23
Murphy Oil
DRESSED IN HIS CLEANING jeans and a white T-shirt, Cole grabbed the Murphy Oil Soap, a sponge, and a bucket. Every time he looked down he thought he saw a spot of blood. He was way too early, but he needed to clean.
Cole filled the bucket with water and dumped in a glugging splash of the fragrant golden liquid. He took a deep breath and let the scent fill him like the Holy Spirit. It spoke more of the church to him than the incense at high mass.
It was the smell of his Saturday cleaning sessions with a selection of the dedicated parishioners from next door. The ladies on the “Pew Crew” spent at least two hours once a week to shine their cherished house of worship.
These Saturdays had shown Cole how competitive the older women were. Each lady took her swatch of the holy structure seriously and scrubbed and scrubbed until the honey tones in the wood glowed. In between the sounds of sloshing water and rubbing, he got a healing dose of their chatter. They had a wicked sense of humor, which had surprised him at first, then challenged him to join in their witty repartee. Bea was the ringleader, often regaling the group with tales from World War II or the Depression.
Cole took his full bucket to the pew where he’d once held Kyle. Seemed an ideal place to start. He began scrubbing, determined to clean until the screams in his head quieted. Last night in that bizarre club, in that dirty bathroom, he’d unleashed a part of himself he’d worked so hard to tame.
The feel of human skin parting like rotten fruit under his fists had brought it all back. For the first time in a long time, Cole remembered the crisis room at Evergreen Residential Home for Children. The Murphy Oil smell was overwhelmed by the memory of the odor of his own sweat and the gym mat he’d spent hours sitting on there.
When he was twelve years old, Cole had been at the residential home for two years. He’d spent much of that time glaring at his favorite adult in the whole word.
“Fuck you. Fuck you and your husband and your kids,” he’d told her. “I hope your two dogs get run over by a car.” He filled the rant with as much venom as possible.
Mrs. D had been unmoved. Very little Cole could think up was original to her. He knew that because she’d told him. His predecessors in this room—this small, windowless room—had already thrown feces. Had already threatened her family. Had already spit in her face. Still, she sat in the doorway with her coffee in a silver travel mug.
She had calmly taken a sip. “It’s nice you’re thinking of my family this morning.”
Cole responded to her calm by growling and slapping the mat. Mrs. D just waited. Her eyes were an enigma. They’d spent hours like this, and Cole always tried to figure them out. Are they green? Are they hazel? The only thing he knew for certain was that he was safe when they were on him. She was what he imagined a grandmother could be like.
When he was quiet again, she spoke. “Are you ready to go back to class, or do I have to bounce you off that mat a few more times?”
Cole had known her threat meant a restraint. She was all of five feet tall, but when he lashed out, she could put him down before he knew what was happening. And he lashed out a lot. He did it more when she was around. This year she’d requested that he be in her classroom, which had puzzled him. No one requested Cole Bridge.
His connection with her was undeniable, but he couldn’t understand it. She brought out the worst in him. He wanted to be restrained by her. Mrs. D would hold him tightly until he gave up. It could take hours. She always knew, though, when it was time, when he was ready. She’d ask him if she could let go of one of his hands, then wait until he nodded his assent. The process gave him back control over each of his limbs one at a time.
Afterward, Mrs. D would stay close, easily within his striking distance. She would listen. He would talk—about what had set him off in the first place or his fears for the future. He was a young boy with the concerns of a much older person.
“Shut the fuck up. What the hell are you anyway? A pissant teacher’s aide? Get a real job.” Cole rubbed his hands together.
“You’ve acquired a new curse word for your vocabulary. Should I add that to this week’s spelling list?” Mrs. D smiled and took another sip.
It had infuriated him. Enough! Enough with the smiling. Cole stood. At twelve he was a good head taller than she, but he was so small inside.
She set her cup down and stood with him. Ready.
“You better leave, Mrs. D. I’m going to start hitting. I’m going. I’m going this time. I’m going out to the road and let the cars run me over.” Cole spat to emphasize his words.
He was serious. He didn’t want her to hold him close. He didn’t want to pretend she was his mother. He didn’t want to imagine going home in her car to pet her black labs. He didn’t want to dream about sitting down to a home-cooked spaghetti dinner at her kitchen table with her family. Those things would never be his. He watched her eyes switch from hazel to green.
“Cole, I’m not going to let you do that.” She had reached for her walkie-talkie. She wanted back-up. Somehow she knew he wasn’t bluffing.
“Mrs. D, stop. I mean it. Stop.” Cole felt his heart throw away its dreams. He walked toward her with a new, brazen self-indulgence.
“I need a crisis worker to—”
Mrs. D never got to finish her sentence because Cole punched her in the stomach. He had almost apologized as she crumpled from the blow. He knew she saw it coming. He saw the pain in her eyes, but it wasn’t from his fist. She was disappointed.
Disappointed in me.
Cole started running. He hit the side door and let it bang loudly against the building. He ran full tilt toward the busy road. This is it. I’m going down. Finally.
The Evergreen employee who tackled Cole from behind wasn’t intending to be a comforting presence. “You little piece of crap. How dare you hit Mrs. D? You have some nerve. She’s the only one in this whole building who gives a rat’s ass about you.” He escorted Cole back to the crisis room.
Cole had curled into a ball on the mat. Mrs. D will never spend time with me again. He felt his brain crumble with sorrow. He’d been there a while before he heard her.
“Are you okay, Cole?” She’d walked in slowly.
Cole’s head snapped up so quickly, he didn’t have time to hide the love in his eyes. He looked at the floor immediately. He shook as she sat down next to him, easing against the wall.
Mrs. D had let the silence surround them. But time broke him. Cole could take it no longer.
“I hit you. Won’t that make you go away? What else can I do?” he snarled. He’d fallen back on his old standby, anger.
“I’m not going away, Cole, so maybe we can cut out the assaults in the future. You don’t want me to go away. I know that. You love me, Cole. That’s the feeling that makes you so angry.” She’d sighed and looked at the ceiling. “You don’t know what to do with it, because the people you’ve loved in the past caused you pain. That’s what you think love is. Pain.”
She’d looked at his face until he met her eyes. They were still green.
“But, Cole, I love you. Have I hurt you? Ever?”
Cole had to shake his head. She hadn’t. Not once.
“I’m showing you what to do with love, Cole.” She stood and held out her arms.
A hug. A simple hug he didn’t have to earn by throwing a chair. Human contact that wasn’t required because he was trying to hurt someone. She still trusted him. She still saw something in him.
He’d stood like a baby deer. He lurched toward her with no grace at all. She enclosed him in a hug that was so much better than a restraint. She’d patted his head just like a mother. Like a mother who cared.
Cole’s body had heaved with tears. She kept hugging him. She handed his heart back the dreams it had thrown away.
“That’s it, sweetheart. Let it out.” She rubbed his back.
Her shirt was soaked by the time he stopped crying. They sat down together again.
“I’ve read your file,” Mrs. D said. “What your parents did to you was terrible. It was a horrible, horrible mistake. You should’ve been cherished. You should’ve been treated like the beautiful little boy you are. They were wrong, Cole.” She held his hand. “I’m sorry for what they did to you.”
Cole’s mind had flashed with images from his time before Evergreen. The cage. The belt. The drugs. They still made him feel scared.
“You’re going to make it. You’ll be a great, thoughtful, proud man. I can see it. I know it as sure as I know my name.” She wouldn’t let go of his hand.
“I’m always awful. How can you know that?” Cole’s voice remained thick with tears.
“I’ve been doing this job for twenty-five years. I know a good one when I see him.” Mrs. D had stood and pulled on his hand. She walked him back to the living unit where he had his own room in a long hallway full of other boys’ rooms.
Cole had never hit her again, though he did test her from time to time. He just wanted to be near her. By the time he was discharged from Evergreen, Cole had made huge strides. He’d been one of a very few to enter the foster care system instead of another residential program. Mrs. D got all dressed up for his Awards Day. She’d made sure to take a lot of pictures with Cole, and she gave him a gift: a picture of her two black Labradors in a frame.
Scrubbing the pew with renewed vigor, Cole wondered how disappointed Mrs. D would be if she knew he’d killed a man last night. He spilled the bucket in his haste to plunge the sponge back in and soaked his shirt. Cole pulled the T-shirt off and cast it aside. He’d have to turn himself in. How could he be a man if he didn’t own up to his sins?
The Pew Crew would be here any minute, and he couldn’t be half-naked in the church. He went to the supply closet and threw on the flowing black cassock Father Callahan never used anymore. He buttoned it up and worked to contain the soapy water from the overturned bucket. The church door creaked, and Cole stood to greet the ladies.
The air left the church in a whoosh as Kyle entered.
Kyle.
She waited in the doorway, her white sundress and trench coat fluttering like flags in the breeze. She ran a hand through her hair, all soft and wild. She looked like a heavenly messenger.
Cole headed down the side aisle, silhouetted against the stained glass windows. Kyle mirrored his movement, walking up the opposite side. They orbited one another, step for step, as they cast shadows that interrupted the splashes of color the sun painted through each window. They made a complete circuit, three-hundred-sixty degrees of anticipation.
When Kyle stood in the doorway again she shed her white trench coat in a puddle at her feet. The sunlight streamed in behind her, and the sundress became just a hint over her body.
Cole unbuttoned the cassock and let it fall as well.
Kyle took the first step, approaching him up the center aisle.
Cole took a breath and a step toward her, away from the altar behind him. They moved one step at a time, slowly—like soldiers from opposite armies.
But then Cole ran for her, sliding on his knees to close the final distance between his hands and her skin. Kyle wrapped his head in her arms, cradling him.
“My sweet Cole. That’s better. That’s better.” Kyle braced her hands on his shoulders and slowly lowered herself to her knees. She put her hands on his cheeks and waited until he looked at her. “You forgot something last night.”
Cole looked puzzled.
“You made me promise you something. Now you owe me a promise.”
Cole nodded somberly.
“Be the real Cole. Promise me you will be you.” Kyle’s voice was strong and sure.
Cole felt his heart soar with her embrace, settling the feelings inside him. “Kyle, I’ve done so much wrong. I think I’m done being the real Cole. How much hurt can I cause?” He could hardly speak through his fear.
She smiled again. “I’ve done my own share of wrong, but look. Look around. We’re in the perfect place.”
The church looked like paradise. A frame of broken rainbows arched above the lovers on their knees.
Cole held her face to his, whispering, “Help me.”
Kyle gave him the absolution he needed with her lips.