The Devil's Wire

by Rogers, Deborah

  But the father, the false protector and taker of innocence, never goes into the room again, and Lenise begins to doubt herself because she can't be sure she really remembers anything and thinks that maybe it was all just a result of the drink or stress or a vivid imagination, and the more time that passes what she does remember seems to fade and become more fiction than fact.

  She replays that clip over and over, zooming in and out, trying to make the picture sharper, brighter, but it doesn't do any good. She knows an objective person would not see anything – it's too dark and amorphous – you can't even tell there are two human beings. Fed up and bone tired, she nearly throws in the towel.

  Then on Friday night it happens again.

  Her stomach turns at the sight.

  Even so, Lenise allows herself a brief smile, not because she is happy he is at it once more, but because she was right.

  *

  Now that she's certain, Lenise accepts she owes a responsibility, a duty of care toward the girl. The only question is how to proceed. Once again she had filmed "the activity" with her phone, but disappointingly, just like before, the phone wasn't up to the task of a night time shoot. Therefore, it was not a simple matter of anonymously slipping a copy to the appropriate authorities. There was really no evidence apart from her say-so. Unfortunately she will have to go in person.

  She's here now, driving around the block for the fourth time. There are plenty of parking spaces, she just keeps changing her mind. She wants to help the girl, she truly does, but the police and she are not natural companions. Finally, when the gas runs dangerously low she bites the bullet and pulls into a parking space outside the station.

  When she gets inside there's a man with frayed gloves and soiled jeans at the vending machine checking the dispenser for coins. When he sees her staring, he withdraws his grubby hand and gives her the finger.

  "What you looking at," he barks, sloping out the doors.

  "Never mind Angus," says the policewoman behind the counter. "He's a pussy cat really."

  Lenise studies the uniform, the blueness of it, the shiny buttons and starched collar.

  "Need help?"

  Lenise looks up. "Pardon?"

  "Do you want to lodge a complaint?" The policewoman announces each word as if Lenise is deaf.

  "No, report a crime."

  "Same difference."

  "Oh."

  The policewoman slips some sort of form on a clipboard and passes it over.

  "Fill this out."

  Lenise takes a seat and stares at the form. Incident Report is written in big black typescript across the top. Other headings call for a description of the offence, date, time, place, contact details of the complainant. For the first time, Lenise realizes she will have to put her name to something and be on record in the United States Justice system as an informant.

  She understands now how stupid she's been. She thought she would just come and say – I saw something bad over the road, a father messing about with his daughter, I think you should check it out. But this was America, with a Constitution, amendment rights, chains of command, processes and procedures. Cops need clear evidence before they will look into anything. It isn't like back home, where they would just take dad out back and give him a thrashing he would never forget.

  She stares at the spot where her name was supposed to go. And what good would it do? The father will just deny it, and most likely the daughter too (shame will do that to a person) and both will say she is making it up and she'll end up being the one in trouble.

  Lenise gets to her feet and returns the clipboard to policewoman.

  "I made a mistake," she says and turns around and walks out the door.

  *

  When Lenise gets home she sees the filthy bastard leave the house. She could swear he is whistling as he gets into his truck and drives off.

  After he's gone, she reaches into the back seat to retrieve her groceries and spots the girl, returning from school. The child is in her own world, or pretending to be, and walks along the pavement with head bent, face barely visible beneath that strange-looking cap. Lenise watches her walk up the steps and put the key in the front door. Lenise calls out.

  "Hey there!"

  The girl turns round and Lenise half-jogs across the road.

  "I'm looking for my cat," says Lenise, breathless. "Have you seen him?"

  The girl peers up from underneath the peak of her cap and shakes her head.

  "You sure?" says Lenise.

  The girl pauses. "What does he look like?"

  That throws Lenise.

  "Ginger and white."

  "Ginger?"

  "Like my hair."

  "Oh, you mean red."

  "Yes, red, that's correct."

  "I haven't seen any cat," says the girl.

  "Shouldn't you be in school?"

  "It's four o'clock."

  "Is your mother home?"

  The girl looks concerned. "She's sorry about the dog."

  "I know."

  Lenise hesitates. What is she supposed to say? I saw you in your room. I saw everything.

  "Tell your mother."

  "Tell Mom what?"

  Lenise looks at the girl.

  "Your father, what he does to you."

  The girl's lips part in shock.

  "That's all," says Lenise, turning and walking back to her house.

  7

  The change is barely perceptible, but Jennifer notices. The first to go is the light, a little less in the morning, then at night. The days are cooler too and it won't be long before she needs slippers to warm her feet. Jennifer thinks about this as she cleans her equipment – the suffocating man-made heat of winter, the mud that will get trampled into the house, the dog that won't be chasing squirrels in the icy dark.

  She never knew she could feel this bad about someone else's pet. After the trash kicking incident, Jennifer thought she might be in for neighbors at war. But all had been quiet, eerily quiet, in fact, almost as if no one lived at number 34. Jennifer knew Lenise was still there only because of the occasional flash of red hair in the downstairs window, or glimpse of that gaudy mustard-yellow Brook River blazer as the station wagon chugged off down Pine Ridge Road.

  Hank seemed hell bent on not letting Jennifer live the thing down. He bought it up every chance he could, like last night, just as she was falling asleep, he said out of the blue, "Not only do I have a fucking nutcase living next door to me, my own wife won't even tell me when she's in a car accident."

  "Not again, Hank."

  "You could have been seriously hurt."

  "Go to sleep."

  She felt him tense. "I don't like it when you hide things from me."

  "We're not joined at the hip. I don't have to tell you everything."

  That made him angry and he sat up and turned on the light.

  "Now see, it's that type of comment that gets me worried."

  She groaned. "Please turn off the light."

  "That type of comment makes me think you're keeping secrets."

  She sighed. "There's no one else, Hank."

  He pulled the covers away from her head and pointed a finger in her face.

  "So help me God, I don't know what I'd do if there was."

  She didn't say anything and he seemed to relax.

  "I'm sorry," she said finally. "I should have told you."

  "Am I really being unreasonable?" he said.

  "No," she said. "I was ashamed. It wasn't exactly my finest hour."

  He paused.

  "I don't know what I'd do if I ever lost you," he said.

  She looked at him and saw the little boy standing next to his mother's grave with a bunch of broken daisies.

  "You and McKenzie mean everything to me," he said.

  "I know."

  He leant over and kissed her cheek.

  "Get some sleep," he said.

  Then he lay back down and turned off the light.

  Jennifer finishes wiping down
the slit lamp with isopropanol solution and picks up the applanation tonometer and gives each component a careful rub, leaving the prism until last, which she lowers into a tiny bath of hydrogen peroxide to sit for at least 15 minutes.

  By the time the autoclave clicks off, it's nearly three. She catches Rosemary looking at want ads on the internet, but pretends not to notice, calling over her shoulder on the way out of the clinic that she's off to pick up McKenzie to take her to her monthly appointment with the nutritionist.

  It's dead on three twenty when Jennifer pulls up outside the red-bricked building. Kids pour from the large green doors and Jennifer keeps a look out for the familiar yellow back pack and, of course, that dreadful cap. The flood soon turns to a trickle and McKenzie is nowhere to be seen. Jennifer waits, eyes fixed to the entrance.

  At ten to four Jennifer gets out of the car, crosses the road and goes inside. The hallways are empty. Her heart begins to skip. Jennifer digs for her phone and calls McKenzie's cell. Straight to voice mail. She punches in Hank's number.

  "I can't find McKenzie."

  "What?"

  "I'm at the school."

  "She's here with me," he says.

  Jennifer exhales. "Jesus, Hank."

  "She wasn't feeling well at lunchtime and tried leaving the school grounds to walk home but a teacher stopped her. They called me to come get her."

  "Well thanks for telling me." Jennifer looks down at her hand and sees a clenched fist.

  "McKenzie never said you guys had plans," he says.

  "She had an appointment with the nutritionist."

  "How was I supposed to know?"

  "Not your fault, I get it," snaps Jennifer. "Is she okay?"

  "Stomach ache, growing pains, who knows? She seems fine now."

  Jennifer rings off, pissed at him even though he wasn't really to blame.

  *

  On the way home, she stops at the grocery store and buys grapes and a pouch of organic chicken noodle soup, but when she gets home she sees Hank has beaten her to it by the looks of the wrappers of Little Debbie snack cakes and smear of frosting on McKenzie's upper lip.

  "Where's Dad?" says Jennifer.

  McKenzie shrugs without taking her eyes from the home renovation show playing on the TV.

  "Shower, I guess."

  Jennifer sits down. "How are you feeling?"

  "Okay," says McKenzie, swatting sponge crumbs from the front of her Katy Perry t-shirt.

  "I bought soup."

  "I'm not hungry."

  "Why didn't you call me to come get you?"

  "You were at work."

  "I know, but if you need my help, it's okay to call. You shouldn't be leaving the school grounds on your own."

  McKenzie tugs her t-shirt over her belly. There's a pale strawberry splodge on Katy Perry's eye.

  "I don't like that lady," she says.

  "What lady?"

  "The neighbor. She gives me the creeps."

  Jennifer frowns. "You mean Lenise?"

  "Can't you make her move away?"

  "Is that what this is about – when she flipped out about the dog? Did that scare you?"

  "You should get a restraining order or something."

  "She's a hothead, that's for sure, but I don't think she's dangerous. She was upset about losing her dog, which is understandable."

  "Well, I don't like her," says McKenzie.

  "I'm sure she won't be bothering us again, I'm not exactly flavor of the month."

  McKenzie looks at her. "Why do you have to be right all the time?"

  Jennifer feels a sting. "What to do you mean?"

  "You never want to hear anything I've got to say. It's like my opinion doesn't count."

  "That's not true."

  "See?" says McKenzie, voice rising. "You're not even willing to think that what I'm saying might be true. You just ignore it right off the bat. I mean, why should I bother saying anything at all."

  Jennifer looks at McKenzie. "Why would you think that? I try and talk with you all the time."

  McKenzie crosses her arms. "You mean talk at me."

  "Well, I'm sorry if you think that."

  McKenzie turns away and here comes that sullen face again.

  "We can talk now," says Jennifer.

  McKenzie gets to her feet and walks to the door and looks back at Jennifer.

  "You think you know everything but you don't know anything at all."

  8

  Cody catches her staring out the window.

  "You've been standing there for nearly an hour."

  "No, I haven't."

  "Yeah, you have."

  Even though she denies it, what Cody says is true – she's barely taken her eyes off the house across the road these last three days. She's waiting for a sign, any sign to indicate the girl has told her mother, some change in routine or late night departure, the father rushing from the house with a hastily assembled bag, some yelling or wailing or slamming of doors. But all Lenise sees is business as usual – Jennifer leaving for work in her fine clothes, the daughter going to school, the husband cutting the grass.

  She has seen the girl, though, twice, both times at night staring out her bedroom window right into Lenise's room, backlit like some kind of strange angel in a baseball cap and blue pajamas. Lenise can't tell if it's some sort of challenge or plea for silence. Nonetheless, it's unnerving, both of them knowing what has gone on but neither of them saying a word.

  She knows it's stupid, but Lenise is beginning to feel like the tormented one, like she alone has the power to change the course of history for this girl and her mother, whether she stays silent or sings like a bird.

  "I've got a job interview," says Cody.

  "Oh."

  "As a ranch hand."

  "Sounds nice."

  "Are you even listening to me?"

  "Where?" says Lenise, eyes still fixed to the window.

  "Minnesota."

  "You're leaving?"

  "I'll visit."

  "No, you won't."

  "What's got into you? Is this about the dinner, because I already told you I was sorry."

  She turns to look at him.

  "This may surprise you, Cody, but the world doesn't revolve around you."

  He throws down the TV guide.

  "I'm sick of this shit," he says.

  He thumps upstairs like a four-year-old, slamming his bedroom door. He doesn't understand, of course. Why would he? She hasn't breathed a word to anyone about the incident. It's none of his concern and he would most likely tell her to mind her own business and focus on her own problems and obligations, like her seemingly never-ending obligations to him.

  Well, she has news for Cody. Right now there are more important things to think about than his childish needs and unlikely job prospects, especially today because Lenise knows on Saturdays the father takes the girl out somewhere, some morning sports thing by the looks of the baseball bat that always accompanies them. And just like clockwork, the garage door opens dot on ten and out they drive, the two of them sitting in front, normal as apple pie. No one would suspect a thing for they look like any other father and daughter pair, heading out for some weekend fun, maybe stopping for fries and a soda on the way home. That's what disturbs Lenise the most, the ordinariness of this entire sorry thing.

  She watches the pick-up drive away down the road and a shudder runs through her. Who knows where they are really going? What if there was no sports thing after all, just some isolated playground or backwoods hut or public restroom where he can get his fill.

  Not long after they leave, Jennifer appears in the front yard, a bright purple scarf looped around her neck, grey hoodie tied roughly at her waist. She shakes open a large black plastic waste bag, slips on a pair of gardening gloves and starts raking the fallen leaves.

  Lenise knows she has only a small window of opportunity to act, but as she watches Jennifer go about her mundane gardening duties, Lenise can't move. Once she crosses the road, there's no
going back, she will have to tell. But the implications are just so grave.

  She turns from the window, goes into the kitchen, fills the kettle and puts it on the stove. She stares at her warped reflection in the stainless steel and thinks about all the times she wished someone had helped her escape her bastard husband but didn't. The jug whistles and she turns off the stove.

  Slipping on her winter coat and pushing her feet into her shoes, she opens the door, walks down the path and pretends to check the mail. Jennifer glances up, offers a tight nod of acknowledgement then returns to pushing leaves into the bag one fistful at a time. Lenise takes a breath and crosses the road.

  "It's a shit job," she says.

  "Yeah, well, if I don't do it, nobody else will."

  "Men are useless."

  "You'll get no argument here."

  Lenise looks at the sky. "The days are getting colder."

  "I hate winter," says Jennifer.

  "It's my favorite time of year," says Lenise.

  Jennifer stands, wraps the tie tight around the neck of the bag. "Is this a truce? It would be good if it was because to tell you the truth all this fighting is not good for my daughter."

  Lenise stares at Jennifer.

  "She told you?"

  "Told me what?"

  "That we spoke the other day."

  Jennifer looks perplexed. "No."

  "She didn't mention it at all?"

  Suddenly Jennifer seems angry.

  "What are you up to? Because if this is about the dog, you know I'm sorry about that, really sorry and if I could take it back in a heartbeat I would."

  Lenise pauses. "I just wanted to say hello. She looked lonely."

  "Lonely?"

  "Yes."

  Jennifer stares at the weathered tips of her gardening gloves. "It's sad you should think that," she says. "Would you like to come in for coffee?"

  Lenise drags her eyes from the safe haven of her own house.

  "Tea," says Lenise, looking at Jennifer.

  "Sorry?"

  "I only drink tea."

  "Tea it is."

  Lenise follows Jennifer up the steps and into the hallway where shoes are neatly lined up against the wall – pink slippers, sneakers, a muddy pair of men's running shoes. Jackets and coats of different sizes hang from ornate copper hooks. A teal umbrella with white polka dots is slumped in the corner.