Coming clean, p.1
Coming Clean, page 1
Contents
Praise for Coming Clean
Coming Clean
Copyright © 2024 Beth Uznis Johnson. All rights reserved.
Dedication
Top 100 Ways to Mess with Customers
Monday: Exposure
Tuesday: Autofocus
Wednesday: Contrast
Thursday: Distortion
Friday: Retouching
Saturday: Zoom
Monday: Perspective
Acknowledgments
Praise for Coming Clean
“Beth Uznis Johnson’s debut novel Coming Clean is a sharp, sexy, pressure chamber of a book. Earthy and carnal like the work of Lisa Taddeo, darkly complex like Ottessa Moshfegh’s Eileen, Dawn is a cleaning lady with a lot going on in her head, and a keen interest in what boundaries she can push as she makes a kind of peace with grief. In these pages, we find the razor’s edge where everyday life tips over into art. Read it once for what happens, and then again for what’s earned.”
—Ashley Warlick, author of The Arrangement
“Coming Clean sneaks up on the reader in the same way that hard truths in the novel sneak up on Dawn, the protagonist. At first it seems we’re spying on Dawn’s customers along with her, that she is our window into those complicated lives, but gradually our gaze shifts to Dawn herself, and the houses she cleans become our windows into her. This is a smart, funny, thoughtful novel about a young woman on the cusp of starting over. We see that cusp before she does; the tension we feel is the fear that she won’t recognize it in time.”
—Susan Perabo, author of The Fall of Lisa Bellow
“Regret, guilt, grief, the secrets of private lives put on display, and a chance at redemption. Beth Uznis Johnson’s debut novel, Coming Clean, illuminates as much as it titillates. Johnson has such a grasp on how our contemporary world has affected our relationships. Her empathy for her characters, often flawed and nearly broken, is striking, and her unique vision left me eager to keep turning the pages. This is an impressive first novel.”
—Lee Martin, author of the Pulitzer Prize Finalist, The Bright Forever
“Raw and unflinching, Coming Clean exposes a young woman’s guilt and grief over the loss of her fiancé. Dawn cleans other people’s houses, peeking under the sheets and peering inside closets, revealing the most intimate secrets of families vastly different from herself. Her tenacious quest for these hidden truths evolves into a search for her own self-acceptance. Dawn is witty and sharp, brave and impulsive, and through her journey, readers will discover there’s a little bit of Dawn in each of us.”
—Carla Damron, author of The Orchid Tattoo and The Stone Necklace
“Coming Clean is a book you don’t want to miss, turning inside out classic themes of guilt and betrayal, and giving us, in no uncertain terms, the glorious middle American version of Remains of the Day. This book is practically an instant classic, it is that good and that smart and that brave and that unsettling.”
—Fred Leebron, author of In the Middle of All This
Coming Clean
Beth Uznis Johnson
Regal House Publishing
Copyright © 2024 Beth Uznis Johnson. All rights reserved.
Published by
Regal House Publishing, LLC
Raleigh, NC 27605
All rights reserved
ISBN -13 (paperback): 9781646034154
ISBN -13 (epub): 9781646034161
Library of Congress Control Number: 2023934870
All efforts were made to determine the copyright holders and obtain their permissions in any circumstance where copyrighted material was used. The publisher apologizes if any errors were made during this process, or if any omissions occurred. If noted, please contact the publisher and all efforts will be made to incorporate permissions in future editions.
Cover images and design by © C. B. Royal
Regal House Publishing, LLC
https://regalhousepublishing.com
The following is a work of fiction created by the author. All names, individuals, characters, places, items, brands, events, etc. were either the product of the author or were used fictitiously. Any name, place, event, person, brand, or item, current or past, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of Regal House Publishing.
Printed in the United States of America
Dedication
To my late grandmother, Evelyn R. Uznis,
for believing girls should get chances.
And to Ken, Alex, and Kevin
Top 100 Ways to Mess with Customers
1. Organize sex toys
2. Mismatch socks
3. Toss random condom in a drawer
4. Toss condom wrapper in trash
5. Switch lamps between rooms
6. Change soap brand
7. Sprinkle flower seeds in garden
8. Swap canned food with store brands
9. Rearrange furniture
10. Add appointments to wall calendar
11. Refold underwear
12. Smear chocolate skid marks
13. Sort closets by color
14. Hang TP wrong direction
15. Rearrange silverware
16. Overstarch one sleeve
17. Hide prescription meds in back
18. Slide hemorrhoid goop to front
19. Switch junk drawer contents
20. Set clocks fifteen minutes ahead
21. Set clocks fifteen minutes late
22. Write anonymous love letter
23. Move knickknacks between rooms
24. Re-hang artwork
25. Unscrew light bulbs
26. Random hair on pillow
27. Change speed dial numbers
28. Switch salt and sugar
29. Move XLax to Imodium bottle
30. Microwave milk jug
31. Try on formalwear
32. Read diary
33. Take bubble bath
34. Relocate nail clippers to silverware drawer
35. Speak only in robot voice
36. Replace family photo with similar family
37. Add peroxide to shampoo bottle
38. Add deer urine to perfume
39. Drink best booze
40. Replenish bottles with cheap booze
41. Luxuriate in expensive skin care routine
42. Transfer golf clubs to attic
43. Apply layer of shampoo to toilet seat
44. Re-sort important papers
45. Drop phone number into pants pocket
46. Erase programs from DVR
47. Smudge lipstick on shirt collar
48. Relocate passport to basement desk drawer
49. Short sheet guest bed
50. Eat all but one cookie
51. Replace goldfish with bigger goldfish
52. Defrost freezer items in fridge
53. Subscribe to porn magazine
54. Replace spare keys
55. Disconnect light switches
56. Reprogram thermostat
57. Record fake checkbook deposit
58. Leave fake adoption records for kids
59. Saran wrap toilet seat prank
60. Rip butt seams on pants
61. Loosen door hinges
62. Reprogram garage door
63. Hijack Facebook; post conspiracy theory
64. Hide car keys in basement desk drawer
65. Swap coffee to decaf
66. Swap decaf to regular
67. Replace fancy coffee with instant
68. Hide dead fish in milk chute
69. Reorganize fridge
70. Alphabetize bookshelves
71. Replace cough medicine with maple syrup
72. Flip batteries in remote control
73. Display pictures of first wife
74. Slip dirty magazines into rack
75. Move fancy towels to basement bathroom
76. Replace vitamins with Viagra
77. Squeeze Nair into shampoo bottle
78. Jam drawers to open 1 inch
79. Flip cups in dishwasher
80. Flip knives in dishwasher
81. Erase phone contacts
82. Delete laptop files
83. Blast volume on TV
84. Release vacuum seal on pantry items
85. Lower fridge temp to freezing
86. Write dirty messages in bathroom steam
87. Reorganize kitchen cabinets
88. Tape over telephone receiver to lower volume
89. Replace light bulbs with lower wattage
90. Mismatch DVD cases
91. Swap book jackets
92. Set all clocks to different times
93. Set alarm clock for 3:37 a.m.
94. Leave voicemail from Sunset Massage Parlor & Escort Service
95. Superglue plugs into outlets
96. Move hanging tennis ball in garage
97. Hard boil every other egg
98. Reset the sprinkler timer
99. Disconnect doorbell
100. Stir sand into Vaseline
Monday: Exposure
Turn on lights and look for what’s dirtiest.
One of the best parts about cleaning other people’s houses was she got to fuck with them. Dawn wiped Barb Turner’s TV cabinet until the grain of the wood gleamed in its most pristine, dustless state. Then she replaced the silk daisies in the same lopsided line as usual. Each flower grew from a rigid copper stem sprouted from a brushed-nickel pedestal. Barb, who seemed equally rigid, preferred: yellow, orange, pink, orange, yellow. Dawn left them any way but that.
It wasn’t that Dawn didn’t like Barb Turner. Or her décor. The colors brightened the room and, despite being old enough to have lost the sheen of newness, she dusted the petals and brought some shine back to the copper. The fake flowers were trendy, maybe even hip.
What bothered Dawn was how a perfectly clean square appeared when she lifted a flower, the havoc of the Turners’ week having settled around each base. What difference did it make if your stuff was clean or dirty when you didn’t seem to notice it in the first place? All that time and money spent on decorating only to fade into the backdrop of the day to day. People should notice what they had before it was gone because everything became gone eventually, be it from fading trends in home design, normal wear and tear, old age or sudden, unanticipated destruction.
The flowers would be forgotten were she not to move them around, left untouched and ignored amid the family commotion. So, Dawn slid the yellow flower to the center and staggered them a little—forward, back, forward, back—for added effect.
Barb restored order to Dawn’s chaotic line of flowers week after week. Neither spoke of this game they’d been playing for nearly a year, a back-and-forth push like checkers, with each player refusing to lose. She pictured Barb standing in front of the cabinet every Monday night, arms crossed, ready to make her move, wondering whether to say something to the goddamned cleaning lady about putting things back like she’d found them.
She imagined Barb thinking: Maybe she didn’t do it on purpose, the cleaning lady. Maybe she thinks the flowers look better with the tall orange one on the end. Do they? Barb would be forced to see the life she had created for herself, right there in front of her, in her decent-sized house in a decent neighborhood in upstate New York, exactly the way she’d wanted.
Dawn swung her plastic jug of Magic on the way to the living room. She knelt in front of the coffee table and used both hands to squirt a line of her cleaning concoction from one end to the other. She sat back on her socks. The wood discolored beneath the wet part. She didn’t know enough about furniture to say whether this happened because of the high quality of the finish or because it was cheap. It didn’t matter as long as she wiped fast enough. She’d never live in a house this nice or this big anyway so it seemed safe to assume that even a veneer finish was the real deal. One advantage of mobile home living was not knowing the difference, or giving a shit for that matter. Dawn’s choices to create her future were diminished when Terry died, cut by half at least and fucked over in triplicate by her injuries from the accident.
She ripped a couple paper towels from the roll knotted to her belt loop with twine. The Magic disappeared as she worked it to a thin lather, flipped the towels, and dried the tabletop.
Magic with a fresh citrus scent. Her customers loved it, raved about it, begged to know her secret. She’d yet to discover a finish—wood, vinyl, granite, porcelain—that didn’t gleam after a wipe down. Make yourself invaluable, her father always said. He didn’t care she cleaned houses as long as she did her best.
As sure as Dawn ran her cloth over the smooth legs of the Turners’ coffee table and along the creases where grime tended to collect, her father polished the copper rails at his Key West bar so they glimmered like new pennies. People should pay attention to their belongings and take care of those they cared about. Her cell phone quacked as though he knew she’d thought of him. “Hey, Dad. What’s up?”
That bad feeling rose through her, as though he could only be delivering crushing news. It had to be about the accident, like her father’s health insurance wouldn’t cover her after all. Or Terry’s parents had finally sued. She’d lose the trailer, her father the bar. Her heartbeat pulsed through the grafted skin on her elbows. The bad feeling, which hadn’t been quite so bad lately, seemed to swallow her whole. A person had no control over a body when trouble called. Trouble still owned her: her elbows, her brain, thoughts, heart, everything.
She sat cross-legged on the floor next to the bottle of Magic. The paper towel roll stuck out like an awkward appendage. Her hair blanketed her neck and shoulders so she twisted it into a knot and tucked the ends, willing the curls to stay put for once.
“Shawna quit,” her dad said.
The news didn’t make Dawn feel better. In the end—really—pretty much everything was about the accident anyway.
Sweat rolled down the edge of her face and melted into her hair near her right ear. Deep breathing, she reminded herself. The doctor said it helped ease the anxiety.
“You there?”
“I thought Shawna was the best waitress you had,” she said.
“What matters is I need to hire another waitress in time for the holidays. The job’s yours if you want it.”
Her father had sold most of his possessions years ago and moved to Key West. He opened a dive bar that served hamburgers atop wax paper in red baskets. Best local burgers, his chalkboard sign said. Vacationers wandering off the cruise ships believed him.
“But my cleaning business,” Dawn said. She’d filled all five days of the week. The routine of the expected had allowed her mind to settle into the ease of autopilot, at least until she got home each night. Still, hearing herself say the words stunned her. Autopilot wasn’t close to enough. Her father was silent for a beat, confirming her response lacked the enthusiasm he’d expected. “I won’t argue with you about all the reasons you should or shouldn’t come. Say yes and get down here.”
“I can’t, Dad. Not right now.”
“Why not? Cleaning houses doesn’t interest you. It’s not your passion. Think of this as a new experience to try. It’s a solid business, Dawn.”
“Terry’s mom is holding a candlelight vigil next week for the holiday.”
“What?”
His tone held the amount of incredulity she’d expected from this admission, possibly a little more. Any father would be skeptical. After so many years tucked snugly into the fold of the Folly family, Terry’s mother’s silence seemed to him a betrayal. Dawn hadn’t been so sure. It got complicated, understanding who had betrayed whom, and this included her father, who had been happy to parent in the casual manner required when a person lived 1,500 miles away.
You lost as much as she did, he’d insisted. She should be helping you heal. How dare his mother pin this on you!
Dawn watched a tiny ant scale the Turners’ wall, traveling the edge of the floor molding like a long road. She knew it was heading toward the crack near the front door. It must lead to freedom.
“How do you know about this…vigil? What is that, praying?” her father said.
“She called me. She asked me to come.”
“Sandy Folly? When did you start communicating again? Does your mother know about this?”
“I didn’t tell anyone. But she was nice, Dad. I feel like I should go.”
“Go so everyone can blame you?”
“Thanks a lot,” Dawn said, even though she knew he was one of the few who didn’t.
“Saying no to this job means I’ll hire someone locally. It’ll get snatched up. The tips are great. You need a fresh start.”
Dawn remembered the way the sunlight hit her face and how the smell of the ocean blew past before she pulled open the door to the bar and walked into the blast of air conditioning and reggae music. The dim lighting contrasted with the bright outdoors, as though coming in gave you permission to notice less of the world. Inside the bar, only the pulse of the music and burn of the whiskey mattered. The idea of such a reprieve seemed more than she deserved.
