I The twenty-five cleaning the prea Mondays wasn’t € to pay me way i dollars Opal earned cher woman’s house nough. “They’ll have more’n this if there’s stuff going on,” she muttered, folding hot jeans at the dryer in the basement. She wrestled with the pants'to pull the legs right side out and felt a bulge in the front pocket. “Oh, Lord, not another letter.” She looked over her shoulder at the empty basement, then pinched the envelope with two fingers and slid it out of the pocket. The man’s name was written in faint purple ink. “I don’t want no part of their problems.” She jammed it back. “ I ain’t giving her another one.” Opal wiped her face with her apron and remembered how white the woman went when she saw the first letter. “What kind of man is he— and her a preacher?” Opal shook her head. “Painting pictures and getting your name in the paper don’t give a man leave to cheat on his wife. It make me sick.” After she folded the clothes, she swept the floor. “I’m not going up there until one of ’em leaves. I don’t need all that hollering.” She could hear the preacher’s voice, high and shrill. “Wonder what she sound like in the pulpit with her high woman’s voice—it ain’t right, a woman trying to preach.” She raised her eyes to the ceiling. ‘“Let your women keep silent in the churches,’ the Bible say.” When she finished the floor, there was nothing left to do in the basement. “I ain’t going up there.” She pushed the laundry basket aside and hefted herself onto the table, inching backward to lean against the wall,, and sat with her legs stretched out. She couldn’t find any place to rest her arms and her massive breasts pressing on her belly made ing for a towel with the other. Her gray hair was damp at the hairline and stood in soft peaks around her face. She wore jeans and a sweat shirt that swallowed her slight figure, making her look like a farm wife. This woman don’t look like no minister of the gospel, Opal‘thought. “I’m going for a bike ride, Opal, up in the hills. If anyone calls, I’m not available today.” “Yes, ma’am.” She unplugged the coffee pot and cleared the table. The preacher slammed the back door, then returned with a red plastic bottle that said Fuji on the side. She opened the regrigerator, took out a box of wine, filled the red bottle, and shoved the box back in the refrigerator. “Good-bye, Opal.” She let the screen door flop on the frame. Opal pushed eggs and bacon through the garbage disposal. She turned it on and stood at the door to watch the preacher mount her bike and ride away. “Smoking first, and now liquor. I ain’t staying in this place,” Opal said and switched off the disposal. She was vacuuming the living room carpet when the man came. She turned her back to him and stooped to clean under the sofa. The vacuum went dead, she straightened up and he was standing two feet away, holding the plug in his hand. “I can’t talk over that thing. Where’s Eva?” Opal put on her stupid look. “My wife. Where’s my wife?” “Riding a bicycle.” He nodded his head like he understood something. “ I brought my van, Opal. I want you to help me load some things from the studio.” She shook her head. “No, sir, I got a lot of work to do,” she nodded at the room, “ and you know I don’t go up them stairs.” The man swung the cord and looked around the room, smiling and plugged in the vacuum. He removed pictures from the walls and took sculpture from the mantle. As soon as Opal finished polishing the coffee table, he carried it out. “I made it.” Opal decided to wash the picture window. She watched the girl help him load the van. He took of flannel shirt and put it on the girl. The shirt was so big on her that it covered her shorts and made her look like she was naked underneath. The man kissed her on the nose and she climbed in the front seat of the van. “A man like you make me sick,” Opal said and spat on the window. When she heard him at the door, she sprayed the glass with Windex and rubbed hard. Inside, he leaned on the banister. “ I made this house beautiful, didn’t I, Opal?” The walls were bare and there were circles and rectangles imprinted in the carpet where he had removed sculpture and furniture. She didn’t say anything. “I made it into something. Eva has no -sense of space or form.” He seemed to be waiting for Opal to speak. “Give the reverend my new phone number and tell her I didn’t get the studio cleaned out. She’s not to touch it.” He handed her a card with a number on it. “I’ll be back Sunday morning to finish up. She won’t have to see me.” Opal ate lunch by herself at the kitchen table, tuna salad on whole wheat toast and skim milk. Then went upstairs to change the sheets on the bed and clean the bedroom and bathroom. His clothes weren’t in the closet and the only pictures left on the walls were photographs. She was scouring the bathroom sink when she heard the kitchen door bang. “ Opal... Opal?” It was the preacher. She put the Ajax away and went downstairs, her hand heavy on By Kathleen Coskran Illustration by Dave Eckdahl Design by Eric Walljasper her feel like she was wearing a body girdle. She closed her eyes and let her head droop to her shoulder. Least Henry never hollered at me like that man do her, she thought. When she finally heard the screen door to the kitchen slam, she slid off the table. “Man ought to fix that door. Latch don’t hold.” Breathing hard, she carried the laundry through the kitchen past the woman hunched over a coffee cup, smoking a cigarette. Opal didn’t say anything and the preacher never looked up. On the second floor, putting away socks, Opal muttered, “The body’s a temple and that preacher woman is smoking.” She slammed a dresser drawer shut. “I’m going to ask for more money.” When she carried the empty basket downstairs, the preacher was bent over the sink, splashing water on her face with one hand and gropbobbing his head. He seemed excited. Opal looked out the picture window and saw a tall, blond woman standing by the van, staring at her reflection in the side mirror. She was wearing shorts and high-heeled sandals. She glanced toward the house and Opal got a flash of full, red lips. You point your harlot mouth the other way, girl. I seen women like you before, she thought. The woman turned back to the mirror and Opal faced the man. “I don’t know if I can make it in one trip, Opal. I’ll bring everything down to the first floor and you can help me carry it out to the van.” She fiddled with the vacuum cleaner, adjusting the bag. “I don’t < carry heavy things. Doctor told me that.” The man frowned and looked out the window at the woman. “All right, Opal, all right. I’ll do it myself.” He the railing. The woman stood in the middle of the living room with one hand on her hip, the other squeezing the red bottle that said Fuji. “What happened here? Where is everything?” She was flushed and sweaty and her voice was thin. Opal looked over the woman’s head, but didn’t answer until she was off the last step and in the living room. “Your husband came, Ma’am.” The woman stared for a minute. “The slime rat.” She threw the red bottle on the sofa. It bounced on the floor and hit her shoe. “Damn his lizard eyes.” She grabbed the bottle and flung it against the wall. “I’ll crush that cockroach and fry him.” She hurled a pillow at the window and raised her fist at Opal. “I’ll kill him.” Opal took a step backward, her head moving side to side like an old 36 Clinton St. Quarterly—Winter, 1988-89
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