Mom’s Filth
by Corey Stanfield
The pounding at the door sounds urgent, so I hurry over, tripping over Mom’s filth. Two officers peek inside, real proper-looking.
“Is something wrong?” I ask them, opening the front door from my knees.
Instead of offering a hand, the officers pinch their nostrils. They ask me about Mom’s whereabouts, having missed choir practice and Sunday morning service, which is unusual for her, not that they would know that. Her church friends must have insisted on a welfare check.
“Mom’s inside here somewhere,” I say, looking back. “Want me to go find her?”
The pair insists, shoving their hands into the doorway.
I step around piles and piles and piles of junk mail left unattended by the front door. With my sneakers on. They’re always on. Otherwise, I’ll get a staph infection. Mom wouldn’t like that, my foot getting infected. She would convince me I did it on purpose to make her feel god-awful, sob in her bedroom for hours, leaving the door cracked open so I would have to listen.
I also step around the magazines, the piles of dirty clothes, tiptoe around crumpled old newspapers, dating back to the early 2000s, when the aftermath of 9/11 still made the front page, around trash bags stuffed with empty soda cans. This portion smells of rotten syrup, which is better than all the other awful smells inside this house, especially better than the smell of Mom’s bedroom. I jump over the stack of dusty encyclopedias, over more piles of soiled shirts, some of them stiff as a brick.
“Mom, are you there?” I ask, loud enough for the officers to hear. “Mom, police are at the door. They wanna talk to you.” A rat sticks out of one of Mom’s slippers. Too hard to tell if it’s alive. I’ll get to it when the officers leave. Easier to deal with than all the roaches. Villages of roaches hidden inside the walls. Hidden under furniture. Inside it, too.
“She must have snuck out,” I say, at the front door again. “Probably went to the grocer to get some animal repellent. Someone’s been stealing from us.”
They ask me to give Mom a call, as if my honest-to-God word isn’t enough.
I put my phone on speaker. Mom doesn’t answer, so I leave a voicemail. “Mom, call me back. Police are at the door, wondering where the hell you are. Your friends at church. They’re worried.”
“What now?” I ask the officers.
They whisper to each other, hands over their lips, like they’re hiding something from me.
“Excuse me,” I say, waving and snapping but getting nothing in return. I assume that’s that, so I backpedal, back into the house. Don’t like to stay out for long. Too much sun.
Before I can shut the door, one of them gets their foot into the sill, asking if they can come in for just a moment. The way they say it doesn’t sound like a question, though.
“I wouldn’t hear the end of it from Mom,” I say. “Not without tidying up first.”
Again, the officers give me nothing in return. Nothing more than blank stares.
“How about tomorrow? I’ll let Mom know you’re stopping by.”
They peek inside again, this time through the crack of the door, threatening me with a search warrant. Out of nowhere.
I’m dumbfounded. I ask them, “Where is it?”
They don’t have one, not at the moment, but they assure me they’ll get one.
“Of course you can come in,” I say, having nothing to hide. Also, more importantly, “I want Mom’s church friends to know she is doing just fine.” She’s been having severe migraines as of late, the reason for her absence at church. I’ve insisted that she go see a doctor and have them give her something strong.
I attempt to make a clear path for the officers, scooting over a box stuffed with glassware, box stuffed with silverware, box stuffed with plastic cups, box stuffed with coupons, box stuffed with batteries, box stuffed with more boxes. A plume of dust comes out and lingers. I’m asked to sit down before I can finish moving all of them. I do just that, not looking for trouble, asking, “What are you looking for?” I’m ignored. “I’m sorry for the clutter, really. Mom doesn’t get rid of anything. I’ve told her she has a problem. She doesn’t listen.” Honestly, I’ve given up. Like beating a dead horse, trying to convince her to clean up.
The officers blink rapidly, look lightheaded, coughing into a closed hand. One taps the other, points to the front door. They tell me to stay right where I am as they retrace their steps back outside, leaving the front door ajar.
I’m unsure of what to do. In all honesty, I’m unsure why they’re still here. Mom’s at the store. If she ever finds out I let them inside, she’ll go ballistic. Rabid bat ballistic. The officers return with face masks on.
“Sorry for the smell,” I say. “Doesn’t bother me much. Bad allergies. Can’t smell a damn thing.”
One officer stands over me. The other searches through Mom’s filth. Eventually leaves the room and goes into the kitchen.
“Would you like some water?” I ask, ashamed that I hadn’t thought to ask sooner.
The other officer, hovering over me, tells me to stay seated. Also tells me to shut my mouth.
“Trying to show hospitality,” I say.
CLATTER in another room, that officer likely tripping over Mom’s filth in the hallway leading to her bedroom. I never go over there. Not allowed. Although, I’ll have to now. First time in a long time. Tidy up real well before Mom returns. She has a knack for knowing when any little thing of hers is misplaced. The last thing I want is to be put in time-out again.
“Please try not to make any more of a mess,” I say. “For my own sake.”
The officer standing over me puts her finger to her lips, shushes me. She looks bored, wanders over to the family portraits. Most include my father. I don’t think Mom and I have taken a picture together since his passing. Melanoma, a decade ago. Mom’s hoarding tendencies have taken precedence over just about everything since. Probably can’t bear to lose anything else. I’ve lived a sheltered life since. She won’t have it any other way; she can’t afford to lose me. The officer asks my age, pointing out those outdated family portraits.
“I’m 32,” I say. People say I look younger. Healthy skin. Thick head of hair. No graying. Same clothes I had ten years ago. No point in changing; clothes still fit.
Pig hoof in hand, the foraging officer returns with an explanation for one repulsive scent. A pack of coyotes must have snuck up on the poor hog, leaving its remains to rot under the house. Happens all the time, they tell me. They grab gloves and plastic bags from their cruiser and collect the remains.
I watch, ask if they would like my help. I’m ignored; I say, “I get it, you’re the pros. I’ve certainly never discarded a body before. Not that big of one.”
The officers take frequent breaks. Cough up a storm. Dry heave. Too messy, too miasmic not to. Maggots crawling in and out of the poor hog, intestines hanging from its ripped-open belly, spilling out onto the dirt.
“I’m beyond grateful,” I say from a safe distance. Mom would have me doing it by myself otherwise. Nobody comes over, not even her church friends, saying I’ll find some way to embarrass her.
The officers gather their bags full of pig guts.
“You could put it in our trash. Wouldn’t bother me. Hate to stink up your cruiser.”
They ignore me, lay the bags out in their trunk, and apologize for their intrusion, citing Mom’s hoarding as reason for concern.
I reiterate how I’ve pleaded for her to clean up her goddamn mess. I also say, “Sorry for the inconvenience, for this entire situation.”
As they walk me back to the front, they ask one last thing of me: to have Mom call them when she returns.
I do them one better, saying, “I’ll give her another call.” To put their suspicions to rest. She is more likely to answer this time. Enough time has passed.
The phone rings; I put it on speaker. We wait. Mom doesn’t answer again. Strange. Out of character for her, always telling me I don’t call her enough.
“Sorry, she’s probably driving,” I say, assuring them I will have her call once she gets home.
They ask me to call her again. RIGHT NOW.
“Doubtful she’ll pick up, her being on the road. Safety comes first in this family.”
The officers insist, “asking” me to turn off my phone’s speaker this time.
The phone rings. One officer taps the other on the shoulder and points to the bathroom. She takes off in that direction.
I assume the officer needs to vomit. “The smell of dead pig will do that,” I say.
Mom doesn’t answer; no surprise there.
“Told you,” I say to the officer who’s still out front with me.
He ignores me. The other one comes out, heaving.
I say to both of them, “Told you.”
The officers yell for me to put my hands up. Yell for me to get down on my stomach. Contradict themselves, now yelling for me to put my hands behind my back. They’re discombobulated. Both stiff as a board.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, doing as I’m told, however foolish it may seem. They have a job to do. The last thing I want to do is get in the way of that.
One of them goes over my Miranda Rights.
“Can I call Mom?” I ask, absolutely forgetting that she hasn’t answered her phone for the past hour. Now would be as good a time as any for her to do so.
The officers tighten my handcuffs despite the glaring pain.
I ask, “What the hell is this about?” I’m distraught, tremendously.
Again, I’m ignored, no surprise. “I’ve done everything you’ve asked of me; please, just answer my question. Why are you doing this to me?”
The officers tell me I’m a SCUM. Tell me I’m FILTH. Spit at me. Hold their hand up, think about a good slap. Tell me I’m not even worth that.
Now I’m the one discombobulated, seeing stars, not the ones at night but the imaginary ones. The ones that mean something is very wrong, like my legs giving out on me.
The officers tell me to GET UP, KEEP MOVING. Tell me they heard a phone vibrating in Mom’s bathroom. Tell me it’s hers, plugged into an outlet next to the bathtub, next to where her body rests.
I can’t believe it. My heart crumbles. Into tiny pieces. I’m in agony. I’m shoved into the backseat of their squad car. Before the door shuts, I confess. “She doesn’t let me in her room. How was I supposed to know?” Honest-to-God, how?
Corey Stanfield currently lives in New Mexico with his dog Mallory but will always be a Texan at heart. It’s too bad Texas is mostly plains. When he isn’t staring at mountains or wandering them, he is helping care for dogs and cats as they wait for their forever homes. The rest of his time away from home is spent at the library.