Authors: Deborah Rogers
Jennifer runs across the road to seek cover under the striped awning of Dewberry's Deli. She hasn't thought to bring a jacket or umbrella, and her blouse clings to her skin like a wet suit. Perfect. Any other point in history and she would have probably laughed. But being stuck here wasn't going to help with her ever-increasing to do list. There were books to prepare for the accountant, real estate agents to select, movers to contact, accommodation to arrange, schools to speak to.
Rain pounds the canvas and others squeeze in, shaking droplets from their coats.
"Jesus must be angry today," says a woman with a toddler.
"Jesus, Jesus, Jesus is a friend of mind," sing-songs the little boy, holding out his hand to catch the rain drops.
This morning the singing and the smell of Polish sausage is a nauseating combination and Jennifer's stomach rolls. She focuses on a jar of green chilies in the shop window and wills the weather to ease. And it does, enough for her to duck away from the growing menagerie outside the deli and make it back to the clinic before another torrent comes down.
She stops short of the door when she sees Ethan North at reception. He looks up so there's no avoiding him.
"It's bad out there," he says.
He still hasn't shaved but at least his lapel is clean.
"It is," she says, feeling wet hair lick her chin.
Rosemary hands her a paper towel. "Your mascara has run."
"Brilliant." Jennifer turns to Detective North. "Come through."
When they get inside he says, "I called. Left messages."
Three of them. Listened to and not returned.
"I know. Sorry." She doesn't offer further explanation.
He falls silent and glances around the office, taking in the equipment.
"Have you heard something?" she says, aiming for neutral.
"No."
He says nothing more and walks over to the phoroptor and stares at it, keeping his hands in his pockets.
"I don't know what else I can help you with," she says.
"Your receptionist mentioned bruises," he says, without looking back.
Jennifer feels a stab of betrayal. "Did she?"
"She's just looking out for you," he says.
"A run in with a car door."
"Okay."
Jennifer looks at the floor. A puddle has formed at her feet.
"I need to get changed," she says.
His phone rings and he looks at the screen, swipes it to divert.
"I would like to talk to your daughter," he says, turning around.
"That's not going to happen."
"I know you're scared, but I can help."
Her heart hammers in her chest.
"I'm not scared," she says.
"It might not be as bad as you think. Tell me what's on your mind and we'll go from there."
His phone rings again and he tries to ignore it but it keeps going.
"Excuse me," he says.
He answers and looks out the window while he listens. Jennifer can't hear what's being said but the voice on the other end is loud and male.
"I can't now," says Detective North. "Where's Leah? Pop, I said I can't. Listen, I'll be home soon."
He rings off and turns around. There's that frown again.
"Don't let me keep you," says Jennifer.
"McKenzie," he says.
She sighs and drops into her chair.
"She's too fragile," she says. "She never wanted me to go the police. She somehow thinks it's her fault."
"This is hard on you too I bet."
"Yes."
"But we still need to locate Hank."
"Maybe he doesn't want to be found."
He nods. "That can and does happen."
"I just want to put this behind us."
He turns to her. "I still need to talk to her."
"You don't believe me," says Jennifer.
He walks to the door and opens it. "Don't get up," he says.
She watches him through the rain-streaked window. He pauses to look at the sky and mumbles something, pulls up his collar and walks away.
It has been four days since the gallery incident and Lenise is still waiting for an apology. All those hurtful, malicious things. Words stung just as much as a fist, if not more. She didn't deserve such a tirade, not after everything she had done to help.
And now Jenny was punishing her with silence. Such pettiness. She was acting worse than a child. Oh, she was all smiles when she wanted something, but a cold fish when she didn't. Well next time Jennifer reached out, Lenise was going to have to exercise a tough love approach and not give in – Jenny needed to learn her manners.
There's a knock on the front door and Lenise has to laugh because, well, four days wasn't that long to hold out. But it's not Jennifer.
"Hey," says McKenzie.
"Does your mother know you're here?"
"I don't care what she thinks," says McKenzie, shooting an angry look back at her house. "Can I come in?"
"Of course."
McKenzie drops her backpack to the floor and follows Lenise to the kitchen.
"I wished I knew where he was," she says.
"Who? Your father?"
"Mom never tells me anything. But I know she knows where he is."
Lenise leans on the counter and crosses her arms.
"Why do you say that?"
"I can tell. Sometimes she looks at me like she's about to say something important but then just turns away. She thinks I'm a kid and can't handle stuff."
"Well, I wouldn't worry about your father, he can look after himself."
McKenzie stares into her drink. "I don't want him to think I hate him."
Lenise pauses. Even after he hurt her.
"It's time to put yourself first now, girl."
McKenzie gets to her feet. "I better go before she comes home from work. She'll have a bitch fit if she knows I'm here. She's been really psycho lately."
"I noticed."
McKenzie picks up her bag.
"Wait there a minute, would you," says Lenise.
Lenise dashes upstairs, returns a minute later.
"Here." She holds out a necklace – a peach-colored heart stone on a black string. "It's from South Africa. It's called a Morbue stone."
McKenzie's face lights up. "That's cool."
"Put it on."
McKenzie loops it around her neck.
"Perfect," says Lenise. "Listen, girl, I don't know what your mother's got against me at the moment but any time you want to come over, you can. I won't say a word. Now off you go before the witch of Pine Ridge Road turns you into a toad."
McKenzie doesn't move.
"What is it?" says Lenise.
"Do you really think Dad's okay?"
Lenise studies McKenzie's face and thinks about telling the child the son of a bitch got exactly what he deserved. "Yes, girl, I do."
McKenzie seems satisfied then, "There's something else."
Lenise frowns. "Oh, yes."
"I'm not supposed to say."
"What is it, girl?"
McKenzie looks at her. Tears are forming.
"Tell me," insists Lenise.
Suddenly she falls into Lenise's arms. "I don't want to move to Florida!" she wails.
Lenise pushes McKenzie away. "Florida? What do you mean, Florida?"
"I hate her!"
"You're leaving?"
"I want to stay here."
"When did this happen?"
"I don't know."
McKenzie is crying hard and Lenise can barely understand her. "Come on now girl, get a hold of yourself. Tell me what your mother said about Florida."
McKenzie steadies her tears and wipes her nose with the heel of her hand.
"We leave in a month."
*
Lenise is sick of this shit. She is sick of the smell of garlic and hickory and salt. She is sick of the fatty residue on her fingertips even though she wears gloves. She is sick of being cold because some halfwit had set up her Palgrave's Best Beef Jerky stand right outside the frozen meats section. She is sick of the sound of the butcher's grinder slicing through muscle, bone and skin. She is sick of the sore feet and aching knees. But most of all, Lenise is sick of the people who look at her like she is nothing. Even the shelf-fillers seemed to regard her at the lowest end of the supermarket pecking order, lower even than that of the cart wrangler, who was apparently afforded more respect than her because of his retardation.
She stands here most days, behind the little stand in her stupid fringed cowgirl's uniform with the American flag in her hand, and watches the customers ignore the plastic platters of diced jerky. Although to be fair, she can always count on the fatties who pass her by then secretly circle back and extend a pudgy hand for a cube (or two when they think she isn't looking). And there are also the pretend connoisseurs, who would stand there and chew in front of her, gazing up at the ceiling as if their delicate palate was trying to detect the nuances of flavor. But most just want something for free. Cheapskates who give not a second thought to how hard it was for a single woman to make a living these days, especially when her income depends on sales.
To make matters worse, when she gets here this morning she finds her stand has been shifted directly in front of the fish section, a spiteful move on the part of the store manager probably because she'd complained about being so cold. It fit with the usual downward trend of her miserable life of late, including the very bad news that Jenny and McKenzie where moving to Florida.
Lenise looks up. A man with a screaming infant and supermarket cart with a faulty rubber wheel careens around the corner. She turns her head, not wanting to encourage him and his noisy brat to head in her way. Too late.
"You want to try some, Sammy?" says the man.
The wailing child holds out his arm and moves his fingers back and forth in a grabby way.
"There's chili in it," says Lenise, raising her voice over the skull-rattling cries, "and this one has whiskey in it, so I wouldn't give him that."
"Sounds like a good idea to me."
Lenise doesn't return the man's smile and cuts a portion of the plainest flavored jerky she has and gives it to the brat.
"Here you go junior," she says.
The toddler throws it back in her face.
*
When Lenise gets home she sees Jennifer removing grocery bags from the trunk of her car.
"Jenny."
Jennifer's eyes drop to Lenise's cowgirl outfit and Lenise wishes she had the foresight to change.
"I apologize for the other day," she says. "For taking McKenzie to the gallery without your permission."
To Lenise's surprise Jenny says, "I could've handled things better myself."
Jenny looks worn out. Like she might be getting sick again. Then Lenise reminds herself why she's here.
"When where you going to tell me about Florida?"
Jennifer looks shocked. "McKenzie told you?"
Lenise pats down her hair and the fringe on her sleeve shimmies like a wind chime. "Don't get annoyed at her. She was upset and had nowhere to turn."
Jennifer stiffens and disappears into the trunk to retrieve the rest of her groceries. "I want a fresh start, Lenise. Is that so wrong after everything that's happened?"
"You're running away."
"I don't want to fight," says Jennifer.
"Running away never solves anything, I should know."
"Well, this isn't your decision, is it?"
Lenise pauses. "I think you and McKenzie should stay."
"Honestly, Lenise."
Lenise reaches out to touch Jennifer's arm. "Jenny, please don't go."
Then to her own revulsion, Lenise begins to cry. Big fat watery marbles slide down her cheeks and splash onto her suede boots and she wants to disappear. She's never shown such weakness in public and she might as well be naked. Then, unable to stop herself, she goes further.
"If it's the house – because of what happened here – you and McKenzie can come and stay with me."
Jennifer laughs.
Lensie stares at her. "
Heartless
."
"Lenise."
"No," says Lenise. "You've made yourself clear."
Lenise returns across the road, hears those stupid spurs jingle-jangling with every stride.
"Lenise! Come on, I wasn't laughing at you! Lenise!"
But that was a lie. Jennifer had taken Lenise for a fool and maybe that's exactly what she was.
Jennifer pours a cup of coffee and cradles the warmth in her hands. It has rained overnight and remnants drip in fingers from the eaves. A curl of sunlit steam rises from the grass. It seems perverse, this beauty in such bleakness of spirit.
Overhead floorboards creak. McKenzie is up. When she comes downstairs, she doesn't say a word to Jennifer and heads for the cupboard and retrieves the special bowl and cutlery she has taken to keeping in the plastic bag that's for her use only.
"I made eggs," says Jennifer, pointing to the plate on the table.
McKenzie ignores them and reaches inside the pantry for a single serve of tuna and places the can next to her bowl then goes to the sink and proceeds to wash her hands, soaping up the front, the back, the sides, in between the fingers, like she's preparing for surgery. She rinses and soaps three times then dries off with paper towels. She sees Jennifer looking.
"Don't make a federal case out of it," she says, finally popping the ring on the tuna and sitting down to eat.
Jennifer points to the polished stone around McKenzie's neck. "What's that?"
"Nothing."
"Where did you get it?"
McKenzie turns away. "Forget about it."
Jennifer puts down her coffee. "Lenise gave it to you."
"I knew you'd be pissed."
"Hey – enough with the sailor talk."
"Well, it's true. You hate everything I do."
Jennifer sits on the stool and rubs her face with her hands. "I don't want to talk about Lenise. There's something more important we need to discuss. The police. A detective. He wants to talk to you." She pauses. "McKenzie, I had to tell him."
Jennifer watches the realization dawn on McKenzie's face. "You had no right!"
"There was no other choice. I thought he would leave you alone if I told him, but he won't let it lie."
Jennifer places a hand on McKenzie's arm but she brushes it off.
"You can't make me do this."
"It's the police. We've got to do what they tell us."
McKenzie turns and stares at her mother. "What's going on? Where's Dad?"
Jennifer swallows. "What do you mean?"
"Something's wrong. He wouldn't just leave and now the police want to talk to me."
"I don't know what to tell you," says Jennifer.
"They think something bad's happened, don't they?"
"It's their job to ask questions, that's all."
"Mom, please don't make me talk to them," she pleads. "I just want to forget about what happened."
"It's not up to me."
McKenzie wipes away a tear. "It isn't fair," she says, barely audible.
"I know but you can do this, hon."
McKenzie gets to her feet. "I just want to be normal," she says. "I just want to be like everyone else."
*
The room has an orange sofa and a single hard-backed chair. A pine coffee table separates the two. On top of the coffee table sits a jug of water and two glasses and a small unobtrusive recorder. One side of the wall is made entirely of mirror – the two-way kind – and that's where Jennifer stands in the dimness, arms around her middle like a brace, watching McKenzie on the couch.
The woman in the restaurant was right. McKenzie could have been a boy. The dark, shapeless clothing, the short hair, those rounded shoulders – there was nothing feminine about her anymore. It was if she was trying to erase every part of her female self.
McKenzie had insisted on doing the interview without Jennifer and the state-mandated social worker in charge of child abuse disclosures.
Just him
, McKenzie had said nodding at Detective North, and at first the social worker refused, saying it was against policy, but McKenzie informed them point blank she wouldn't talk otherwise.
McKenzie and Jennifer nearly had a stand up fight in the waiting area but Jennifer had finally let it slide and watched unhappily as McKenzie was led away. After that, a female uniformed officer showed Jennifer to this room and said, "It's never easy for the mother" and left Jennifer and the social worker to stare unseen through the mirror at the stranger sitting on the orange couch who looks a lot like Jennifer's daughter.
She knows she ought to give McKenzie privacy and feels like a thief, taking something precious Jennifer has no right too, but she cannot tear herself away.
McKenzie tells Detective North everything. The nights. The days. Where. When. What. She leaves nothing out. It doesn't seem to matter to McKenzie that Detective North is a man, or maybe it's the very fact that he is a man that means she can talk so freely about what happened. For his part, Detective North sits in the chair, a quiet presence opposite her, listening gravely, asking one or two questions for clarification but otherwise giving her the room she needs to speak.
At one point McKenzie falters and tears up and it looks like he's about to offer a hand of comfort, but he thinks better of it, choosing instead to say "we're in no rush" and he waits, patient and concerned, until McKenzie collects herself. Eventually, she carries on, scratching her cracked over-washed palms as she speaks while behind the two-way glass, Jennifer listens and weeps silently into her tissue. And when McKenzie is finally done, Jennifer has never been so glad that Hank was dead.
Afterward, a spent McKenzie goes to wait in the car and Detective North turns to Jennifer.
"Son-of-a-bitch," he says.
"I didn't know."
"It never occurred to me you did."
He shifts his weight, tugs his ear lobe.
"Sometimes," he says, "sometimes people get the idea into their head that taking the law into their own hands might be an acceptable thing. In situations like this, when a child has been hurt bad, people's emotions run high. Things might happen that people might regret. What I'm saying is that in situations like these the truth is important, more important than ever, no matter what it is, because there have already been too many lies told, because at the end of the day the truth is all we have." He looks at her and pauses. "Now's the time to say."
"I don't know where he is."
She holds his gaze, and he breaks off first, eyes landing on the potted plant near the exit.
A uniformed officer emerges from a back office. "Ethan, your old man's on the line."
Ethan nods okay to the officer then turns to Jennifer.
"You have my number," he says.