The Cleaner

The Cleaner

by Cecilia Kennedy

I vacuum the floor so I don’t have to watch the walls bleed. They’ve been doing this now, for over three months, and there’s nothing I can do. So I sweep the carpet until the urge to clean the walls goes away. The floors are impeccable. That was usually Stanley’s job because my back hurt too much to lean over, but now that he’s gone, I realize how much I can do on my own, especially when I have to.

Everything’s in its place: the collection of odds and ends, on the mantel; the bleach, in the cupboard; the pills, in the ground; fingerprints, dusted; Stanley’s photo by the lake, on the desk; his wedding ring, found at her house, in the drawer; his ashes from the funeral, in the urn—all neat and tidy and put away. Even as the walls bleed, turning my stomach with that thick iron smell, I can almost taste it: sticky and coppery, too human, too real. At the end of the day, I’d think I’d be able to sleep, but there’s something else I believe remains unfinished, besides the walls, and I can’t remember what it is.

The bills are paid, and the groceries for the week are in. The trash cans are lined up at the curb, and I’ve pulled every last weed in the garden. The house has been checked for wear and tear. The pipes work just fine. Of course, I’d scrub those walls clean, but I’ve already tried. What remains undone? I can’t for the life of me think of one thing. The laundry’s folded and put away.

Something deep within my bones stirs and won’t let me rest, so I sink into the couch in the living room and watch the walls bleed. They’re forming a thick sheen now, glimmering in the moonlight like a slick mirror, like Stanley’s lake, reflecting my tired face back at me—and just above, on the mantel—are Stanley’s ashes in the urn. All neat and tidy. Never scattered willy nilly, over that damn lake, near her cottage, that he loved so much.