The Spleen
- Oct 2, 2020
- 5 min read
by Tara Campbell
I was expecting a package that day, so when I heard a knock at my condo door, I opened it. No one was there. Then I looked down and saw a piece of meat on my little raffia welcome mat.
It was a purplish, wet-looking organ shaped like a palm-sized kidney bean. I didn’t freak out at first, because I assumed it was one of the dog’s toys. The people down the hall have a dog, and sometimes he leaves his toys in the hallway, a squeaky rubber steak or a slobbery ball. I lifted my foot to scoot the thing off my welcome mat, but then it shifted, angling backward as though it were looking up at me.
“Good afternoon,” it said. “I’m a spleen.”
These dog toys are getting pretty advanced, I thought.
“May I come in?” it said, pulsing gently when it spoke. An indentation ran along one prune-colored side, top to bottom, like the first scoop into a fresh tub of ice cream.
I thought I should say something, with my mouth already open, but didn’t know what.
“If not,” said the spleen, “may I simply trouble you for a glass of water?”
I looked up and down the hallway, expecting to see one of my neighbors with a remote control and a grin. All I saw was an empty corridor with a little wet trail running from doormat to doormat until it reached mine.
“Nobody’s home,” it confirmed. “All at work, I suppose.” It turned to the left and the right, as though searching the hallway with me. “I’m sorry to bother you, but might I come in?”
I stepped back from the door to make room—the spleen had been so polite. It waddled over the threshold, leaving a bit of viscous moisture on the hardwood floor before it reached the area rug. “My apologies; if you lend me a towel, I’ll clean that up.”
“I, uh—it’s okay.” But now I was thinking about the rug. “Why don’t you come into the kitchen?”
I led the spleen onto the tiles of the kitchen floor and leaned against a counter, then thought better of my position and maneuvered closer to the door. It rotated with my movements.
I remembered the hardwood and excused myself with a couple of paper towels, wishing I’d grabbed my rubber gloves too. But I didn’t want to insult the spleen by going back for them, and fortunately I was able to fold the towels enough times to keep the wet off my fingers.
As I dropped the wad into the garbage, I wondered if it was a biohazard. I’d expected organ fluid to have some kind of odor, like meat wrappers, but this didn’t smell. On the other hand, some things needed a day before they stunk up the garbage.
“Excuse me,” said the spleen.
I closed the garbage bin and turned toward it.
“I hate to be a bother, but might I trouble you for a glass of water?”
I blinked at it.
“Tap is fine,” it said.
It was so damn polite, how could I not reach for a glass and turn on the tap?
“Lemon?” I asked.
“No, thank you. But maybe a pinch of salt?”
I mixed in a twist from my sea salt grinder, then placed the glass next to the organ on the floor. My face flushed—of course: it had no arms. “Sorry, I don’t have a straw. Should I—?”
“Would you mind pouring some over me?”
Its sheen did seem a bit dull at that point. I thought about the trail in the hallway, the moisture it must have expended waddling from unit to unit. And still, it wasn’t the least bit cranky, like that expression venting your spleen would have you believe.
“Just half the glass should do,” it said.
I squatted in front of it and poured a trickle from the pint glass onto the organ. It turned from side to side, the way you do in the shower when you’re really enjoying it, like after a workout or a sweaty summer commute. I kept dribbling water over it, bit by bit, and a small puddle pooled around the spleen until almost the whole glass was gone.
“Ahh, thank you,” it said. “I truly appreciate it.”
I felt a silly swell of pleasure at having been able to help.
It tilted down toward the kitchen floor. “Oh dear, I’m afraid I’ve made a bit of a mess. I’ll help you clean up.”
“That’s okay, it’s not much.” I grabbed the tea towel hanging from the oven handle and mopped around the organ. Then I dumped the towel in the sink and washed my hands as long as I dared without offending my guest.
“Well, thank you again,” it said. “You are so very kind. I don’t wish to bother you any further, so I’ll see myself out.”
“Wait,” I said, drying my hands on my jeans. “I mean… Who are you? What—how did you even get here?”
“Oh, I was just here for the open house.”
“Open house?”
“The unit down the hall is for sale.”
I mean, the spleen was right, I’d seen the posting. But…
“The agent refused to show it to me, though,” it said, slumping a little.
I was surprised at the prick of disappointment I felt on behalf of this organ.
“Why?” I asked.
If a spleen could shrug, that’s what it did.
I huffed. “They can’t refuse to show a place, can they? That’s discriminatory.”
“Well, I understand the apprehension, I suppose. There was a lot of hardwood, and I’m…” It tilted down toward the residual moisture on the floor, then back up toward me. “But still.”
My disappointment spiked into anger. “That shouldn’t matter. The only thing I can think is—are you preapproved?”
“Yes.”
“Which means you can pay, just like anyone else. So that was discrimination.” Then something else occurred to me. “Did you tell the agent you’re a spleen?”
The spleen seemed to stiffen. After a moment it said, “Pardon me?”
“Well, I don’t know much about spleens.” I swallowed, suddenly awkward. “I don’t know any kidneys either, to be honest, but I would have thought you were one if you hadn’t told me otherwise.”
Another pause. “Should it matter?”
“N-no, no it shouldn’t. I just meant—”
“I’m preapproved. For well over asking price.” There was an edge to its voice now. “I could pay a mortgage just like anyone. Kidney or spleen: should it matter?”
My mouth went dry. “I didn’t mean… I just thought that the agent might have thought… You know, because of what people say about…”
I went quiet and the spleen straightened itself. “Thank you again for the water. But I see this community might not be the best fit for me after all.”
I put a hand on my stomach. The spleen turned and waddled out the door.
I haven’t felt at peace since.
Tara Campbell (www.taracampbell.com) is a writer, teacher, Kimbilio Fellow, and fiction editor at Barrelhouse. She received her MFA from American University in 2019. Previous and upcoming publication credits include SmokeLong Quarterly, Masters Review, Wigleaf, Jellyfish Review, Booth, Strange Horizons, and CRAFT Literary. She’s the author of a novel, TreeVolution, and two collections, Circe’s Bicycle and Midnight at the Organporium. Her newest book, Political AF: A Rage Collection, was released by Unlikely Books in August 2020.
