Chloe (14 page)

“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!”

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.

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.”