her. Chloe looks back at him and shakes her head. Even though she cannot see anyone, an expression of concern lingers on her face.

  Taking the hint, James rises from the floor and strides to the counter, and removes a knife from the kitchen drawer.

  “I’ll go check it out,” he tells them, crossing the kitchen.

  “Be careful, sweetie,” his mother advises, seeming reluctant to let him go.

  James leaves. Chloe kneels and
helps Kathleen with the shards of glass still hazarding the floor. She dumps a few pieces into the waste basket. She uses a handheld brush and dust pan to collect the rest. Meanwhile, Kathleen is staring at Chloe. Chloe notices, but pretends not to as she dumps the pieces into the trash and runs the bristles over the pan.

  “They say eyes are windows into a person’s soul,” Kathleen says cryptically. “You know what I see in your eyes Chloe? Fear. Confusion. Pain.”

  Chloe kicks herself. She must have let her hope and dread that the man Kathleen saw was Patrick find a way onto her face. That is the last thing she wants to discuss with a pastor, let alone James’ mother. What would she think? Her father is dead. James knows that. Chloe struggles with what to say. “Read a book once,” Chloe mumbles. “It was a very crappy book, but it had the most awesome cover.”

  Kathleen gets the reference. She shakes her head. “Not judging you Chloe.” Her eyes track over Chloe’s face. “James told me you have some…” She chooses her words carefully. “unexplained issues. Unresolved pain. That you’ve been… seeing things.”

  Chloe sits back on the balls of her feet, struck that James would break her confidence like that. “James told you that?”

  Kathleen nods. As though it should be obvious, “He talks about you all the time.”

  Chloe averts her eyes. She hooks her hair behind her ear and brings the rest over her shoulder. “And I’m flattered, but some things are personal.”

  “I’m sorry,” Kathleen remits. She smoothes out the apron covering her Sunday dress and shakes her head, pursing her lips. “I shouldn’t have told you that.”

  Chloe wholly agrees. “But you did,” she reminds her gently. “I’m gonna go.” She finds her feet. She hesitates in mid-step. “Thank you for dinner,” she adds as an afterthought. It does not occur to Chloe that she has said thank you more times this evening than she has in a year. Kathleen watches her go. This dinner did not go at all according to plan.