A Defective Load

    Marion watched as a congregation of white fabric circulated a vacuity, every round marking the downtick of her focus… her brain activity… her will to live. Thoughts composed then disassembled, too frivolous to carry out. She watched as groupings of cloth were ferried about the small laundromat in baskets, eddying when people stopped in lines—shifting their weight from toe to heel. Then, finally, the basket would strand on some open surface or another—never the floor, though.

Marion returned her gaze to the washing machine, her eyes unrelieved. All she wanted was some damned interest in her life, in this moment. Not to watch the whirlpool of all the white cloth in her house for 45 minutes, not to make a game of spotting the blight of a material  that led it to its destination. But she played. Ketchup stains flagging a pleated skirt. A towel coated in makeup.  A streak of dirt from Kenny’s slide to homebase. She stopped once she found what she thought to be period stains on underwear. And yet, something was the common denominator of it all, something her mind just edged around, never wanted to actually touch. Still, the matter drummed on her brain. It was bugging her, the questions. Who did the skirt belong to? Was it Julie’s or was it Elise’s? She was sure she’d never seen Julie wear it—certainly not that week but… then again she never bought Elise that skirt. Elise didn’t get an allowance anymore, she couldn’t have bought it herself. And the make up towel, she was scared to even discover the answer. Suddenly, she found her thoughts being ushered to that undesired place.

      It was the first day Elise had brought it up, with Charles in the other room no less, it was a foolish thing.  

       “Mom.” She’d said, tugging nervously on her Khakis. Marion had caught her at it because she was looking down, making a grocery list. Marion saw the repeated hike and descent of the Khaki’s cuffs.

        “Quit it.” She’d instructed. The activity paused, then resumed.

         “Mom.” Marion looked up at the tone, Elise’s face seemed more elfish somehow, fundamentally wrong.

         “What on earth is on your face?” The chin was narrowed, the eyebrows arched, the lips lacquered in a pastel hue.

         “Mom I don’t…” Elsie had looked around, at Charles perhaps, then to the floor. “I don’t want to be a boy… I’m not one… deep down.” Charles coughed then, and they had both stiffened.

          By the time Marion’s eyes flit from the window to the washing machine, it wasn’t too late. In fact, it was just in time. A red shirt had made its way to the forefront of the jumble, and was just starting to taint the water. She could have sprung up, lunged for the button to kill the vortex, could’ve extracted the bleeder and safely returned to washing the laundry. But she didn’t. She let it happen, let the water tide in saturation, let the colored water imprint into every stitching. Afterall, she told herself, she needed some interest in the day. 

Marion hadn’t stopped Elise telling Charles. In the weeks’ interlude, she offered no resistance, no helpful overtures, she just watched. Watched as Elise grew pale everytime she came around Charles, wondering if Elise would break the news then—wanting her to. Watched Elise practice in every mirror in the house the memorized script she’d prepared for him. Watched as she left Julie’s room every morning re-feminized for school. Marion had anticipated the slap that was deployed, had anticipated a succeeding punch, maybe a kick. No such things came, no great show of violence, just a wad of spit dispatched to the wood tiling near Elise’s feet, and silent tears. 

        The following weeks passed by in passivities, small progressions, the fillers of a television show. Elise and Charles didn’t talk to each other at dinners. Kenny became quieter, began to shut himself off from the rest of the family. Elise’s swapped the handle Elliot for Elise. Elise and Julie would travel around the house in pairs—Julie dragging Elise into her room, the door always shutting. One day, Marion overheard Julie call her a bitch, and Elise, after some probing, assented. Marion toyed with the idea, a scorned mother with a household of relatives who cared little for her. She decided she didn’t dislike the notion.

           “Oh my God!” Marion came to with a start. She looked behind her, a blond, frazzle haired woman had a finger pointing at Marion’s washing machine, the other arm hugged her basket of laundry. “Oh my God, your whites!”  The water was a noticeable pink, the whites were noticeably tinged.

    “It’s fine.” Marion said, making no move to get up. She studied the novelty; pink fabric revolved and sloshed in the flushed water, loudly ramming against the machine’s margins. The machine was faltering, the noise had alerted everyone in close proximity of the mistake. “It’s fine.” She repeated louder, the blond’s frown deepened, thin lips drawing up into thinner lines. The blond woman looked for somewhere to set her basket down.

    “It’s not.” The woman’s lips pursed, receding into their thinnest form yet. She was subjected to set the basket on the floor. “Here let me help you turn that off, oh I can only imagine the reaction of your husband.” She set on her search for the off button.

    “Husband…” Marion repeated, trailing off in tone and expression. The woman noticed the tone and halted.

    “Ah, I’m sorry it’s wrong of me to assume, you’re just so pretty and you have a family sized load of laundry. It’s just if my husband found all his white T-shirts were pink of all colors he’d have my neck.” She gave a fluttery, awkward thing of a laugh. Something in that statement stirred Marion, moved her to her core.

    “I don’t have a husband.” The woman had successfully found and pressed the button to stop the machine, she turned, cocked her head.

    “I’m so sorry to have assumed--”

    “Or a family. Not anymore anyways.” The woman’s frown took on a pitying brand, she moved to place a hand on Marion’s shoulder, then retreated at the last second. But that was just it, the solution to day’s problem, to her life’s problem. “Not after today.” Marion stood up, fished in her purse for a sizable roll of cash. “Here, for your trouble, for helping me, for being a good samaritan or for whatever you want it to be. Whatever you need to tell yourself to accept it. You’ve helped me more than you know, I’ll tell you that much” She forced the spool of bills into the lady’s hands, the woman was taken aback, began to stammer. In the time the woman formed a cohesive, denying reply to Marion’s efforts, Marion was out the door.