The Cleaner
Here is the third and final selection from our July 2024 Flash Fiction Contest, “The Cleaner” by Phillip Stankus.
I rang the doorbell—and it truly was a bell, a simple, polished bronze cup, complete with a chain for the yanking. Its sound was bright and clear, as clear as it must have been when it was cast 200 years ago—or at least, I imagined it to be so. It summoned a wrinkled yet still distinctly feminine face that might have been just as old to the other side of the glass, and behind that glass another layer of glass in the form of round, crystal clear spectacles, and behind those glasses the magnified sky-blue windows into Mrs. Braille’s soul. She gave me a magnified squint, and shook her head.
“No, no, no. Too old. Your clothes, I mean. Even this blind old maid can see the scuffs—who knows what else they’ve picked up out there. I’ll have to give you a fresh suit, and I daresay you’ll need a bath, young man. Don’t pout. I know it’s an annoyance, but it is absolutely necessary. For you see, my son is very sensitive. Yes, he’s the most sensitive Braille we ever had.”
Perplexed, I nonetheless obeyed. Half an hour later I sat in the parlor, bathed— scoured more like it—as instead of a washcloth Mrs. Braille had handed me a thick-bristled brush with a wooden handle- and now wearing a white button down cotton shirt and a pair of perfectly pressed black trousers. Mrs. Braille had told me to wait here, for she had a roast to attend to, and her son often took a long time to prepare for his meetings. It was enough time to take in the airy beauty of a genuine Shaker-made rocking chair across from myself; three pounds of tiger maple and chestnut that by the genius of its craftsman could support a two-hundred pound man.
Not that it needed to. For Master Braille was as thin as a spirit, and his face as pale. He emerged suddenly from a dark oak door, slammed it shut and locked it, as if trapping the boogeyman behind him in the basement. I jumped to my feet in a motion prompted by conflicting impulses to flee and to help the poor fellow. He stood there sweating, as if he was going to be ill; then, registering my presence, composed himself, smiled, and apologetically brushed aside a lock of black hair that had fallen into his eyes. He held up his index finger, walked into a nearby hall and was out of sight for about fifteen minutes. He then returned holding a plain wooden box between his spidery fingers.
Neither of us spoke. I felt as though my breath would have knocked the poor man over. Instead I looked at his hands—he was not merely holding the box, but his fingertips seemed to press past the surface and into the grain itself—indeed, he handled all things this way in the time that I saw him. He sat in the rocking chair and placed the little box on the table between us. He opened it with utmost care. Inside was a piece of coal half the size of one’s fist, which he placed into his own.
He spoke, and the words came out as carefully as a silkworm’s web. “Now, what is the memory you wish me to clean? Be as detailed as possible.”
I remember watching him as he sat back in the chair and listened to my story. He closed his eyes. He gripped the piece of coal in his left hand with a force that shook his entire forearm. With his right he gripped the arm of the chair. He began to rock back and forth. All the time I spoke, he rocked, and his left hand shook violently. At times tears welled up around his eyelids. He did not wipe them. His right hand firmly gripped the chestnut handle as if it were his very lifeline. I kept speaking, and he kept rocking, until at last, I felt that there was nothing more to be said.
We sat there in mutual silence. The thin man kept his eyes shut, and continued to rock. His breathing slowed and his body relaxed. His hand stopped shaking. He loosened his grip on the arm of the chair. He opened his eyes, staring far away in tearful reverie. Then he came back, as it were, and looked directly at me. Eyes still wet, he smiled with an expression of genuine warmth and affection. I did not realize that I had been weeping too.
Slowly he leaned over and placed the black rock into the box, and shut it tight
“That’s that,” he said
Not knowing what else to do, I gave him my payment. I stood up and, perhaps unthinkingly, extended my hand. He looked at it with an expression adjacent to fear- but then, pressing into the chair with his left hand, extended his right, and grasped mine. His grip was surprisingly warm. He let go, leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes again, gently rocking and humming to himself.
I was about to leave the room, when I turned, and asked him a question.
“What does that chair feel like to you?”
He paused his rocking, and was silent for a minute. Then he answered.
“It feels like I’m sitting in the lap of three-hundred hymns.”
With that Master Braille took up the wooden box, rose to his feet, and marched to the dark oak door. He unlocked it, and gripping the box under his arm, disappeared inside.
To this day I do not remember what I told him.