Chloe (9 page)

James’ house is a roomy one story closer to the suburban
district. The smell of baked chicken is the first thing to greet him when he
walks in the door. He wanders over the tile and into the kitchen where his
mother, Kathleen, is busy cooking. She is boiling potatoes and sliding a cake
into the oven when James walks in.

Kathleen looks up, setting the oven mitts aside on the
granite countertop and wiping her hands on her apron.

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.”