The Devil's Wire (5 page)

9

Jennifer can't move. Lenise's departing footsteps are a fading crunch on the limestone chip. She stares at the back of the door, with its tiny splits, fingermarks, the peephole never used, the dust atop the hinges and screws. She is two selves – the one who thinks it cannot possibly be true, the other who can't be sure it isn't.

Finally, she raises a leaden hand and turns the lock and goes back to the kitchen where water streams from the faucet, and the mug, upturned and broken, leaks amber broth all over the bench. She shuts off the faucet and lifts her head and looks at Lenise's house.

It was all just a lie, a vicious, vicious lie. It had to be. A perverse punishment for the dog, the stupid dog who should not have been out in the first place, riffling through the neighborhood trash, in the dark where no normal person could see it. Any other responsible pet owner would have apologized for not keeping watch and accepted the blame, but not that woman, with her mistrusting raw blue eyes and wheat-dead complexion. There was no doubt Lenise was disturbed. There was no other explanation for it. What kind of sicko would come into someone's house, their private space, their
sanctuary
for God's sake, where a family cooked and ate and bonded, and say a thing like that?

Jennifer looks at the phone. She should call the police. Lenise's behavior constituted some sort of harassment, surely. The woman couldn't just go round spreading lies that could destroy innocent lives. But maybe that's just what Lenise wanted – a feud. Some people got off on that, didn't they? A vendetta, with its imagined rights and wrongs, gave an empty life purpose, someone to hate and blame.

Jennifer turns from the window and sees the mess. Hank and McKenzie would be home soon. She does not want questions she can't answer. So she hurries, doing her best to ignore the throbbing red welt on her arm, gathering newspaper and wrapping the broken mug and tossing it in the trash, along with the gummy cake, which she must pry from the plate with a spatula because the gluten free disaster has stuck like glue, and she rinses the spoons and other mug and puts them away, then picks up the milk and reaches for the fridge handle, stopping when she sees the photograph. McKenzie and Hank. Two peas in a pod. A thought forms, one that has never really surfaced before but has always been there, deep in her gut, unacknowledged, the fact she has always felt like an outsider, that there were times when she was envious of their tight little duo. She had even called them that – the dynamic duo. Mulder and Scully. Donny and Marie. Dorothy and Toto.

The garage door rumbles and she looks over her shoulder. She's not ready. She needs more time to think.

"Hey, Mom," says McKenzie. "We lost."

And there she is – Jennifer's precious little girl, shy and polite and always so eager to please, looking at her with those expressive green eyes.

Next comes Hank, slapping the car keys down on the counter, giving her a quick peck on the cheek and going to the fridge to gulp down some juice right from the spout and he's so quick with this kiss that she doesn't have time to react so she just lets it happen and she wonders what McKenzie thinks, seeing him kiss her like that.

"Jesus, what happened to your arm?" says Hank.

She thinks she's answered him but she can't have because he asks her the same thing again.

"I spilt some tea," she says too loudly.

"That looks serious," says Hank. "Let's get you to a doctor."

"I'm fine."

"Who do you think you're kidding? Mac, get your Mom's jacket and purse and meet me in the car."

Jennifer looks at him and tries not to imagine the worst.

"What?" he says.

"I just thought – "

She falls silent.

He looks at her. "Thought what, Jen?"

"Nothing," she says. "Let's go, my arm is killing me."

*

That weekend she watches them. Takes notes inside her head, weighing up that hug or ruffle of the hair or gentle teasing. As far as she can tell, McKenzie is her usual quiet self, not wildly happy but not unhappy either. Then it occurs to Jennifer – what if this isn't the real McKenzie at all? What if she was actually a gregarious girl but this had been suppressed because of, well –
that
? And what if it has been going on for years?

Impossible. She would know. There would have been some sign.

And Hank? She just can't believe it of him. They had shared a bed for seventeen years. Sure, sometimes there were divisions, little hurts, annoyances, but by and large it was a normal marriage and he was a normal man.

But just as she firmly tells herself to forget what Lenise said, there is that voice, telling her to look again, look closer.

Jennifer glances at Hank, who's mixing ground turkey and onions and eggs in a bowl. He scoops out a handful and tosses it from one palm to the other.

"Better watch it," he says, nodding to the pile of carrot.

She looks down. She's on to the inedible green cap and her knuckles are next. Tilting the chopping board over the sink, she sweeps the orange and green mound into the waste disposal and asks McKenzie to set the table.

"We're out of ketchup," says McKenzie, looking in the fridge.

"I'll go to the store," says Hank. "Mac, you want to come for a ride?"

Jennifer's head swings up. "
No
."

"I want to go, Mom. I've finished the table."

"I need you here."

"For what?"

"Just this once, McKenzie, do as I say," Jennifer snaps.

Hank stares at her. "Jen, what's got into you?"

"Nothing."

"It doesn't seem like nothing," he says.

Jennifer throws up her hands, "There you go again, undermining my authority."

"Give me a break."

"Just go get the stupid ketchup."

She turns on the faucet and pours herself a glass of water and his eyes burn holes into her back.

*

That night sleep doesn't come easily. Hank is a formless shadow beside her, light snores rattling through his open mouth. Perhaps he is pretending, waiting for her to fall asleep so he can get to work.

"Hey," Hank whispers. "You awake?"

"Yeah."

His arm snakes around her waist.

"You want to talk about it?"

"I'm okay."

He kisses her neck and draws closer and she knows what's coming next and part of her wants to, just to see if there is anything that gives him away but when his hand slides up her back and he pulls her toward him, she can't help it, she goes as rigid as a corpse. He stops and looks at her in the grey darkness.

"What is it?"

"Nothing."

"Just say if you don't want to."

"I don't want to."

There is a sharp outtake of exasperated breath.

"Unbelievable," he says, rolling onto his side.

She lies on her back and stares at the ceiling and all she can hear is McKenzie's voice.

"You think you know everything when you know nothing at all."

10

Her first thought when she opens her eyes is that she must search the house. If there's any proof, it will be here. She feels a rush of guilt. She does not want to play detective. She is not a snoop. But if there are any answers she needs to find them.

She rolls over and looks at the empty swirl of sheets beside her, at the petty way he has cast the blankets aside, so her bare back will get cold. Downstairs they are moving about and she listens, trying to decipher what they are saying, but it's only a murmur, a thready pulse, slipping away then coming back to life.

She closes her eyes and longs for the escape of sleep but knows there's no getting round things so she gets up, puts on some clothes and goes to the bathroom. She wipes the mirror and doesn't recognize the face. Drawn and pale, it could belong to someone else. She looks closer. Acne has appeared on her chin.

She goes downstairs and finds them in the kitchen.

"Aren't you going to be late for your meeting with Chip?"

There's a note in her voice, an octave higher than usual, and she smiles through it.

"Shoot," says Hank when he realizes it's after eight.

"Have you seen my house keys?" He chugs down the last of his coffee.

"By the fruit bowl."

He picks them up.

"See you Mac," he says, planting a kiss on top of her head.

Then there's one for Jennifer too, his lips briefly skating over her cheek. He gives them a half wave and is out the door, getting into his truck like it's any other day.

After he leaves, McKenzie says, "Why are you acting so weird?"

Jennifer looks at her. "What do you mean?"

"You keep staring at me, like I've done something wrong."

Jennifer's chest hurts. "Do I?"

"Yeah."

Jennifer takes the seat opposite.

"You know you can talk to me, don't you?"

McKenzie pushes her cereal away.

"Not this again."

"Is there?" says Jennifer.

"Is there what?"

"Anything you want to tell me?"

McKenzie picks up her bowl, rinses it in the sink and places it in the dishwasher.

"McKenzie?"

"I'm going to be late," she says, grabbing her school bag.

A minute later Jennifer sees her cutting across the lawn, thumb hooked beneath the shoulder strap, cap pulled down low. Jennifer waits for her to turn around, maybe wave goodbye, but she never looks back. Why would she? Why would she look back at a mother she thought was a clueless, useless, waste of space?

Jennifer stands there for the longest time, the house stony quiet, the cottonwood tree molting leaves, knowing she should move, set to it, focus on the task at hand, but she can't.

Instead she's overwhelmed with a sudden potent fear. The same fear you get when a spider appears out of nowhere, when you first think it's only a scrap of loose thread or a stone chip or dead fly on its back but then it turns into an eight-legged frightener, bounding over the twill cut-pile toward you as if it can smell your blood, and the breath locks in your throat and your skin pricks and you have to fight the urge to run. God how she wishes she could run now, right out the door, down the road and into another life.

But somehow she moves, forcing one foot in front of the other, and climbs the stairs to her bedroom.

She doesn't know what she expects to find amongst the socks and boxers and tshirts but looks anyway, unfolding every item, examining it carefully then returning it to its proper place. She combs through the wardrobe, his nightstand, the old suitcase he'd kept from college. Nothing out of the ordinary.

The laptop is on the chair by the bed and she flips it open, punches in the password. Internet history shows job websites, recruitment agencies and a recent search on investing retirement savings in Palm Oil plantations in Sumatra. She clicks randomly on months – December February July – but the history and files and downloads show nothing.

Her cell phone rings. It will be Rosemary trying to make sense of the garbled message Jennifer left this morning. Jennifer lets it pass to voicemail and delves back into the wardrobe but the only thing she finds is a long forgotten A-line skirt wedged behind some shoe boxes, a dirty sock covered in dust and a Planters mixed nuts can full of old buttons. She sits back on her heels and feels a tiny burst of hope. But it quickly dies. She's only fooling herself. It has never been about what she would find in this room.

When she opens McKenzie's door she catches a whiff of something that could be cinnamon rolls. The room is a space in transition – from girlhood to teen. In a corner there's a cardboard box stuffed full of My Little Ponies collecting dust. McKenzie's beloved set of Harry Potter books takes pride of place, along the top shelf in the pinewood book case. A One Direction poster is fixed to the wall. The bed is perfectly made, the violet eiderdown crease-free, with precise hotel tucks, a matching pillow, plumped up, at the top end, placed just so. All so very ordinary.

Jennifer expects to feel something, some sixth sense to kick in, where her skin shrinks or the hairs on the back of her neck stand up, anything, but she can't summon any images. It's as if there is a mental block, a wall, a line she cannot cross.

She steps toward the window and looks out. Across the road is the quaint sash window she had always coveted. What could Lenise have possibly observed from that far away? And at night? The whole thing was farcical. Even if Lenise had seen Hank in here with McKenzie who's to say it wasn't an innocent hug misinterpreted as something more sinister?

Perhaps that's what this entire thing had been all about – connections made that weren't meant to be made, conclusions jumped to then seized upon, a simple mistake.

"I don't know what you think you saw but it wasn't that," says Jennifer.

And suddenly she is angry, not at Lenise, but at herself, for being so easily led, for being so willing to think Hank could do such a thing. She's strides across the room and is at the door before she knows it, fully intending to forget this entire thing and go to work, carry on with her very normal and ordinary life. But she wavers.

She glances over her shoulder. For the avoidance of doubt, to put the matter to rest once and for all, she should take a look, but that's all it was, not agreement with Lenise, not even "a just in case," but a look so she can put her hand on heart and say I checked.

So she begins to search, starting from the right side of the room and working her way round the circumference, looking behind the dresser, in the drawers and everywhere in between. She hunts in the wardrobe, checking the pockets of jackets, hoodies and jeans, then pulls down a box from the shelf above that's filled with old school exercise books and flips through each one looking for secret notes or scribbles in the margins or something that might resemble a diary but there isn't anything.

She spots the old toy chest at the back of the wardrobe and digs through the mountain of Lego, three different sets of bead collections, card making kits, half a dozen Bratz dolls and an old portable CD player, then moves on to the nightstand where she finds a bag of empty candy bar wrappers and a plastic money box in the shape of a basketball.

She closes the cupboard and gets up.

So that was that. Nothing unusual. Nothing to indicate a troubled girl. It could be any other twelve year old's room in North America.

She pauses to switch off the night light plugged into the socket at the base of the wall. In almost an afterthought she decides to check under the bed. She lifts up the pretty violet eiderdown, crouching down to take a better look. That's when she sees the sleeping bag and the pillow.

Then she hears the footsteps coming up the stairs.