The Devil's Wire (2 page)

3

Lenise Jameson can't sleep. The temperature seems wildly out of control and she flips between blankets on, blankets off, blankets on, blankets off until she finally gives up and tosses them aside and lies there in the center of the bed curled up like a whorl on a fingertip. She can't get the image of him out of her head, hurt, those sweet, soulful eyes pleading for help.

When he was a puppy she'd started out so strict, determined he would not become one of those weak dogs, the ones that suffer separation anxiety the moment they lose sight of their master. Such neediness was pathetic. Any animal she owned would be independent and resilient so on the very first day she brought him home she made him sleep in another part of the house. But she hadn't been prepared for the heart-wrenching peal of his lonesome and bewildered cries, night after night, as if he was lost and afraid of the dark. On the third night Lenise gave in. She let him into her room then onto her bed, where he became a permanent, warm, heartbeating lump curled up in the arch of her back.

And now look at what had happened. All because of that drunken Tresemme-haired bitch from across the road, Baby may never come home.

Downstairs she hears the key clatter in the lock and the front door open and close. She looks at the bedside clock, 3.30am. She gets up and goes to the kitchen. Cody is there, elbows on the bench, finger-scooping out brown goop from a jar of Nutella.

"Don't start," he says, without turning around.

"I wasn't going too."

He looks up.

"What then?"

She begins to cry. He looks shocked because he has never seen her cry before, especially not like this, with the rolling, breath-robbing sobs and complete lack of restraint.

"Baby was in an accident."

"You're joking."

She shakes her head and can't get the words out.

"What happened?" he says.

"Over the road, the neighbor. She hit him with her car, he's at the vet. I don't think he's going to make it."

Cody stands there, arms by his side, looking useless.

"He'll be okay."

"He won't."

She wipes her nose and pauses.

"Cody, there's something else."

"What?"

"I noticed money missing again."

He stares at her, then turns to walk up the stairs and she knows she has lost him.

"I already told you I'm looking for a job," he says.

"I'm just asking because I'm going to need it for the vet."

"Make the neighbor pay. It's her responsibility."

"I wouldn't take a penny from that woman," she spits.

"You're always on my back. It's not easy out there."

"We've all had to adjust. Cody, please, don't walk away when I'm trying to talk to you, it isn't polite."

"I'm not three, Mother," he says.

He shuts his bedroom door, leaving Lenise to stand alone in the hallway. She doesn't go in because once the door is shut, that's it, their unspoken rule is in force – if he's in his room she will not disturb him. After all, he's a young man, 24 years old, and needs his privacy. But tonight Lenise wants to heave the door open and force him speak to her, make him understand their already bad financial situation is made worse by him. She is doing all that is humanely possible to support them but he needs to realize she isn't invincible and, by the way, doesn't he know she's given him the best years, the very best years of her life, so perhaps he could show a little more gratitude. Sometimes he is so much like his father she can't actually bear to look at him but she forces herself to anyway, because he is her son and that's what you do for people you love. All she wants is for him not to take, no,
steal
from her. That isn't too much to ask after all she has done for him.

But Lenise says none of those things. Instead she pulls her robe tight and goes back to bed.

*

The next day she feels no better and wishes she could stay in her room but someone has to pay the bills. She looks in the mirror and clenches her teeth as she pulls the comb through the rough and unruly hair she has cursed everyday of her life. At a bar once some wanna-be rapper type told her she looked like the serial killer Aileen Wuornos, only with ginger hair. She had laughed and Tupac had looked surprised because he hadn't meant it as a compliment. But Lenise had been called far worse. Her former husband had frequently referred to her as "pig" or "dog" so at least Aileen Wuornos was the right kind of species. And Wuornos was a woman of course, a strong, dangerous woman, who didn't take bullshit from anyone.

"You better watch out then, P Diddly," Lenise had said, inching close to his gold-hooped ear lobe. "Because I may have more in common with Ms. Wuornos than just looks."

Then she had clicked off a round with her finger and thumb, and just for a moment, the guy's eyes opened a touch too wide.

"Crazy bitch," he had said, walking off.

Lenise couldn't care less if she never looked in another mirror again and wouldn't even bother with make-up if it wasn't for the job, but in America it was expected you look "your best" or "professional" and for a woman that meant mascara and lipstick. She leans into her reflection and applies a layer of amber nights and thinks about how her teeth are in dire need of attention but that with her bank balance a trip to the dentist was not going to happen anytime soon.

Once she's done with the make-up, Lenise slips on her Brook River Real Estate blazer and, as always, experiences a tiny burst of pride. Yes, she had to tell a few white lies to get the job, mainly about holding similar roles back in South Africa, but that's what a person had to do in order to get ahead in life. It was called being resourceful. Not that the job had been an out and out success, and truth be told, some days it truly felt like she was getting nowhere – it had already been two years and she was hardly raking it in – nevertheless, it was a vast improvement on handing out fries to slobs at Cheetoes Burritos and she was certain her luck would turn any day now. It was only a matter of time before a prime listing or referral would come her way.

She walks past Cody's bedroom. He isn't up yet and she fights the urge to slam her fist into the door, at the fact she is sure he is at it again, even though he'd promised her a million times he would stop, but the money didn't grow legs and walk out of the house, did it? Lenise will have to deal with that later. Right now, there were more important things to think about, like Baby, alone and frightened in some steel cage.

The vet still hasn't called but the open home is at 10am and she has to leave so she puts her cell in her pocket, shoves the Brook River sign in the back of the station wagon and heads to Fitchburg.

When Lenise arrives at the four bedroom colonial she's annoyed to see no one has cut the grass. The empty house was another mortgagee sale and had been in a general state of disrepair since the bank kicked the owner out nine months ago. She forces the sign into the hard earth, and goes inside to open a few windows to air the place out and prays someone will show. She needs this sale because last week she had to withdraw money from her credit card for groceries.

Lenise is considering a quick cigarette round the back when a blue SUV pulls up. Mike and Missy are from Texas and seem particularly interested.

"Great natural light. Lots of storage," says Lenise.

"Where y'all from?" asks Missy, noting the accent.

"Jo'Burg."

"Come again?"

"South Africa."

"No kidding."

Lenise hears a loud male voice downstairs she recognizes instantly. Bert Radley. A sanctimonious shyster who would sell his own mother if he thought there was a buck in it. The breathtaking audacity of it – to bring a client to view a house during
her
open home.

"If you'll excuse me for a moment," she says to Mike and Missy.

Lenise finds Bert Radley in the kitchen with a Korean couple.

"May I have a word?" she says.

"Certainly."

They leave the couple to inspect the size of the pantry and go into the hallway.

"This is highly inappropriate, Radley."

"They asked to see it, what could I do?"

"I'm going to lay a complaint."

"This isn't personal, Lenise."

"You owe me."

"I don't owe you anything."

"I could've had your license revoked after your get together in the Clarkson property."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You were in the client's bed," she smiles. "I saw you."

A sheen develops on his forehead. He glances at the kitchen.

"So that's the way you're going to play it?" he says.

Then he pauses and looks past her shoulder.

"Dirty business, this real estate," he says, walking off.

Lenise turns. The Texan couple stares at her from the doorway.

"It's not what you think," she says. "He slept with a prostitute."

But they won't listen and get into their trendy SUV and drive away, along with her commission.

Lenise waits out the rest of the hour but no one else shows. As she's returning the sign to the trunk, her cell phone rings. She looks at the phone, buzzing in her hand like an electric razor, but can't bring herself to answer it. Five more pulses and the hum stops. She gets in her car and stares out the windscreen. On the road, a black-backed gull plucks at the smashed carcass of a hedgehog. Lenise starts the engine and heads to the clinic.

4

It's difficult to concentrate and Jennifer's hoping Mrs. M won't notice she's distracted. Her mind is on last night's disaster. Was it three or four, the number of drinks she'd had? Jennifer can't recall. And just when she's settled on the idea it was three, doubt creeps back in and it's more like four, maybe even five. The fact she can't remember without struggling is probably a good sign it's five. But even if that's the case, they were weak, hardly any tequila all. More sugar than tequila, in fact.

Jennifer keeps telling herself it could've happened to anyone. It was dark, the dog was dark. How was she meant to see? That's what she plans on telling police. She's been waiting for them. It feels like she's been holding her breath since last night. But so far, nothing, which was almost worse. Then again maybe it wasn't so bad, because the more time that passed, the more chance the liquor would dilute in her bloodstream, the more difficult it would be to test. She can't believe she's thinking like this. A criminal. A shirker of responsibility. And what if the dog hadn't made it? God.

Now she's got the pitiful state of the dog inside her head as she tells Mrs. M to lean into the chin rest of the ophthalmoscope. The woman's a trooper because she has a small roll of Cert mints tucked inside her fist, and she's been sucking on two at a time because she doesn't want her breath to stink for Jennifer.

"That's it, just relax," says Jennifer, directing the pin point of light into Mrs. Mendoza's left eye.

Jennifer tries not to yawn because Mrs. M will think she's bored when it's actually due to lack of sleep. After she got in from the accident, Hank was not waiting up as expected. She had braced herself for an argument, the slamming of doors, recriminations, but he was in bed, asleep. She slipped in next to him, which was probably a mistake, because she was so wired and it must have shown because Hank murmured "Jen, you're shaking, what's wrong?" and she said "nothing, just cold" and then he held her, engulfing her in his arms, until she stopped the post-traumatic shudder thing.

"Sometimes I love you so much it scares me," he said.

She was going to tell him then, pour it all out, about the dog, even the reckless kiss, that she was sorry for ignoring him lately and all this crazy midlife shit, but she couldn't bring herself to do it.

And this morning he asked again if she was all right and she said "It was Rosemary's birthday and I didn't mean to be so late" and he said "I thought something had happened to you, Jen," then paused, "No more fighting, okay? And I'm going to try harder about the food thing with McKenzie" and handed her a cup of coffee just how she liked it, hot enough to burn your nose, and she'd forgotten how good he could be and she wanted to hug him and hold on but that would be strange given their recent difficulties so she kept her hands to herself and watched him get dressed then depart to chase up another possible lead on a job.

After he left, she put on her clothes and went down to the kitchen where McKenzie was about to dump a full box of Chocolate Crunch Cereal into her bowl.

"Dad said I could."

Jennifer swiped it out of her hands.

"You may have your father wrapped around your little finger, madam, but not me. And would you take off that silly cap."

Jennifer flinched. She hadn't meant to sound so critical.

"This is just as good," she said, placing the Light and Low Bran in front of McKenzie.

And there was that sullen face again, but Jennifer ignored it, and pulled up the blinds and looked out the kitchen window at the house across the road and saw no sign of the strange, woolly-haired woman, but her heart began to beat fast just the same.

"Did you know we have new neighbors?"

"They moved in last week."

"I didn't notice."

"You never notice anything," said McKenzie, getting up.

"They might have kids."

"You don't need to find friends for me, Mom."

Jennifer looked at that plump moon face and limp strawberry-blonde hair so different from her own. She used to think she'd taken the wrong baby home from the hospital until Hank assured her that he had an elderly Aunt that looked exactly like McKenzie.

"That's not what I meant," said Jennifer.

"Can I have some lunch money?"

"Over there," Jennifer pointing to a salad wrap and apple on the bench.

"Apples hurt my teeth."

Jennifer had heard this countless times before and it sparked the memory of the mandarins she'd stopped to buy last night from the all-nighter grocery store on the way home from the club because she'd wanted to avoid hearing the apples hurt my teeth excuse the next day.

"Wait there," said Jennifer.

She went into the garage to retrieve the mandarins and was nearly sick when she saw the blood on the fender. She got a rag and wiped off the mess and told herself she wasn't trying to hide anything, but who wants to drive around with blood on their car? She returned to the kitchen and gave McKenzie three mandarins and told her she better get off to school and then rang the garage and asked if they could fit her in.

And as she drove to the repair shop all she could think about was how the incident was one of those "brick moments" Oprah talked about. A wake-up call. Get-your-act-together type of thing because next time the wall comes down on top of your head and knocks you clean out. It could've been a kid, although a dog was bad enough. It was a sure sign Jennifer needed to shape up and change her ways.

Jennifer peers into the scope. She's close enough to see the pores in Mrs. Mendonza's cheek and smell peppermint and garlic and something Jennifer doesn't recognize, tomatoes maybe. She never gets used to the closeness. It seems like an invasion, like she has somehow taken the place of a lover. Mrs. M's iris is a beach shell worn down by the surf – gluey and swollen. The fibers of the optic nerve splay out brilliantly like dozens of tiny red-inked tributaries on a gas station map. Not good.

"You can sit back now," says Jennifer.

The older lady peels a mint from the silver foil and places it in her mouth while Jennifer makes notes.

"That your daughter?" asks Mrs. M, nodding at the photograph on Jennifer's desk.

It was taken on a day hike at Oak Valley, Jennifer's attempt to encourage McKenzie to be more active. McKenzie is crimson-cheeked and sweaty, her chubby twelve-year-old face half-hidden by that ridiculous Cleveland Indians baseball cap. McKenzie had never played baseball in her life. She'd never even watched a game.

"Her father gave her that cap," says Jennifer. "We've never even been to Cleveland."

"She's very pretty."

"What about you? Do you have kids?"

"A son. He lives in Texas."

Mrs. Mendoza offers Jennifer a mint.

"I'm good," says Jennifer.

Jennifer closes her folder and pauses. This was the part she hated. This was why she would not choose the human eye if she could begin again.

"Have you heard of macular degeneration, Mrs. Mendoza?"

"Dios Mio! You're telling me I'm going blind?"

Jennifer looks at her pretty olive skin and nicely fixed curly black hair and beach shell eyes that will soon close off the world around her.

"Vision impaired."

"Blind."

"Legally blind. There's a difference. You'll still have some sight."

"I don't believe it." Mrs. Mendoza looks at her hands. "Are you sure? How can you know for certain?"

Jennifer says nothing, gives it a few seconds to sink in.

"You must have had trouble with your sight for some time. If you'd come sooner, we could have done more – medication, surgery. We still can try some of those things but I want to be frank, your condition is highly advanced. Significant nerve damage has already occurred and there's cell loss."

"English please."

"It's bad."

"How long?

"It's difficult to say."

"Try."

"It varies. I know that's not helpful but I really can't be any more specific than that."

"You know I'm just going to Google it."

"Five years, maybe, before it gets really poor."

Mrs. Mendoza stares numbly at some midpoint in the distance. Outside a truck passes and rattles the windows.

"I was going to travel."

Jennifer reaches for Mrs. Mendoza's hand, still balled in a fist, mints at its center.

"There's time."

Mrs. Mendoza lifts her head and looks past Jennifer, out the small picture window.

"Sometimes I think the morning light could be butter."

"There are courses you can take to prepare," says Jennifer. "Arrange for a helper dog."

"I hate dogs."

Jennifer pauses.

"Is there someone I can call? Your son?"

"I'll be alright."

Jennifer gives her a tissue and Mrs. Mendoza wipes roughly at each eye. Jennifer wonders about the last thing they will ever see.

"Mrs. M?"

"Yes."

"Can I give you a hug?"

*

After Mrs. M there were two cases of eye ulcers, a new pair of reading glasses, subcapsular cataracts and a thirteen-year-old girl called Georgia whose special effect contact lenses had fused to her sclera, but no police. The neighbor, Lenise, hadn't said anything after all. Jennifer glances at the phone, thinks about calling the vet and her stomach contracts in a spasm. What if the dog hadn't made it? But death wasn't inevitable, was it? After all, it may have only been a badly fractured leg and dogs weren't like horses that had to be put down because of broken limbs. Even a three-legged dog wasn't an impossibility these days.

She picks up her car and on her way home calls into Treasure Trove and buys the most expensive gift box she can find. It is more hamper than box, filled with luxury food items like handmade Swiss chocolates, sugared almonds, preserved Turkish lemons and goose liver pate, all done up in cellophane and an enormous golden bow. Then she walks the block to Pet Smart and purchases a rubber chicken chew toy, a bag of beef bones and a brand new leather collar.

It's a little after six when she pulls into her driveway and there's no movement at Lenise's house but a beat-up station wagon is parked haphazardly outside. Jennifer takes two belly-deep breaths and gets out of the car, hugging the gift boxes, one under each arm, and crosses the road.

She faces the hardwood door and the large brass pigeon knocker and puts down the box of dog treats to extend a trembling hand and raps the beak against its round, medal-sized counterpart.

A man of about twenty answers. Like Lenise, there's a mop of dark ginger hair. The family resemblance is striking.

"I'm Jen from across the road."

He glances at the packages. "I know who you are."

"Is Lenise here?"

He looks over his shoulder into the house.

"She loved that dog," he says.

Jennifer's stomach sinks.

"Oh God," she says. "He died."

"And guess whose fault that is."

Jennifer doesn't know what to say. "It was an accident. It was dark, he was on the road, I couldn't see."

"My father used to say there's no such thing as accidents, just carelessness."

"I'm sorry."

"You should be."

He slams the door in her face. The brass pigeon barely misses the tip of her nose.

*

Later, just as Jennifer, Hank and McKenzie are finishing dinner, there's banging on the front door.

"I'll go," says Jennifer, rising out of her chair.

It's Lenise, her face wild with grief.

"You think you can buy me off with trinkets?"

Jennifer is mortified. "Buy you off? God no, I was just trying to say I'm sorry."

"They had to cut off his leg!"

"Oh Jesus."

Jennifer hears Hank behind her, and he shoulders his way to the front.

"Who the hell are you and why are you screaming at my wife?" he demands.

Jennifer touches his arm. "Hank it's okay. She's our neighbor."

"They cut off his leg and he bled to death!" yells Lenise.

"What is she talking about, whose leg got cut off?" says Hank.

"Your sweet innocent wife killed my dog," says Lenise.

"
What
?" says Hank.

"It was an accident."

"She was drunk," says Lenise.

Hank looks at Jennifer. "Is that true?"

"Of course not."

"Oh, so you're a drunk and a liar," says Lenise.

"Listen to me you nutcase," says Hank, getting close to Lenise, "you better get off my property before I call the police."

"You'd like me to leave?" she says.

"You heard."

"Go right now?"

"Get out."

Hank tries pushing the door closed but Lenise stops it with her foot, and for one terrible moment Jennifer thinks the woman might pull a gun.