Moondogs - Alexander Yates [70]
Monique let the phone ring. The gecko and lovebird went on for a few minutes after it stopped.
“Dinner’s ready, ma’am.” Amartina turned from the stove, drying her hands on a rag. “You would like to eat now?”
“No, thank you. Just leave it and I’ll help myself later.” Monique noticed Amartina was staring at her. “It’s late. If you go soon you can still catch the cheap bus.”
“So sorry, ma’am, but you have something …” Amartina reached out and then stopped herself. “Better you take off your jacket, ma’am.”
Monique traced Amartina’s gaze to the shoulderpad of her double-breasted cobalt jacket. There was something there. Bird shit? No. A glob of translucent phlegm, just inches from her neck and collarbone. It was dry, frozen mid-drip as it had oozed down her top lapel. It must have been there for a while. Monique’s muscles tightened as she stood and pulled the jacket off. Her arms were so rigid she half expected to tear the rayon fabric. Amartina helped, coming around behind her, snatching the jacket away.
“I’ll wash it now, ma’am.” She disappeared though the narrow door to her bedroom, which was also the laundry room.
Monique felt nausea trickle up from her stomach. “No,” she called after. “Thank you. No. Just leave it soaking and I’ll deal with it tomorrow.” She followed Amartina to the laundry/bedroom. “You should be with your family.”
“It’s no trouble ma’am.” She’d already filled a plastic basin with water and suds. She dropped the jacket in the basin.
“Yes it is.” Monique took the basin from Amartina and carried it out through the kitchen, past the den, into the master bedroom. “I can clean this,” she called back. “You should go home. Go home, please. I’ll see you on Sunday night.”
SHE WASN’T SURE exactly when it happened, but she could guess. She’d ended her day in a holding room at Bilibid; always the worst prison to visit. An American, not two full days into his visa, had been accused of rape. His name was Doug and he looked at her the way a kid who’s screwed-up looks at his mother. He explained that it was a misunderstanding. The girl was his fiancée. Her father had walked in on them having sex and she’d just started screaming. Monique asked Doug if the police or guards had mistreated him and wrote down most of his long answer. She handed over a laminated list of local attorneys and offered to contact his family if he signed a release form. He declined, which was fine with her. She had plenty to do already.
She didn’t think it was Doug’s phlegm, but plenty other new inmates had hooted and howled when they saw her, many of them red-eyed, still rolling on shabu. A boy with an old man’s face came right up against the bars and grabbed at her. Another gurgled “I love you” in English while sitting on the toilet, tugging himself, never mind men napping on adjacent bunks. Monique imagined him flicking a palm-full of semen as she passed. She imagined the boy sucking mucus threads out of his sinuses. She imagined whatever-it-was dripping down her jacket as she rode home. Crusting over. She carted the basin into the master bath, hung her open mouth over the sink and was almost sick.
She laid towels all around the edge of the basin so soapy water wouldn’t get on the floor. She rolled up her blouse sleeves, got on her knees and held her jacket down below the surface as though drowning it. Her fingers grazed the phlegm, now loose and slick. She stood, unbuttoned her blouse and added it to the basin. She added her patent belt, her narrow slacks and seamless camisole. Naked, she returned to the entryway and grabbed the purse she’d brought to work that day. She emptied the contents out on her bed before dropping it into the basin as well. She got in the shower. She left the lights off and curtain open. She soaped, rinsed and soaped again. When she was done she stood there, dripping dry.
The phone rang again and the