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“Eugh!”
Sid cocked an eyebrow towards the horrified man standing beside him at the presbytery’s kitchen sink. “What’s wrong? There a spider or something?” It must have been a spider. Sullivan’s arachnophobia had been especially bad this summer, and Sid could think of nothing else that would draw such a dismayed and disgusted sound from his boyfriend. “Where’d it go? I’ll drown it for you.”
“There’s no spider. There’s just that.”
Sullivan was pointing to the soapy cloth Sid was using to wipe out a teacup. “The rag?” He wrung it out and examined it. It looked like he remembered; faded, thin in a couple of places, one hem half-undone. “I don’t see anything wrong.”
“No?”
“No.”
“You don’t see anything wrong with using a pair of old pants to do the washing up. Seriously?”
“...No?” He frowned, puzzled by Sullivan's insistence. “I mean, just cause it not a very good pair of pants anymore doesn’t mean it’s not a decent rag. Waste not want not, and all that.”
Sullivan blinked hard. “Sid...it's admirable that you want to get as much use out of things as possible. You’ve obviously worn those to tatters-”
“I’d say you’d know, you’re the one who told me to get rid of them and buy new!”
“-but that doesn’t make the remnants suitable for washing things we eat and drink with!”
“Why not?!” It didn’t make any sense. Sullivan kept a bag of old cloths under his kitchen sink and another stashed in the linen cupboard; surely there was a pair of pants somewhere in the mix. “It’s just as good as anything else I might’ve used!”
“They’re pants!”
“They were pants. Now they’re just a rag!” And a convenient one for dishes, at that. It was like a glove when you were washing, and the leg holes let it dangle from your wrist while you reached for the next dish. In fact, he wasn’t sure why more people didn’t use their old stuff in the sink.
“That isn’t how it works! They can’t change states like that!”
“Sure they can. Think of it this way; a washing machine’s like a confessional. You go in dirty, you come out clean. You were a sinner, but now you’re alright for a bit, until you sin again. This was a pair of pants, but now it’s a rag you can use for whatever you need. It’s only pants again if you stick your feet in and pull em up.”
Confronted with Sid’s proud smile – it was a good bit of reasoning, that was, and why shouldn’t he be pleased with it? – Sullivan's jaw dropped. “I...you can’t be...” He turned to the table. “Mrs. McCarthy, I know you’re busy editing, but I’m begging you to help me with this.”
Sid looked around as she raised her eyes from the parish newsletter. “With what, Edgar?” When Sullivan gestured at Sid, she put her pen down. “I heard nothing break, and I see no blood. What else could he possibly have done while washing up that requires my assistance?”
For the first time since he’d selected a cloth for his task, Sid questioned his choice. Mrs. M. hated waste, so that was a point in his favor. But she and Sullivan saw eye-to-eye on a lot of stuff to do with keeping house. That might work against him in this case. “He doesn’t like the cloth I’m using, that’s all.”
“That makes it sound much more innocent than it is. I would never have interrupted you for that. The problem is that he’s washing up with a pair of old pants.”
Father Brown’s head came up from his crossword instantly. He’d be reasonable about this, surely. Instead of speaking, though, the priest glanced at each of them in turn and then leaned back in his chair. Watching and waiting; that meant he wasn’t sure which way things was going to go and didn’t have a strong enough opinion of his own to try and sway the decision. Bloody hell.
Mrs. M. sighed. “Sidney...no.”
“Look, let me explain!” He repeated what he’d told Sullivan about washing machines absolving fabric, and even demonstrated the usefulness of the pants’ shape. “Might be a good business model, come to think of it. Buy up old underwear, wash it, and re-sell it for dishes. Could always just make brand new ones once demand outgrew the supply of used pairs. Which it would pretty quick, cause this is the easiest washing-up I’ve ever done.”
It was rare to see the parish secretary flummoxed, but Sid knew of no better way to describe her expression as he finished his argument. She caught Father Brown’s gaze. “What do you think of this?”
“I think the question is entirely within your domain, Mrs. McCarthy. I wouldn’t dream of interfering with your highly effective cleaning protocols.”
“Aw, c’mon, Father!” This wasn’t fair. He was going to lose this debate, and Sullivan hadn’t even made any points besides ‘they’re pants!’ “I mean, I’m not wrong, right? A washing machine is like a confessional.”
Amusement, with what might have been a dash of pride, twinkled in the Father’s eyes. “I can’t say I didn’t appreciate the analogy. But just as confession doesn’t make a murderer innocent, a washing machine can’t make pants into not-pants. No matter how conveniently shaped they might be for doing the washing up with, their history still makes them an unsavory candidate for the job.”
“So...” Sullivan plucked the rag from Sid’s hands, carried it to the rubbish bin, and dropped it in. “No pants in the kitchen sink.”
“Or anywhere else,” added Mrs. McCarthy. “We may not eat off the church pews, but I still do not want to find you polishing them with any sort of undergarment, new or used.”
“I’ve got three other pairs that need used for something, though, since I bought new!”
“Not even to swipe at cobwebs in the basement.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
Sid cast one final, pleading look at the Father, hoping for a last-second reprieve. Receiving none, he threw up his hands. “Alright, Ed; you win. We could've been rich, but I’ll just throw a bunch of perfectly good rags away instead, all 'cause they used to snug in against me-”
Three voices drowned out the rest of his sentence. “Sidney!”
“Gah, fine, I’m done!” Shaking his head, he bent to get a new, ‘better’ rag from under the sink. The world might not be ready for his brilliant idea right now, but someday...someday....