I moved closer. On the table was a five-gallon plastic water bottle half-filled with pennies. What must have been the same number of pennies were stacked in piles on the table. Also on the table was a video camera, the one that apparently fit into the bracket.
“I haven’t been here in years.” Nicole was looking around, clearly spooked. “I told the idiot to leave him after the first time he hit her. You might say I wasn’t exactly a welcome guest after that.” She entered the kitchen and began opening drawers. “I told her he was gonna kill her.”
“When?”
“When? Every time I saw her, that’s when.” She was searching through a cupboard.
I studied the pennies for a moment, looked again at the camera. There were two connectors coming out of the ceiling next to the bracket. I guessed one was for power and the other fed what the camera was recording to a recording device of some sort. The house, it was now becoming clear to me, was hardwired for surveillance and taping devices.
I breathed one deep breath, as if preparing to swim a long distance underwater, and began down the dark hallway toward the bedroom. Immediately to the right was the bathroom. I stuck my head in and checked the ceiling. There was a bracket in the corner clearly intended for a video camera. My arms went numb to my fingertips as if the blood had drained from them, and a shiver went down my spine. I’d seen it all before—or at least read about it—in the cases we’d reviewed on the domestic-violence-death autopsy team, the worst of which often involved video- and audiotaping devices.
I continued down a short hallway. To the left was what appeared to be Khila’s room. Her things were stacked neatly and had already begun to go in boxes. To the right was the master bedroom. A double bed, sheets and blanket folded army style, occupied most of the space. There was a capped camera affixed to the ceiling in that room as well, directed at the bed. I hesitated, wondering now how many cameras we couldn’t see and whether all of those were capped.
I wandered slowly around to a wooden dresser beneath a window against the far wall. Afternoon sun came in through a crack in the drawn shades, casting light on the few personal effects—a jewelry box, a brush, a few hair ties—all neatly placed. I inched open the shades and saw the shape of the man’s face across the street. I could make out his form enough to know he was still watching the house.
The closet door was slightly ajar. I made my way to it to find the box we were there to retrieve. Hanging on the inside of the door was a white T-shirt, wrinkled and worn. I felt it, could swear it was still warm, still thrown in the cast of her body as I remembered her.
*
From the isolation of my Christmas-vacation punishment into the crowded high school hallways, I was carried along in a state of suspension. I waited for Del at the hall locker we shared until well after the bell had rung, but I didn’t see her. First period, we talked about Lord of the Flies, our reading assignment over the break.
“Jenna, you like Freud,” Ms. Fernandez said. “Tell us about the struggle between the superego and id in this story.”
I hadn’t read it. AP English, and I hadn’t done the assignment. Del was supposed to be in that class but she hadn’t shown up. I was writing her a letter, telling her how much I loved and missed her. Fifteen minutes into class and it was already a page-and-a-half long.
Shrinking from the request, I said, “I’m not sure.” I discreetly moved the letter closer to me, hoping Ms. Fernandez would just move on to someone else.
“Go ahead,” she said encouragingly. “I’m asking you to try to apply the Freudian scheme we’ve been studying to what happens in this novel.” Moving closer to me, she added, “I would think it would be a fun question for you.”
I felt upset that I couldn’t answer.
She looked down at my desk. “Are you writing a note?” She snatched it from me, held it out to the class like a white hanky. “You all know what I do with notes, share them with the class and ask for a critique of your content and style. Shall we?” A few people laughed.
I was paralyzed for a moment. Then I stood up, walked over to her, looked her in the eye, and pleaded. “Please don’t. Please.”
My heart was pounding fiercely; I could not believe I had been so stupid, put us in such jeopardy. She saw my desperation and hesitated. I had already decided I would not let her read it, even if it meant physically stopping her. I was surprised to find Edie and Susan quickly standing behind me. Edie gently tugged at my sleeve. Susan respectfully asked Ms. Fernandez not to read the note, suggested she just give it back. Ms. Fernandez, not quite sure what to make of any of this, handed the note back to me. I grabbed my things and exited the classroom. I could hear the blood pulsing in my head, felt pressure in my temples and ears, and my legs gave way. I fell against a wall and slid down it until I was firmly on the ground where I sat until the bell rang. The bell: it signaled both the end of that period and the starting gun for our cattle run to the next. By third period, rumors about Del were spreading like some airborne disease. People asked if I’d seen her and said she’d been in a car accident.
*
Nicole barged into the bedroom. “Man, Jenna, you should see the kitchen cabinets.” She was shaking her head and blowing out air. “The Tupperware is color coordinated. This seems like a bit much, even for Del. I really want to get that box and get the fuck out of this creep hole.”
I was with her.
She passed me and climbed upward into the small space, using a lower shelf for leverage. She stuck her head far into the closet. Moments later she backed her way out with a brown box in hand.
I felt Del’s T-shirt one more time, put it to my face and breathed it in—detergent mixed with faint cologne. But beneath that I found something more familiar, an essence of her that I remembered in her pillow, her bedsheets, her skin on a hot day. I placed the T-shirt back on the hook.
Once outside, I put the box in the car and then headed straight for the house across the street.
Nicole raced after me. “Where are you going? What are you doing?”
I saw the face disappear from behind the windowpane. I stopped at the sidewalk, waiting to see if he would come back to the window, trying to decide if I should knock on his door. I reminded myself it was Thursday, and I only had until Friday morning to get enough evidence to Beasley to warrant opening up a murder investigation. I rang the doorbell. Nobody answered. I rang again. No answer.
“Jenna,” Nicole said, “what are you doing?”
I don’t know how I knew it, I just did. “I think this is the guy Del has been seeing. He’s been watching us the whole time.”
“How do you know he’s not watching the house for Talon? He might be Talon’s friend.”
“He would have called him by now. Talon would be on his way here. Ida would have warned us.”
A moment’s pause to consider the possibility that Ida would not have called us, and then Nicole said, “Move,” and pushed me out of her way. “He might be able to help Sid.” She began banging on the door. She stepped back and yelled, “Open up, fuckhead, we need to talk to you.” I went back to the car for a pen and paper. Nicole continued banging. “I know you’re in there. I saw your ugly ass. Del was my sister, did you know my sister?” Nicole spun on her heels, grabbed her head in frustration, and screamed, “She picked the biggest fucking losers.”
As she banged harder, I wrote a quick note, telling the man who we were and leaving my cell-phone number. I slipped it under the door. The next thing I knew, Nicole was at the window banging and yelling. I shouted for her to stop and ran toward her, but I was too late. Her fist hit the glass, and it broke. Blood began to trickle down her arm. I ran over and grabbed her to stop her from doing any more damage. She was banging on a different window with the other fist, clutching her injured arm to her chest like it was a wounded wing. I pulled her away from the house and stood looking at her cut hand, which was not as bad as I had first imagined, while I tried to think of what to do next.
“We should go,�
�� I said, pushing her in the direction of the car. “Right now.” I had put my name and phone number under his door. If he wanted to find us, he could.
*
Still unnerved by the broken window and the blood, I stared at the box at my feet. I didn’t feel ready to open it; I was afraid of what was in it. We drove in silence, my stomach twisting tighter, as I pictured the cameras throughout Del’s house and what I imagined them to be for. My mind went to the puppies, to the description of Talon laughing as he videotaped the mother trying to comfort them.
Nicole was unfazed by the window incident, the rage evaporating off her instantly, like sweaty skin coming into contact with air conditioning. Her knuckle was cut but had already stopped bleeding. In the calm person in the car, there was no trace of the crazy person who had broken the window.
After some time, Nicole said, “Marshmallows.” Then she smiled.
“What?”
“The Christmas we hung out all night, we roasted marshmallows in the backyard.”
I nodded, staring out at the road.
“I saw you guys that night.”
“What do you mean?”
“I spied on you through Del’s bedroom window. I saw you. It was…you guys were…”
“Don’t,” I managed to say, realizing now what she was about to tell me. I remembered us making love and how it had felt to be with Del like that and then to leave her. “It’s private.”
“I know. It’s just, you know, you sucked each other for such a long time.”
Now I was shocked. “What is wrong with you?”
“I’ve just always wondered,” she persisted, “didn’t your jaw get tired?”
I stared at her.
“I’ve always wondered that because”—she paused, smiled a little at me—“well, mine does.”
I went back over the exchange, unsure as to what I’d just heard. “Nicole,” I was finally able to say, “did you just come out to me?”
She smiled hugely. “Well, yes, but I really do want to know how you went for so long, because my girlfriend needs it for a really long time before she can come.”
After a few moments of processing this, I said, “Did Del know?”
“What, that I like girls? Yeah, she knew.”
“That you saw us?”
“Oh, hell yeah.” Nicole laughed. “She denied it, though.”
I raised my brows and nodded, as if to say Of course she did. I reached for the box to open it. As I did, I noticed a black Jeep in the rearview mirror. The license plate included the letters S and E.
Chapter Fifteen
Nicole hit the gas, and I felt the tires grab the road. I was trying to keep my eye on the Jeep as Nicole wove in and out of traffic. Her idea was to lose him; my idea was to keep track of him. In the end we decided to do both. The storefronts bordering the street had parking in front of them, and once far enough ahead of the Jeep, Nicole jagged to the right and slipped into a spot. Then we waited. Not a minute later, the black Jeep passed us. We nestled in and followed it from a few cars behind. The Jeep continued on route and then got back on the freeway heading south. We kept after it. It was a little hard to feel inconspicuous in this ancient puke-green station wagon that coughed up more smoke than Pascale, but that didn’t stop us.
“Write down the license-plate number,” Nicole said. “Get someone to run it for you.”
“Just don’t lose him,” I said.
“It looks like he’s going back to Miami Shores, maybe to our house.”
It seemed like that to me, too, until the Jeep exited at Miami Gardens Drive in North Miami Beach and headed east. As we approached Biscayne Boulevard, the Jeep seemed to vanish. I scanned in different directions, trying to figure out where he could’ve disappeared to, and then I noticed the small street mall on the corner.
We found the Jeep in the mall parking area, the driver gone. I suggested we sit on a nearby bench and wait for him to return.
“Then what?” Nicole asked.
I stared at her. “I haven’t figured that out yet.”
While we waited, Ida called to tell us Talon had left Pascale’s. Then Gail called to see where we were.
Madison called to say hi. She was doing a reading in New Haven, the setting of her novel.
“How’s it going?” I asked.
“It’s a little stressful. You know, the people who are in it feel exposed, the people who aren’t in it feel left out. How’s your day going?”
“Fine.” I decided not to mention the break-in or that we were now following someone who had been following us. I knew she’d be upset with me for taking such risks, and I didn’t see the point in worrying her. Madison talked about her reading, her visit with old friends, and then about our mutual friend, Anita, who lived near us in San Francisco. She’d just learned that Anita and her girlfriend, Claire, were having a commitment ceremony, and we hadn’t been invited.
“And this upsets you, why?”
“Well, I know we haven’t spoken to Anita in a long time, but we did fix them up.”
“Can’t think of a better way to get rid of a high-maintenance friend than to fix her up.”
Madison laughed appreciatively. “What makes you think Anita is high maintenance?”
“Well,” I said playfully, “there was the time she was stood up by a blind date and called the police to report the person missing.”
“Right.” More laughter.
We continued chatting happily until Madison had to go.
An hour passed, still no sign of the driver of the Jeep. Nicole sat with her eyes closed, a cigarette burning between her fingers. I watched the people walking by, many of them elderly. I had forgotten this about Miami Beach, the huge elderly Jewish population that I had been surrounded by when I was growing up, many of whom had numbers on their arms. In my home, the Jewish Holocaust was dinner conversation. That is, when climbing out of working-class status wasn’t.
The sun had moved and was now shining directly on us. My face rose to meet it, sweat trickling down my back. The mild burning sensation on my cheeks felt familiar and comforting. I closed my eyes and breathed it, absorbing it in my lungs as well as my skin. When I closed my eyes, the warm, moist air swathed my body, reminding me of the humid Everglades. I had visions of first the road we’d been on the day before and then the slow-moving current that gently divided around the mahogany islands. Now the cars passing on Biscayne Boulevard sounded like a river, and I pictured the current gaining speed, rising, swelling into waves that crashed against the trees and erased the mounds. The sound of the crashing waves turned into a cacophony of voices, many talking at once, urgently. One person after another asking if I knew what had happened to Del, to her face.
*
By third period, rumors of Del and a car accident were circulating, and scores of students and teachers had asked me if I’d seen her. I finally found her in the girls’ locker room with Katie and Edie and other soccer friends. Sitting on the bench by her gym locker, Del watched me approach. One moment the gym teacher and others were there looking on, the next moment they were gone, and we were alone—or thought we were.
“Del, your face.” I stopped some feet away, suddenly nauseous and light-headed. I took deep breaths and swallowed to keep from retching. Her eye was puffy and purple, her bottom lip was split. I could see it hurt her to talk. I steadied myself by putting my hand on the wall of lockers near me. “Why didn’t you just stay home?”
“I wanted to see you.” She stared at the floor, her cut lip twitching. “She went berserk on me last night.” It sounded like “burshurk” because of her lip. “’Cause you haven’t been around. She thinks I dropped you to do drugs or have sex or…whatever. She gets these ideas in her head and…She’s fucking crazy. I don’t know how much more I can take.” Del’s voice cracked as she said, “I miss you so much.” Her face stretched into a grotesque clown-like grimace, her head fell forward, and she began sobbing.
I moved toward her. She met my hand with h
ers, slipped her fingers between mine. I went down on my knees in front of her, my face near hers. My other hand went reflexively under the side of her shirt to find her skin. When her shirt lifted, I noticed her side was the color of a storm—blacks and blues and reds and purples and tints of yellow. Starting up, I said, “That’s it. I’m telling Fernandez. She can’t keep doing this.”
Del tightened her grip on my hand. “You can’t. Foster care. We’ll get separated. Who’s gonna take four kids, Jenna? Who’s gonna take Nicole?” Her breath was an overnight stale mixed with something mediciney.
I sighed, settled back down in front of her. “I’m really sorry, Del.” Not knowing what else to say, I added, “I love you.”
Del tenderly kissed my face. I felt the rough edges of her bottom lip, where a scab had begun to form, tasted traces of blood when I kissed her back. Then we were both sobbing, wisps of her hair sticking to her skin and mine, our spit and snot intermingling, drawing lines between our faces.
I was the first to let go. I sat back against the wall of lockers and groped for something to say to keep us afloat. What came out was, “It’s gonna be okay.”
“What is, Jenna?” She shifted her position, her physical discomfort apparent. “What about this is going to be okay?”
Right. I changed the subject, said playfully, “I saw Nicole today. All the kids were heading into school, and she was heading in the other direction. I yelled at her to go to class.”
Impassively, Del said, “Sometimes I wish someone would just give those girls a shot and put them to sleep.”
It took a moment for the words to sink in. When they did, I felt my spine tremor and my hands draw cold. I knew by her remark that this one week had been more time than was necessary for Del to realize just how little control she really had, or that her wanting mattered none, or that her attachments were a liability. I’d prefer, even now, to dignify her wish to put Ida and Nicole to sleep. I’d prefer to understand it as an impulse to spare her sisters, as a moment of profound empathy of which I knew Del to be capable. Whether it was that or something else, whatever had happened inside of her that week, whatever extremes she had visited, desperate states she had encountered, Del was letting me know—warning me—she had changed.
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