by Brock Rhodes
The twitching, the quake of his face and neck, and the dried-up stream of tears display Warren’s chaos. On top of everything else, he’s exposed with nowhere to hide. He holds his unfolded hands in the pockets of his business slacks to avoid jumping itches that he’s ashamed to feel. It’s mid-afternoon, but he’s still only dressed as far as his black socks and has yet to find his tie. Not sure what he’s doing there but unable to leave, he’s in pause, fighting against passing time, wanting another chance at last night. His strained, bloodshot eyes are fixed at a neutral corner wallpapered with magazine clippings of teen heartthrobs, because it would be indecent to look at the mess. Fidgets turn his attention to a picture of the dead dog his daughter loved like it’s being pointed at. The fact the frame is turned so she could see it from her bed is now more obvious than ever.
Warren hit the snooze button to buy fifteen-minutes of irresponsibility this morning, but shuffled into the bathroom before the time was up. Following his normal routine, he brushed his teeth, and noticed how relatively yellow his eyes were before clearing off his shaving cream with a three-blade razor. Then he found his pants and an undershirt before hurrying to the next phase. Damn, he was tired, but he was trying to be a good husband by letting Tracy sleep in.
Today he was the one to get Wynona and make her breakfast before taking her to school - just like he promised. The tough part, as always, would be chasing the girl out of bed. She was just like her old man. He worried he’d have to resort to jumping on her bed and chanting, yelling “Get up, get up, you sleepy head. Get up, get up, get out of bed,” again. The new method had worked and how punchy it got Wynona would be worth a laugh, but Warren felt too sluggish, whipped, this morning to take things so far.
By the time he comprehended what he was looking at in his daughter’s bedroom he wished all he would be leaving with was a headache. Now he realizes how crazy it was calling, “Wynona? Wake up… sleepyhead,” and, for a moment, wasn’t sure whether it was right disturb his wife because it would make him a welcher. Under the circumstances, he discovered himself shaking his wife at the shoulder. She doggy-paddled to her side. Speechless, he peeled back the covers, but she gripped them like the edge of a cliff and whined, “Leave me alone.”
Then he found something to say to her that made sense, “I need you to take a look at Wynona. There’s something wrong.”
Tracy shrieked and it took Warren four or five tries to punch in 9-1-1 correctly so he could tell the operator that “there is something wrong with my daughter.” After the authorities investigated, he overheard that the problem was that she had been “hacked to pieces.”
The shock had Tracy ask the E.M.T., “Is she going to be okay?”
After years of growing in their loving care, somehow, someone got into Wynona’s room last night and disassembled her. Warren and Tracy don’t know who or how. All day has been a series of repulsive questions with Warren and Tracy repeating different and honest versions of “I don’t know, everything was fine last night,” for the answers. The unsuccessful search for the murder weapon only caused more disorganization, more hassle.
Now the professionals have left the amateurs to fend for themselves, as they must. Warren feels alone, is alone in Wynona’s room with only overwhelming memories, regrets and blessings, to accompany him. Suddenly, he’s stabbed by fear of Tracy’s absence and licks this wound by milling through the house, as calmly as he can, searching for her.
She’s not in the living room. She’s not in their bedroom. She’s not under the bed. She’s not in the closet. She’s not in the kitchen. She’s not in the bathroom. She’s still not in the bedroom. Trying to hide his worry, he beckons, “Honey?”
Movement from a shifting shadow in the yard catches his attention and he spreads the blinds to find relief that it’s Tracy, shielded by unbecoming, large dark sunglasses.
A pile of dislocated weeds are piled on the front lawn, gathered for the trash, and Tracy straightens up the ‘CRIME SCENE’ tape as best she can, careful not to remove its protection from the comfort of neighbors. The eyesore, bright yellow with black lettering, had been loosely hung on thin metal rods, but Tracy tightens the strands to make them neater, less interrupting.
Aware of his own lack of shock at what his wife is doing, Warren wonders if he should stop her. Then he considers pouring himself a drink. Immediately, he predicts he’d end up destroying them both by setting the precedent and is guilty over wanting to be numb. Tracy enters the garage and he anticipates her return inside. Instead, she reappears outside with a squeegee and bucket. A finger smudge has pestered her to get rid of it. She gives all of the glass she can reach the same treatment in case there are more she can’t see through the haze. Pretending or not, she doesn’t notice Warren when he meets her at the opposing side of each window.
She returns to the garage and Warren thinks she’s finished outside, and she is. But not before she returns with a paintbrush a few moments later to touch up a few bad spots of trim.
Darkness is taking over, and Tracy finally comes inside with her squeegee and bucket. On her way to the window seat, she gives Warren a peck on the lips and says, “I got to clean the insides while it’s fresh on my mind.”
“You don’t want to wait?”
“I can’t wait after you just breathed all over them.”
“You saw me?”
“How could I avoid you, honey?”
“I didn’t think you saw me. Why didn’t you say hi?”
She shrugs and makes an ugly face to call him a dumbass, “I knew you were here. You knew I was here. This is our home. What’s the point?”
Tracy waits for an answer from Warren, but he never gets one to give. She squeegees all the inside windows as Warren follows her again, a lost but loving puppy. He does nothing but watch, nothing to honey-do, as she sweats and shakes a little from exhaustion.
He asks, “Are you okay, honey?”
“Yes, I just have to clean these windows.”
“Why are you cleaning the windows?”
“Because they’re dirty. This whole thing is dirty. The dishes are dirty, too.”
With that, Tracy returns the squeegee and bucket to the garage and rushes the kitchen. She wipes the counters, changes paper in the cabinets, and gathers the dishes until the sight of a knife halts her.
In a trance, she mutters, “Warren, honey. Would you take out the trash while I toss in a load of laundry and vacuum?”
Searching for nothing more than a gentle conclusion, Warren asks, “Are you sure?”
She allows her eyes to only briefly scrape his as she sets sail upon a second wind, “You’re right. I want to dust first. It’s stupid to vacuum and then dust because then you’re just dusting things onto a clean floor.” On her way to the laundry room, Tracy adds, “And make sure you get rid of those knives, too. I’m tired of them.”
The mechanics of the washer cause a rumble and Warren tares off a heavy duty trash bag from a stash kept under the sink. He opens the silverware drawer and tosses the steak knives, butter knives, pizza cutter, potato peeler, and a fillet knife that was hidden underneath the organizer. On his way to gathering more trash he slips on a steak knife that poked through the bag and escaped to the floor, but he barely manages to keep his balance. He places the bag inside of the large plastic trashcan for a more sturdiness and herds in the stray knife. The blender, the juicer, and a cutlery set complete with its custom made block are next to be tossed. Warren heads for the bathroom where he rounds up his three-blade razor, replacement blades, a pair of grooming scissors, and disposes of all of Tracy’s disposable razors. He returns to the kitchen to raid the utility drawer for another pair of scissors, push-pins, and safety-pins. On his way to the laundry room, he shares a grin with Tracy as she dusts, and when he arrives he tosses all of her sewing needles and scissors. He retrieves his keys to detach a miniaturized Swiss army knife. In the garage, he rounds up the hedge-trimmers and fiendishly rummages for anything else that must go. He drags the garbage out to the cur
b and pushes his mower to accompany it.
When he returns to the inside Tracy is preparing to vacuum. He tells her, “I took the trash out.”
“Thank you, honey. I finished dusting the books, the bookshelves behind and under the books, the TV, the coffee table, the dinner table, our bedroom, and the top of the toilet, and… Well, everything. Take those dirty socks off before you walk on the carpet.”
Warren strips his socks off with his heals at the toe and stands barefoot on the carpet to watch Tracy vacuum, eagerly anticipating a cue. She shuts off the machine so she can move a couch, and Warren sprints to help her by lifting the front of the couch off of the floor. She baby-talks, “Look at my big, strong man,” and pecks his lips.
She sucks up the invisible filth that must be there, and Warren returns the sofa to rest. The couple does likewise with two living room Lay-Z-Boys, the coffee table, the dinner table, and the bed in their bedroom. Tracy finishes with the blinds and Warren unplugs the vacuum so she can reel in the chord. She wheels the vacuum back to the closet, and Warren greets her with a glass of water. She gives him another peck on the lips and says, “Thank you, honey.”
They stand in silence, gulps, before Tracy returns her glass to Warren and approaches Wynona’s room, a room still dripping in her blood. Tracy says, “My, my work is never done.”
Warren more than suggests, “Maybe you should leave it.”
“Leave this? Are you crazy?”
“Tracy, don’t.”
“Why not?” Tracy gives Warren a moment to reconsider, but he offers nothing.
She continues onward, provoking him to demand, “Stop it, Tracy.”
“It has to be cleaned.”
At a snap, Warren grabs her by the arm, “I can understand wanting to be clean, but we can’t get rid of her.” He yanks Tracy aside with one hand and closes the door to Wynona’s room with the other before crossing his arms to insist.
Ballistic, her face melts as she bumps him, “It’s a mess! Aren’t you embarrassed?”
He threatens, “Don’t push me.”
“I thought you loved me.” She swings at him, but he blocks her flying fist harmless. A staring contest lasts until she retreats to the bathroom.
The vibration of Warren’s heartbeats wane to normal to the inviting hum of falling water. Warren negotiates the unlocked door to find Tracy deeply rinsing in the shower before she begins to soap up. She glares at him, still angry from his denial. Much more than naked by the poor disguise of false composure, he strips. He keeps his distance from his true love as she ignores him as she spreads the lather with a self-hug. Expressionless, Warren is hypnotized by the neglected skin of her lower back, which is missed by her redundant tracing of its borders.
Approaching the end of a long rinse, she looks for him over her selfishly crossed arms before snatching her shampoo and grants him his turn under the stream under the cover of an apologetic smile. Before she can get behind him, Warren grabs her, holds her, and directs her backwards into the spray. Supervised by her gentle gaze, he uses his tired and shaking hands to soap and rinse the spot she missed. Then he lets her pass.
Warren buries his face in the stream, breathing by a makeshift blow hole of his mouth, so he can stay still as he’s warmed and washed by the water. Tracy taps him on the shoulder to show him that her hair is soaked with shampoo. They work it, tangle it, mix it in and out, and spread it out to rinse together. She gives him a peck on the lips and steps out of the shower so he can return to the stream. A panic about Tracy in Wynona’s room strikes Warren and he shuts the water off and smacks away the curtain to find his wife, waiting dripping wet, holding open the only dry towel left for him. She dries him, he does the same to her, and she makes a turban out of it out of it.
The naked lovers parade through their house to the bedroom where they automatically cuddle on top of their stripped bed. In the darkness, neither know if they’re sleeping or awake while they wait for the sun to bring them another chance.
The first thing the light reveals to them is each other. Warren asks Tracy, “Are you hungry?” She nods and he springs to the kitchen. The milk is still good, and he pours a glass to share. Hurrying to return, he grabs the peanut butter and the jelly. With no knife he is forced to scoop the ingredients into a bowl to stir, and uses the back of the spoon to spread the mixture onto slices of bread he slaps together.
Not a moment too soon, he returns to the room victorious as her hard smile almost splits her face. Holding the two sandwiches in the right hand and the glass of milk in the left, Warren reclines onto the bed and holds out her sandwich.
She asks, “Did you bring any napkins?”
“How would I carry them?”
She giggles, “God knows.”
“Do we even need them?”
“I don’t want to get the mattress messy. I’ll go get them, and I’ll get a plate, too.”
Tracy exits for the kitchen, humming like a bird, and stops to scratch her right knee with her left big toe, soothing Warren.
A dish shatters in the kitchen, followed by Tracy’s hysterical crying, shrieking, blubbering. Warren runs to the rescue only to find Tracy clamping the dirty spoon.
PERFECT
