The Clothesline

Short Fiction upcoming in the The Bangalore Review

A gust of wind flew through the trees and smack into Masie’s bones, chilling them. She considered going back inside for her coat, but she lacked the energy to turn around. Either way, she was used to spring feeling frozen. She was used to how nothing changed much in a year except the names of the seasons, and the fact that there would always be work needing done. She was used to it; that didn’t mean she had to enjoy it.

With one arm, Masie hoisted the tin basket to her side. The clothing inside was soppy still with water from the washing; it added weight. The brittle early March wind rippled through her hair which caused it to spiral around her head in a tangle of auburn static. With her free palm, Maisie rubbed circles around her swollen belly, to warm it.

Much like her pregnancy, the walk to the clothesline felt eternal even though it was just at the end of the lawn. Maisie was so stuck inside her head, predicting how she would bend and lift once she got there, she didn’t notice the dent in the earth. As her mud boot sank into it, her ankle bent, and she stumbled. To catch herself and keep the basket from slamming into her belly, she had to drop it.

For a moment, all Masie could do was stand frozen and watch an entire morning’s worth of work absorb into the mud. Whether or not it could have been painful or worse didn’t matter to her. What mattered was that it could have been prevented. As she observed the damage, she became conscious again of the delicate life growing inside her. She resented it for requiring so much of her energy and attention—Now what?

She had used the last of the detergent on this washing. She would have to drive into town. She wasn’t planning on needing to do that. Masie wilted, and prepared to start from the beginning, again.

Like a punishment, she used all the strength in her legs to contort her body down in a way she hoped would hurt. As she dug her knees into the icy earth, she stretched to reach for each garment in a way she knew would make her belly ache. Then, she lifted herself with a ferocious urgency that drained her dizzy. She used both arms to walk the basket of dirt drenched, wasted time inside and threw it to the floor.

Pathetic is how Masie felt, when just lifting the keys from the hook on the wall made her cramp.

·.༄࿔

Nelson had left their car behind for Maisie. He’d even gone as far as to switch the title to her name, so it would only belong to her. As Maisie sat on the kitchen floor, body shaking, eyes gushing with tears, Nelson told her he wouldn’t need it where he was going. Everything he needed was already packed away and waiting in the car, with her.

Every time Masie invited these memories back in, they flickered in a way that incited an urge to claw at something.

She clawed, as she remembered how Nelson’s voice sounded; the way he spoke to her like she was a stranger. She clawed, as the sensation of powerlessness crept back in. Nothing she said or did or promised was enough to change his mind. She clawed at the image of the baby blue Volkswagen, parked in front of the house. At the rumble of the echo of the sound of its engine, running and ready to drive her husband away. Masie clawed at the glimpse she retained of the her.

Drumming the steering wheel with her french manicure. Impatiently waiting for Nelson in the driver’s seat. This woman was so beautiful and erotic in appearance it was cruel. The cat-eye angled, tortoise shell toned rims of her sunglasses created an illusion which directed all the attention in the universe to her lips: outlined, perfectly, in the boldest shade of crimson Maisie had ever seen. Maisie clawed, as she remembered how intimidating just the glimpse, she had gotten of this woman still felt.

Except, inviting that part of the moment back in made the memories begin to betray Masie. The most painful part of remembering was the recalling, of the innumerable amount of terrible ways that she had allowed her emotions to possess her.

She had screamed, and sobbed, and begged, like a child. She had latched herself to the collar of Nelson’s shirt and wept, like acting that way would have made him want to stay. She had barely left her bed in the weeks following. She had wasted so much time, wallowing. Masie hated every excruciating version of herself that existed before, after, and while Nelson was driving away. Her claws were not strong enough to defend herself against that part of everything. For those memories she needed to bite her tongue. She needed to draw blood.

Nelson had left, like nothing meant anything. Yet only two weeks before that, he was kissing her neck. She clawed, as she remembered his lips felt soft, like silk bristles on paint brushes. She bit, as she remembered his hands gripping her waist, drawing her into him. She bit harder, as she remembered how he had kissed every edge of her body, like a sculpting. She bled, the more she dissected each flickering image which flooded to mind and searched every corner of them for some kind of sign she missed. Something, anything, that could have warned her to be worried.

If she had been aware of the permanence of that moment, if she had known better, she would have pushed Nelson away. Three weeks after he left was when Maisie realized she was pregnant. Even then, it was nothing more than an excuse to climb out of bed, rush down the stairs, and call him. She hoped it could change things, but then, she noticed a stack of papers left beside the phone. Every paragraph on each page was littered with the word: divorce. Nelson had signed, multiple times. He hadn’t missed a single dotted line, and Maisie fell apart all over again.

She dug her nails into the steering wheel to ground herself back to reality. At the core of everything, it was all just too bewildering. The realization that you can never know someone entirely. Even when they are on top of you. Even when they are inside you. Even if it was empty, still, it had to have meant something.

It had to have.

·.༄࿔

Masie pulled the keys from the ignition, killed the engine, and scanned the parking lot for cars she recognized. Spotting none meant she would be safe if she were quick. As she maneuvered the weight of her body out of the car, a pocket of icy wind flew into her face. It sliced at her cheeks and smacked her with such a velocity she almost slipped. Immediately, her arm moved to catch and cradle her belly. The action was involuntary, a movement manipulated by a parasite. She resented herself for thinking about it.

Maisie pulled her coat tight and treaded briskly towards the entrance of the drug store, anticipating the warmth. As she stepped inside, the wood floor creaked beneath her mud coated boots and the bell above her head jangled. Like a spotlight, this unnecessary commotion alerted her presence to the man behind the counter. However, to her relief, this man was no one new. It was the same man who was always here and always reading.

Masie had entered this store enough times to establish an unspoken understanding with this man. If she didn’tdisturb his reading, he wouldn’t challenge her silence with any unnecessary assistance. It seemed to her, that both were grateful for this. Grateful enough, to acknowledge each other with a smile; a short and sweet rarity. Still, she often wondered if this man thought her to be mean. She hoped he didn’t because she always noticed the book he was reading. This time was the same as the last time: War and Peace.

Wandering through this drug store had a surreal effect on Masie. No matter how gloomy she felt, it held a certain power. Each aisle had its own unique feel to it, and wandering through them could soothe even the strongest storm brewing beneath her surface. It connected her with a part of herself that she had forgotten. A distant, but familiar, lighthearted part she hadn’t noticed in a while. When her nervousness permitted it, Maisie could take her time to properly explore and experience each of the aisles.

The sporting goods aisle smelled like cedar and pine, mixed with a froggy aroma that reminded her of morning rising above a crystal blue lake. The hooks on the end of each of the fishing rods were so sharp, they glimmered in the store lighting. When she looked closely enough, she could see that their ends casted tiny, microscopic reflections on the items around them. Once, the lights in the drug store fluttered, and the reflections danced iridescently, like tiny rainbows only she could see.

The home goods aisle called to mind something she couldn’t quite name. It bothered her because that meant she couldn’t figure out why it made her so sad. It was lovely in the way it reminded her of mahogany floors, wax candles, and lavender scented linen. She wished it didn’t smell like honey-suckle and make her heart feel like it was crying. She could only linger in that aisle on days when she absolutely needed to, and today was one of those days; Home goods was where the laundry soap was.

Maisie lingered in the office supplies section before ending in home goods. She enjoyed this aisle most because she could tell that the man at the counter took pride in it. Often, it was stocked with new, unique things. This time, he had added a box of pens, with dark green ink. The shade reminded Masie of the tops of trees in summertime. She pictured caves filled with emeralds, golden light passing through tidal waves, and rocks brought alive with layers of moss. She hesitated for a moment, before reaching up to grab a box of them and add them to her basket—Consider it a reward, for nothing, but hell, she thought to herself as she grabbed the detergent from home goods and walked towards the front counter to pay.

Maisie always made sure to set her basket down as quietly as she possibly could. The man always folded the corner of the page in his book the exact same way. As he examined each item and typed their costs into the register, Masie felt the sadness appear again.

She had never realized until now that every trip to this magic drug store ended so mechanically. It was nothing more than a pleasant escape. The man behind the counter, didn’t even know her name. She couldn’t make sense of why any of this disappointment mattered so much. She wanted, in the strangest of ways, to never leave here.

Maisie watched as the man typed the cost of the green pens into the register. He held them for a moment, before placing them into her bag. “I love these,” he mused, and for a moment, the man smiled at her, and she smiled back. She felt her cheeks flush, rosy as he returned to bagging, to calculating, to work. “That’ll be 11.50, for everything.” Masie paid, and then left. As the door to the drug store flew shut behind her, she was smacked again by the frigid wind which whittled away at her bones.

Behind the wheel of Nelson’s car, Masie’s skin burned, ashamed of the entire interaction. She cursed herself for the cost of those green pens. As the engine shook back to life, she winced.

·.༄࿔

In the summer, the earth that surrounds this house will flush vivid green. Fireflies will twirl around the back yard. Cicadas will resume their symphony. Birds will sing of safety and butterflies will drink from flowers. The clothes I hang on the line will dry warm instead of cold and I will no longer be pregnant—The promise of sunlight kept Maisie warm. She had been hunched over the basin of dirt tarnished, icicle water for the past three hours.

Her fingertips stung pink and her arms were numb up to each elbow, yet she refused to stop until each muddy article of clothing had been scrubbed, spotless. Immediately, once the chore was finished, she shifted her body to remove herself from it. Yet just as she did, something deep inside her began to clash.  The pain was sudden and enough this time. The basket fell to the ground, and Maisie tumbled down with it.

As she crashed, helplessly into the aftermath, she burned, blood boiling. She wanted to scream. She wanted to punish; Why must this child be so hell bent on eating her alive? She disappeared into her head, like she could reason with it—

When does the hurting stop? Please.

 Stop hurting me. My head hurts.

My body hurts. My heart hurts.

I am so, exhausted. Please.

Stop hurting me—But there was no response. Only quiet, and to make matters worse, the fall had ripped a stubborn scab off Maisie’s heart. She was devoid of protection, and drained of the energy neccessary to avoid the inevitable. Defeated, entirely now, Maisie pressed her cheek against linoleum and began to cry. She cried for what felt like forever.  She cried about everything, all of it, at once.

It was moments like this that terrified Masie most. The moments when her mind and body became so flooded with it forced her to look around, until her head rolled with a realization, she was only partly aware, she had been murdering. It was a visceral awarness, of the severity to which hanging in the past was destroying her.

Like jolting awake from a nightmirror, looping and endless. Maisie was terrified that her life would never be anything more than a mosaic of regret, heartache, uncertainty. Missed opportunities and wasted time. She could not imagine what it would be like to not live this way.

That was the problem.

It struck her.

Masie used all the strength in her body to lift herself up, and rush to the foyer where the emerald ink pens rested, waiting for her, beside a stack of dusty divorce papers. She grabbed both.  

·.༄࿔

Nelson—

Too often, I imagine you coming home as something like this:

So much has changed. You are not used to it. You don’t enjoy how unfamiliar this old road looks. As you drive, you become painfully aware. As you speed, your baggage clatteres in your backseat, but you do not slow down. There is absolutely no time to waste, you are already so late.

In the passenger’s seat beside you, lives proof of your regret. The divorce papers had made it back to you, fashionably late, 3 years later. Except, you don’t take the pages to be finalized. You notice that the ink I signed them in is  green. You considered the color to be an invitation, a ploy for your attention. A sign that you are still welcome and wanted back home. Why else would I have chosen such an absurd, striking color? You’re driving a beat-up pick-up that clamors as it makes its way around the bend. Rust falls and it trembles, as you wind round the curve that will finally lead you back home.

From the outside, the house looks vacant. It is likely that I could have moved, you wouldn’t know. You never called me. However, you are certain, still, even after all this time, that leaving is not something I could do. You fix your hair in the mirror, pick at your teeth. You feel, arrogantly hopeful you swing the car door open. It takes your eyes a moment to adjust to the blinding glare of the July sun. As you walk, you hear crickets chirping in the distance, but you aren’t paying close enough attention, until you see me:

My hair floating, softly in the warmth of the July breeze. I’m wearing a dress, so white, it appears translucent in the sun. Shadows of my tender body glimmer beneath the cloth, and all you can think about is ripping it off, eventhough, I am gliding effortlessly, delicately, peacefully; gracefully through the swaying grass, towards the clothesline, with that same tin, laundry basket held to my side; different and changed too. As you clutch the divorce papers in both hands and prepare to move closer, you are momentarily convinced that you were right about everything. Then suddenly,

 A little girl, with my same auburn ringlets and my same hazel eyes, comes rushing across the lawn. She is lively, jubilant, and swift as lighting. I drop the basket and reach to lift and embrace her in my arms. She has a book in her hands, and she smiles brightly as she babbles to me about it. I’m smiling brightly too.

You feel shocked.

As this little girl speaks, the pair of us twirls around. As you step back, your grip on the pages loosens, and your jaw drops to the ground. From the back of the house, appears a familiar man. He is tall, handsome, stoic, gentle and intimidating to you in the way that he holds both me, and my child in his arms.

You observe bewildardly as the man takes the basket from me, and the three of us walk, together, towards the clothesline. My little girl finds a place to lay in the grass and play with her book. The man sets the laundry basket down and kisses my cheek in a way that does not make me wonder. I know that it means, I love you; I will be right back.

And you can only watch him open the door to our home. And you can only watch, as from my apron, I pull a clothes pin, and begin clipping fresh, clean linens to line. You can only watch, and something in the way I smooth each garment as it sways, lightly in the breeze, makes you understand how terribly wrong it was for you to return here.

You are silent as a ghost, as you walk back to your car, alone. Your chest burns, as the engine roars to life. As you drive away again, the memories flicker, and as the moment drifts further, and further away, I am okay. I never even realized that you came back, I do not think much about you anymore. I do not want to, I do not need to.

Goodbye, with love.

Goodbye.

Forever,

Masie

·.༄࿔

Maisie watched her signiature bleed through the page.  It didn’t help like she thought it would, but something did feel lighter. As she laid the last page of the stack flat, and clicked open a green pen, she felt a tiny kick.

It was gentle and soft this time, like the fluttering of a butterfly wing. She understood now, it was not separate from her.