Chapter One Sample for "Clean"

The following is an excerpt from chapter one of "Clean." Darla, the protagonist, is experiencing a flashback as she cleans a client's house.

She looked at the wall to the right side of the bed. Another secret panel hid there, protecting the Parson’s safe and family photo albums. Unlike those in bank robber movies, the safe wasn't anything special.

Every so often, she’d peruse the photographs of long-dead Parson ancestors. Occasionally, Darla would find a new, crisply developed photo of the couple off on European adventures or relaxing Caribbean cruises. A life she would never know. Still, even hiding spots needed dusting.

It'll be fine. They're not back till Friday. I'll get it tomorrow; got to hurry before I miss sunset, she thought as she approached the bed.

The Parson’s bed was not a simple turn-down affair; it was a ceremony, a sacrament to the home. Once, she’d forgotten to make it. Darla remembered the sound of Silvia Parson shouting her name through the house. She remembered rushing into the room, sure she was about to be fired.

“Does this bed look made, maid?”

“No, ma’am.”

The woman’s beady eyes had narrowed as she looked around the room.

"How much are we paying you, dear?" Mrs. Parson asked as she walked around the bed.

"Five dollars per cleaning for four cleanings per week,” Darla answered quickly.

"And how much would it cost for daily cleaning? We expect to be here quite often with our office opening downtown. It might become a permanent move in a couple of years once we’re up and running. You’ll find my husband is fond of his dinner parties.” Silvia stopped, just inches away from her.

“We wish to explore more of the culture here. You Carolinians are so simple, simple tastes and simple pleasures. Such a pleasant change from the hustle and bustle of D.C.

So, how much for you to come here and clean every day?"

Darla was floored as she ran the calculations in her head. "Every day, ma'am?" she asked.

“Every day, dear.”

“Um- that’s…” Silvia Parson interrupted.

"Are you a religious woman, Darla?"

"I was raised Catholic, but no longer practice ma'am."

"Then you will take off Christmas and Easter. Do you require more?"

"I visit a friend in Florida for a week each summer." 

A fraction of a wrinkle split between Mrs. Parson’s eyebrows, "Christmas, Easter, and one week in the summer. Is that all, dear?"

“Oh! And my birthday.” Darla blurted. Mrs. Parson narrowed into slits. “Christmas, Easter, one week in summer, and your birthday, and when is your birthday, dear?” Her voice seemed to grow colder with every question.

“The fourteenth of April, ma’am. My birthday will land on Easter in two years, so I’ll get one less day off that year.” Darla had memorized her birthdays against all future corresponding holidays.

“An unfortunate pairing,” Mrs. Parson said coolly.

“I don’t mind sharing my birthday with the big guy in the sky, ma’am,” Darla smiled; Mrs. Parson did not.

“So-” The woman took a long breath and rattled off, “Christmas, Easter, your birthday unless the two coincide, and one week in summer. Do I have that correct?” The sentence sounded more like a deliberation than a question. Darla nodded.

The woman took a step closer. She had known Mrs. Parson was short, but up this close, Darla stood a solid half-head taller.

“And the price?”

“Fifty dollars a week.” Darla held her breath. You blew it! That’s too high, way too high!

Silvia shrugged, "How does eighty dollars a week sound? For all seven days. I know the demand for good help in this neighborhood. All these women here think their reputations can buy them whatever they want; I disagree. Think of this as your retainer. I’m asking that you prioritize this house; if I call, you come running. Eighty dollars a week." 

Darla was dumbfounded; that was almost triple any of her other clients. She blinked and had the mindfulness to close her mouth as she nodded.

"Yes, ma'am. That sounds good. I'll get right to that bed," she said, raising her hand in the small space between them.

"Yes. Please do, dear." The woman said, taking Darla’s hand. She remembered Mrs. Parson’s fingers being so cold, like wrinkly icicles.

That conversation had been a high point in Darla's career. The steady cash flow had been going straight to her vehicle savings account, and she was getting close to her goal.

Fluffing the final pillow, she placed it gingerly on the bed. Taking a step back, she examined the bedframe that towered above the mattress like a wooden ribcage.

The entire bedroom had taken her twenty minutes-ish to complete. She picked up her rag and walked over to a handle protruding from the wall by the hall door.

The laundry chute was another hidden favorite of Darla’s, and it saved her from countless trips to the basement washing machine. She pulled the handle, and the hatch fell open. A cool draft pushed its way up the shaft and felt good against her skin. She used the chute for more than just laundry, dropping everything from spent cleaning supplies to empty liquor bottles into the basket below. Darla dangled her torn cleaning rag over the chute and let go.

She waited for the soft thwap.

It never came.

The breeze from the chute stopped blowing.

The hair on her neck stood up as Darla squinted into the dark opening.

Must’ve gotten stuck.

Darla tip-toed forward and leaned into the chute. The drop was just as dark as the hallway. She saw nothing, no glow from the basement lights that were always on. Absolute, eye-pressing darkness.

She leaned further, grasping the walls on either side.

Something moved down the chute, shifting sideways in the dark.

Darla jerked back.

A crash came from the room behind her, and she screamed. Careening into the bedroom, Darla spun and flailed her arms against the invisible intruder. I’m dead; I’m gonna die!