The Cleaner

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

My apartment is the size of a closet compared to the house I’ve just visited. Sometimes it’s all I need. Other times it’s not enough. Can’t complain. Who’d listen? Well, who’d listen and still remember five seconds later?

The first thing I do when I get inside is open my briefcase and dump the folder on the table with the others I’ve taken over the last few months. These others are souvenirs, but I hadn’t taken Daniela’s folder before because there was never any point. Why keep a memento of another man’s crime? I have yet to get a copy of the two victims’ folders from yesterday. And one for tonight’s murder won’t be available for a few more days.

I watch Pickle and Jehovah for a few minutes, wondering what they are thinking, before heading to bed. I set my internal alarm clock to seven thirty and am just in the process of climbing beneath the sheets when I notice it-the answering machine. The message light is flashing. Great. I’m in my pajama shorts and not really in the mood to hear what anybody has to say to me, but I figure it’s probably Mom. If I don’t see what she wants, she’ll only keep calling me back.

Six messages. All from her. If I don’t show up, my life is going to be hell. Last time I didn’t show up for dinner when it was planned, she spent all week on the phone to me, crying her heart out and forcing me to admit I’m a poor excuse for a son. I decide to take my punishment and head over there tonight.

I climb off the bus a couple of blocks before her house, go into a twenty-four-hour supermarket, and do some quick shopping. The guy behind the counter is so tired he shortchanges me, but I’m having such a good day I don’t point it out. Heart racing, I walk to Mom’s house. Standing on the sidewalk I suck in a deep breath. The air tastes like salt. I look up at the dark sky. Is there any way of avoiding this? Short of hospitalization, the answer is no. I knock on the front door. Two minutes go by, but I know she’s not in bed because the lights are on. I don’t knock again. She’ll open it when she’s ready.

After a few minutes I hear footsteps approaching. I straighten up, not wanting her to correct my slouch, and start smiling. The door shudders, the hinges squeak, and a small gap appears.

“Do you know what time it is, Joe? I got worried. I nearly called the police. Nearly called the hospital. Do you not care about my broken heart?”

“I’m sorry, Mom.”

The safety chain stops the door from opening any further. My mom, God bless her, put the safety chain on her door four years ago when the “neighborhood kids” stole her money. But she put the chain going up and down, not side to side, so all any intruder needs to do to unhook it is put his finger inside and lift. She closes the door, removes the chain, and opens it back up. I take a step inside, bracing myself, because I know it’s coming.

She clips me around the ear. “Let that be a lesson to you, Joe.”

“I’m sorry, Mom.”

“You never come and see me anymore. It’s been a week since you were last here.”

“I was here last night, Mom,” I say, and I’ve had conversations like this with her before, and will have more of them until the day she dies.

“You were here last Monday.”

“And it’s Tuesday now.”

“No, it’s Monday. You were here last Monday.”

I know better than to argue, but I do point out once more that today is Tuesday.

She clips me around the ear. “Don’t talk back to your mother.”

“I’m not talking back, Mom, I’m just telling you what day it is.”

She raises her hand and I quickly apologize, and she finally seems appeased by the gesture. “I cooked meatloaf, Joe,” she tells me, lowering her hand. “Meatloaf. That’s your favorite.”

“You don’t need to remind me.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing.” I open up the supplies I brought with me, and pull out a bunch of flowers. I hand them to her. No thorns this time.

“They’re beautiful, Joe,” she says, her face beaming with excitement.

She leads me through to the kitchen. I set my briefcase down on the table, open it up, and look at the knives inside. Look at the gun too. My hand rests on the handle of the Glock, and I try to take some strength from it. Mom puts the flowers into a vase, but doesn’t put in any water. The rose from yesterday is gone. Perhaps she thought it was a week old. She reaches up into a cupboard and grabs hold of a packet of aspirin, and drops one into the vase.

“It keeps them alive longer,” she says, turning and winking at me, as if she’s letting me in on a family secret. “I saw it today on a TV show.”

“You still have to add water,” I point out.

“I don’t think so,” she says, frowning.

“I’m sure of it,” I tell her.

She looks uncertain. “I’ll try it my way this time,” she says, “and your way next time if it doesn’t work. How does that sound?”

I tell her it sounds fine. I don’t tell her that adding aspirin to flowers in water doesn’t make a lick of difference anyway.

“I brought something else for you, Mom.”

She looks over at me. “Oh?”

I pull out a box of chocolates and hand it to her.

“You trying to poison me, Joe? Are you trying to put sugar into my cholesterol?”

Oh, Christ. “I’m just trying to be nice, Mom.”

“Well, be nice by not buying me chocolates,” she says, looking really annoyed at me.

“But Coke has sugar in it, Mom.”

“Are you being smart?”

“Of course not.”

She throws the box at me and the corner bounces off my forehead. I see stars for a few seconds. I rub my head where it hit. The box has left a small impression, but no blood.

“Your dinner’s cold, Joe. I’ve had mine.”

I put the chocolates back into my briefcase as she dishes my dinner. She doesn’t offer to heat it for me, and I’m too frightened to ask. I head over to the microwave to do it myself.

“Your dinner’s cold, Joe, because you let it get cold. Don’t think you’re going to use my electricity to warm it up.”

We walk into the living room and we use her electricity to get the TV working and we sit in front of it. There’s some show on-I’ve seen it before, but don’t know what it’s called. They’re all the same. Bunch of white guys and girls living in an inner-city complex, laughing at everything that goes wrong for them, and there’s a lot that goes wrong. I wouldn’t be laughing if those things happened to me. I wonder if there’s a complex like that in this city, or even in real life. If so, I wouldn’t mind finding it. According to the TV the women in those complexes are damn sexy. I seem to recognize this episode but can’t be sure it’s a repeat since they do the same thing every week.

Mom doesn’t talk to me while I eat. This is a surprise, because I generally can’t shut her up. She always has something to complain about. Normally it’s the price of something. I’m grateful for the silence, so much so that I consider maybe I should be late more often. The downside is her disappointment hangs over the room. I’m so used to it it’s almost part of the furniture. As soon as I throw the last cold scoop of meatloaf into my mouth she uses the remote to kill the TV, then turns toward me. Her mouth sags open, she bares her teeth, and I can see the start of a sentence forming.

“If your father knew you treated me like this, Joe, he’d be rolling in his grave.”

“He was cremated, Mom.”

She stands up and I shrink back, expecting her to tell me off, but instead she puts her hand out for my plate. “I may as well clean up for you.”

“I’ll do it.”

“Don’t bother.” She grabs my plate and I follow her into the kitchen.

“Do you want me to make you a drink, Mom?”

“What, so I’ll be up all night running back and forth to the toilet?”

I open up the fridge. “Anything in here you want?”

“I’ve had dinner, Joe.”

I need to cheer her up, so I turn the subject toward something in her element. “I was at the supermarket, Mom, and I saw they have orange juice on sale.”

She turns toward me, still scrubbing at my plate, the flesh around her mouth moving aside for her beaming smile. “Really? What brand?”

“The brand you drink.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“In the half gallon?”

“Yeah.”

“How much?”

I can’t just say three dollars. I have to be accurate. “Two ninety-nine.”

I can see her thinking about it, but I don’t interrupt with the answer. “That’s two forty-four off. Quite a savings. Have you seen my latest jigsaw puzzle?”

It’s actually two forty-six off, but I say nothing. “Not yet.”

“Go and take a look. It’s by the TV.”

I look at the jigsaw puzzle. I mean, really look at it because I know she’ll quiz me on it. A cottage. Trees. Flowers. Sky. Jigsaw puzzles are like sitcoms, I guess-they’re all the fucking same. I head back into the kitchen. She’s drying my plate.

“What did you think?” she asks, using a tone that suggests my answer is important to her, but only as long as it’s the right answer.

“Nice.”

“Did you like the cottage?”

“Yeah.”

“What about the flowers?”

“Colorful.”

“Which ones did you like the best?”

“The red ones. In the corner.”

“The left or right corner?”

“You’ve only done the left corner, Mom.”

Satisfied I’m telling the truth, she puts the dishes away.

Back in the lounge we sit down and continue talking. About what, I have no idea. All I can think about is what it would be like if she lost her voice.

“I’m just going to get myself a drink, Mom. Are you sure you don’t want one?”

“If it will shut you up, I will. Make it a coffee, and make it strong.”

I head into the kitchen. Put the kettle on. Scoop some coffee into two cups. I grab the bag of rat poison that was also on sale at the supermarket, but not quite as good a savings as the orange juice I didn’t buy, but Mom would still be proud of the savings nonetheless. I scoop a generous amount into her coffee. Mom needs her coffee strong because her taste buds are failing her. When the kettle has boiled, I stir the stuff for two minutes until it dissolves.

Back in the living room she has the TV going again but starts talking to me anyway. I hand over her drink. She adjusts the volume on the TV so she can still hear the voices while talking to me. The white guys are doing something oddly funny. I wonder how funny they would be if they lived in an apartment complex like mine. Mom hunches over and slowly drinks her drink, holding the cup defensively as if she’s expecting somebody to make a grab for it. When she finishes, I offer to wash her cup. She refuses, does it herself, then complains. Since she is complaining anyway, I make a deliberate show of looking at my watch, scrunch my face up in surprise at how late it is, and tell her I really need to be going.

I have to go through the whole scenario of kissing her good-bye on the doorstep. She thanks me for the flowers and makes me promise to stay in touch, as if I’m heading to another country rather than the other side of the city. I promise I will, and she looks at me as though I’m going to ignore her for the rest of her life. It’s her guilt look, and I’m familiar with it. Nonetheless, it makes me feel bad. I was already feeling bad. Bad that she is alone. Bad that I am a bad son. Sad that one day something may happen to her, God forbid.

I wave from the sidewalk but she is already gone. Where would I be without Mom? I don’t know and I never want to find out.

The bus comes along and it’s not the same old guy from last night, and I’m pretty sure I know why that is. This is some young guy in his midtwenties. He calls me man, grins at me, and because I’m the only person on the bus, he feels obliged to make conversation. I stare out the window and nod and say yeah when he expects it, which is far more often than I’d like. There isn’t much in the way of life beyond the bus windows; the occasional taxi, the occasional person out late walking a dog, those occasions become more regular the closer we get to town, then less regular once we pass through it. I am more than three-quarters of the way home when I see it. It’s just lying there on the side of the road, still moving. Kind of.

“Stop the bus,” I say, standing up.

“You said. .”

“Just stop it, okay?”

“You’re the boss, buddy.”

He stops the bus, and if I really was his buddy he would give me a quarter of my fare back. The swish of the doors as they close behind me, the purring of the motor, the shuddering of heavy metal, and the bus leaves me behind. We’re about halfway between town and my apartment. It’s a suburb where people who have made poor choices in life live. I rush over the road and crouch next to it. It’s mostly white, with a few streaks of ginger through it. Its mouth is slightly open. It’s not moving: maybe I made a mistake when I first saw it. When I put my hand on its side, it’s still warm. Its eyes open and look at me. It tries to meow but can’t. One of its legs sticks out in that same awkward way as Candy’s arm.

Funny what fate does to us. Two nights ago it wasn’t my place in this crazy, mixed-up world to question the fact that animals are used as tools. They’re used every single day. Chemicals are tested on them so we can have higher-quality health care, higher-quality shampoos, matching eyeliners, warmer clothes. Others are killed for food. And here’s my opportunity to balance the scales for what I did to poor Fluffy.

I pick the cat up, careful to keep my hands away from its broken leg. It meows loudly and tries to struggle, but doesn’t have the energy to struggle hard. The long graze down the side of its body looks bloody and raw. Its fur is matted. Strange sounds are coming from it. Rather than holding it against my body, I remove the plastic bag that the groceries came in from my briefcase and rest the cat inside. I begin to walk home.

After less than half a mile I come across a phone booth. I find the number for an all-night vet and tell them I’m on my way. Then I call a taxi. It takes five minutes to arrive. The driver is foreign and speaks the same amount of English as the cat. I’ve torn the page from the phone book and I hand it to him. He reads the address and starts driving. The cat is no longer meowing, but it’s still alive. I let it out of the bag before stepping through the vet doors.

Inside a woman about my age waits behind a counter. She has long red hair tied in a ponytail. She wears little makeup and doesn’t need it-she’s a natural beauty with soft brown eyes and full lips. She’s wearing a white medical jacket unbuttoned halfway down, as if she’s about to step onto the set of a porn movie. Beneath it is a blue T-shirt. A great set of breasts pushes its way forward. She smiles at me for less than a second before her concern turns to the cat.

“You’re the man who just called?”

“Yeah.”

“You ran the cat over?” she asks in a soft voice, without managing to sound accusing.

“I found him,” I say. “I don’t have a car, that’s why I had to catch a taxi here,” I say, and for some reason it’s important to me that she believes that.

She takes the cat from me without comment then disappears. I’m left standing by myself. I take a quick look around the clinic. Not much to see. Two walls are dedicated to products like leashes, collars, flea powder, bowls, cages, and food. Another wall has a thousand brochures and pamphlets that don’t concern me since none of them is about getting away with murder. I take a seat. I should have been in bed by now. Should have been asleep. I stare at a display of bags of cat litter. I know from experience it’s twice the price here than at the supermarket.

I sit patiently. Five minutes turn into ten, then into twenty. I pick up a pamphlet on flea control. On the cover is an artist’s impression of what a magnified flea would look like if it were wearing sunglasses and a leather jacket and hosting a party in the fur of a cat. On the next page is an actual photograph of a flea, magnified several hundred times. It seems the artist had it completely wrong. I’m halfway through the brochure, thinking about how scary the world would be if fleas were actually several hundred times bigger, when the redhead comes back out. I put the pamphlet down and hold my breath and stand up.

“The cat’s going to be okay,” she says, breaking into a smile.

“What a relief,” I say, almost too tired to mean it.

“Do you know who he belongs to?”

“No.”

“We’re going to need to keep him here for a few days.”

“Sure, sure, that sounds good,” I say, thankful for her help. I realize I’m nodding like an idiot. “Umm, what happens if you can’t find the owner? I mean, it won’t get put down, will it?”

She shrugs, like she doesn’t know, but I think she does. I give her my name and phone number, then pay for the medical attention the cat will need using the money Candy no longer needs. She doesn’t try to stop my generosity, but she does point it out. She says I’m an incredibly nice man. I see no need to argue. She tells me she will call to let me know of the cat’s progress.

I ask her if she can call me a taxi, but she says she’s about to leave, and offers me a lift home.

I glance at my watch. It would be fun to get a ride with her, but where would I dump her body? “I don’t want to put you out. A taxi’s fine.”

She seems disappointed, but doesn’t strengthen her offer. The taxi driver is a large man whose stomach rests on the steering wheel and toots the horn every time we go over a bump. He drops me off outside my apartment, the potholes in my street making him wake up the neighbors in the process. The trash outside my apartment has been added to by more trash, and I have to bat away a few flies as I make my way inside. I’m struggling to stay awake as I climb my way up to my door. Inside I ignore my fish, making me not quite the nice guy the vet receptionist thought I was, opting to spend some quality time with my bed instead. I lie down and close my eyes and pretty much fall right asleep.