The Devil's Wire

by Rogers, Deborah

  "It's all there."

  He takes a look, raises his eyebrows.

  "The full amount?"

  "I trust you."

  They fall silent. Outside, over by the dumpster, a fat guy in a ketchup-stained chef's apron alternates between smoking and knocking back a diet coke.

  "Any special requests?" says Ron.

  "She wants him out of her life for good. You need to convince him of that."

  He looks at her, curious. "Whatever's going on with your friend has had an effect on you too, Lenny."

  "If it was up to me, I wouldn't just be scaring him."

  "Fair enough."

  The coffee arrives. Outside, the filthy cook stabs out his cigarette.

  "You up for something stronger, Lenny? My motel's just around the corner."

  She looks at him and aims for her best smile. "What took you so long to ask?"

  *

  When Lenise gets home the back door is open which is strange because Jennifer and McKenzie had returned to their house four nights ago. She calls out but there's no answer. She calls again and the kitchen door opens.

  "Hey," says Cody.

  "For God's sake, turn on some lights. I thought you were a rapist."

  "Nice to see you too, Ma."

  She pushes past him into the kitchen and he follows.

  "What's all that?" he says, nodding at the scrabble board on the table.

  "The girl from across the road comes over sometimes."

  "The dog killer's kid?"

  "What happened to Minnesota?"

  "Didn't work out."

  "And what's that got to do with me?"

  He opens the fridge, whistles when he sees the home-made pizza and lemon-frosted chocolate cake.

  "Having a party or something?"

  He takes a long gulp from the pineapple Kool-Aid Lenise had made especially for McKenzie, then takes a slice of pizza, dropping crumbs all over the place.

  "Watch what you're doing," she says, retrieving the dish cloth to clean up the mess.

  "Hey, I bought you something," he says.

  Cody digs around in his satchel and passes her a small box made of soap stone. An intricate Asiatic lily is carved into the lid.

  "I got it from an old Indian guy – Eagle Feather, would you believe. He had a stall on the side of the highway with snake skins and other dream-catcher shit, but then I saw that. The dude said someone in his tribe made it. I thought you could use it for Baby."

  Lenise traces a fingertip across a fluted petal.

  "It's nice," she says.

  "You're welcome."

  She puts down the box. "Why are you here?"

  "I told you – things didn't work out. I had to leave the place I was staying at."

  He turns back to the fridge and drinks more Kool-Aid. She takes it from his hands and returns it.

  "Bad luck," she says.

  "Yeah."

  She knows what's coming next.

  "I thought I would move back here."

  She doesn't say anything.

  "Just for awhile," he says. "Until I build up a bit of cash."

  Lenise walks into the lounge, straightens the afghan across the back of the couch.

  "That's not convenient, right now, Cody."

  He stares at her. "What do you mean?"

  "Just that."

  "What am I supposed to do?"

  She shrugs.

  "You're a smart boy, you'll work it out."

  "But I've got nowhere else to go."

  She looks at him. For a moment she feels bad enough to relent but she won't be his door mat. There was also the small matter of tonight's planned event.

  "I've got somewhere I'm meant to be," she says, looking at her watch.

  "You're really going to do this? Turn away your own son?"

  "Call me when you get settled," she says.

  She returns to the kitchen and seconds later the front door slams. On the bench, she picks up the soap stone box and admires the detail of the delicate lily. She softens. It was truly the nicest thing he'd ever given her. Perhaps she'd been too rash, not letting him stay, forcing him out on the street. She turns the box over for a closer look at the lacework running the length of the bottom, and blinks at the tiny white sticker. Made in Pakistan.

  23

  Jennifer is certain she has developed a permanent tic. This morning she awoke to the feel of a recurring pinch on her upper left eyelid and when she looked in the mirror, she couldn't see a thing, but it was there, hidden somewhere inside the lithe tunnel of a blood vessel, twitching like a mini heart beat.

  Part of the plan was to move back into the house and pretend like everything was normal, which she had done. There'd been no sign of Hank since he drained the accounts and she'd taken to watching from the kitchen window, waiting to catch the glint of a steel barrel in a shard of moonlight or a white-eyed blink from the darkness. But there had been nothing except for the slow stir of leaves and the occasional throaty hoot from an owl.

  Jennifer hopes that when she tries his cell it will be disconnected or he will answer and say he's moved to Texas or Albuquerque or Maine.

  But she's just playing games with herself. He hasn't left town. He was waiting for the right time to strike. For all she knew, he could be spying on the house right now.

  She looks at the cordless phone resting on top of the closed toilet seat and thinks about what she has to say. Just act natural, Lenise had said, it's as simple as that. Simple when you're not the one doing it.

  That damn tic is working overtime and Jennifer tries to rub it out. Oh God, this was never going to work. He's going to pick up on the thread of uncertainty in her voice. She should call the whole thing off.

  "We need to talk," she says out loud. Then again. "Hank, we need to talk. Tonight."

  "What are you doing?" says McKenzie, appearing in the bathroom doorway.

  "Nothing."

  "Who were you talking to?"

  "Myself."

  "Oh."

  "I think I'm going nuts, hon."

  "Great. Two crazy parents," says McKenzie.

  Next week, when all this was over, Jennifer would need to think about their future.

  "I'll be down in a sec."

  She waits until McKenzie leaves, picks up the phone and dials the number.

  He answers on the fifth ring, breathless and eager.

  "Jen?"

  He sounds so normal. She can't believe this is the same man who tried to kill her a week ago.

  "I've arranged for me and McKenzie to be somewhere else tonight. The papers are on the table, Hank. Sign them. I've bagged up some of your things too. I'll leave the backdoor unlocked."

  He says something, but the phone drops out as if he is walking into wind.

  "I can't hear you," she says.

  "I'm sorry."

  "Just sign the papers and leave us alone."

  When she gets off the phone she nearly throws up. She dials Lenise.

  "I don't think he bought it."

  "He'll come."

  "I'm not sure I can go through with this. I mean, actually pull it off, seeing him face-to-face."

  "You're stronger than you think."

  "What if he figures it out?"

  "He won't."

  "There's got be another way."

  "We've been through this already, Jenny, there isn't. We need to trust Ron."

  Jennifer stares at the flagstone tiles on the bathroom floor.

  "Why are you doing this Lenise?"

  There's a pause. "Your girl deserved better."

  "Thank you."

  "Just be ready."

  24

  When she was in college, Jennifer had trained for a marathon. Being a complete novice, she sought advice from a sports coach, a fifty-something bear of a man appropriately named Jack Fit. Jack Fit obliged her by designing a program for her to follow three months out from the race. He told her baby steps at first – jog for 1 minute, rest for 30 seconds, then jog for 2 minu
tes, rest for 25 seconds and so on. "The point is – " he said leaning on bent knee with a paddle-thick forearm, "build upon what you have done before until you can take off the training wheels and soar from your Mama's nest". Jack Fit also liked to toss about his catchphrase, "you just gotta bury yourself in the process". He would say it every time they met, jabbing his finger into his palm for emphasis.

  Jennifer followed his advice to the letter, never missing a training session no matter the weather or how tired or busy she got and in less than six weeks she could run 13 miles in one hit. Jennifer even saw the college nutritionist and followed a strict diet of brown rice and boiled chicken and steamed broccoli. It was the most self-disciplined she had ever been. Come race day, when she gathered at the starting line, along with a few hundred other hopefuls, number 49 bib strapped to her chest, she felt like she truly deserved to be there.

  It started out great. The first ten miles were fine, the next five a little harder. But she persevered, despite throwing up lime Gatorade all over herself, the brutal chafing between her thighs, and the continuous flatulence that threatened to become more.

  But when she reached the 17 mile mark, she hit a wall. Not physically, but mentally. Nothing in all of her dogged, by-the-book training had prepared her for the sheer boredom of it. The monotonous pounding, the 'are-we-there-yet' child's voice stuck on repeat in her head. Around the corner was just another corner. A flat line of unhappy never-endingness, where the logic of time became illogical.

  And as her light-footedness abandoned her and each step became a leaden, swamp-sucking feat, it dawned on her that above everything else – the hamstring strength, the well-developed slow-twitch muscle fibers, the mastery of the exhale stress breathing technique – the most important requirement for a marathon runner was the ability to delay gratification. Mental stamina. Endurance of the mind. Two thirds of the way through, Jennifer realized she did not have that particular attribute and collapsed and couldn't get back up.

  She knew that somewhere miles up ahead at the finishing line Jack Fit was waiting in his mirrored sunglasses with a slap on the back and a fresh bottle of water, and that she should get to her feet and carry on, but when some old lady in a purple tank top offered Jennifer a granola bar and a lift to the First Aid bay in her ancient green VW, Jennifer agreed.

  Jennifer takes a heavy drag from the cigarette and thinks about that race. What had started out as a triumph based on good planning and determination ended in dismal failure. That marathon attempt, so long ago now, had been death by a thousand cuts. Much like tonight. The waiting. The need for all this to be over before she broke.

  "Take this."

  Lenise hands her a glass.

  "I can't drink anything."

  "You can and you will. You'll need another before he arrives."

  Jennifer takes the tumbler, stamps out her cigarette and immediately lights another.

  "It's chilly out here," says Lenise. "Let's go inside."

  "The cold makes me feel better."

  Jennifer drinks some more. The glass shakes in her hand.

  "Everything will be okay if you just stick to the plan," says Lenise.

  "I just want it over."

  "You can do this, Jenny. Just think of McKenzie. By the way, she was asleep the last time I checked."

  "She loves spending time at your house. Better than here," says Jennifer.

  "Nonsense."

  "Sometimes she looks at me like it's my fault."

  "Don't go down that track. It won't do anyone any good, least of all yourself. Is everything done?"

  Jennifer nods.

  "Excellent."

  They fall silent.

  "Hear that?" says Jennifer.

  "What?"

  "There's a screech owl out there somewhere. I've heard it every night since I've been back. It makes me feel better just knowing it's there."

  "A guardian angel."

  "Something like that."

  "Superstition is for dummies," says Lenise.

  "You know," says Jennifer. "Sometimes you could try being a little less blunt."

  "There's nothing wrong with honesty."

  "All I'm saying is there's ways of putting things."

  They fall silent. Lenise sips her drink.

  "In South Africa hunters use a particular type of booby trap. They dig a hole, place a wire around the circumference, cover it with leaves then wait for the animal to walk by. When the thing falls in, the hunter tugs the wire and triggers a special type of slipknot that contracts around the animal's neck and strangles it. It's called The Devil's Wire."

  "So we're doing the Devil's work now, terrific," says Jennifer.

  "Sometimes the animal gets decapitated."

  "Nice."

  Lenise drains her glass and opens the door to go inside.

  "Shit happens," she says.

  25

  She is in the kitchen, waiting, hands palm down on the countertop trying to calm her shuddering breath. Close by are the divorce papers, blue biro laid across the top, wine glass a quarter full next to an open bottle of Australian red. Her stomach rolls at the smell of tannins and she turns away to watch pearls slip from the faucet and thump into the sink.

  It's not long before she hears fumbling at the backdoor and footsteps in the hallway.

  "Jen, what are you doing here?"

  He's genuinely surprised.

  "Jen," he says again. "What's all this about?"

  He regards her, wary, eyes scanning the room.

  "There's no gun," she says.

  "Okay."

  She straightens her spine and picks up her wine glass.

  "They know I'm here with you – my lawyer, the police – and they'll be here in seconds if you try anything."

  "Brave," he says.

  "I won't be scared in my own home, Hank."

  He takes off his jacket and lays it across the dining room chair. There's a waft of Jovan Musk. She can feel herself shake, and tries it hide it, but decides it probably doesn't matter. He nods at the wine.

  "May I?"

  Without waiting for a reply, he retrieves a glass from the cupboard, pours himself a drink and takes a fulsome mouthful.

  "You always did have good taste," he says, taking another sip and sitting.

  "This isn't a party, Hank."

  He looks at the dripping faucet. "I keep meaning to fix that."

  She pushes the divorce papers toward him.

  "I wanted to make sure you signed these."

  He glances down at the papers.

  "I can't believe it's come to this."

  "Well, believe it."

  He drains his glass and pours another.

  "When did you become so cold?" he says. He waves a hand. "Oh, no I'm not talking about now, I mean before all this. You were cold long before now."

  She can barely contain her outrage. "You're blaming me?"

  "You've never been happy. I've never been good enough. Even McKenzie, you – "

  "Don't you dare."

  "You always made her feel like a disappointment. Her weight, her school work."

  "Stop it."

  "All she ever wanted was for you to love her, accept her, unconditionally. You know what that word means Jen – unconditional?"

  She picks up the papers and slams them down in front of him.

  "Sign them and get out."

  He looks at her. "I'm not signing anything."

  "It's over, Hank, and there's nothing you can do about it."

  He gets to his feet and points a finger in her face.

  "You are my fucking wife."

  She takes a step backward. "I want you out of my life."

  "Tear up those damn papers."

  "You don't scare me, Hank."

  "You're my wife and you'll do as you're fucking well told." He grabs the papers and shoves them in her face.

  She pushes him away.

  He looks at her then pauses. "That's the third time you've done that," he says.

&
nbsp; "What?"

  "Checked your watch. What's going on?"

  He begins to waver on his feet. He looks at his wine glass on the countertop and picks it up, angles it under the light. He turns to her and smiles.

  "Clever," he starts to laugh. "Oh, very clever. You put something in the wine."

  "Don't be ridiculous."

  He continues to laugh. Jennifer's temple pounds. It isn't working quickly enough. He should be flat on his back by now. He sways dramatically, catches himself and holds out the glass.

  "Drink it."

  "I'm not trying to poison you, Hank, if that's what you think."

  He steps forward, the laughter now gone, and presses the glass to her lips.

  "I said drink it."

  She tries to push him away. "Let go of me."

  "You stupid bitch."

  He throws the glass, smashing it against the pantry door. He rushes for her and puts his hands around her throat.

  "Stop it, Hank."

  His hands grip her jugular, crushing the tiny bones in her larynx, and Jennifer begins to see grey snow. She tries to hold on. Lenise should be here any second.

  Then his hold softens, slips away entirely and she scrambles backward until she collides with the wall, gasping and sucking in oxygen.

  Hank squints at her and tries to say something but can't form the words. He gives his head two hard shakes and stumbles into the coffee table, tipping like a felled pine, crashing to the floor, flat on his back, final and silent.

  Lenise appears.

  "Oh God," says Jennifer. "He's dead."

  "Don't be stupid. Can't you see him breathing."

  "Where were you, he could've killed me."

  "I had to wait, give it time to work."

  Lenise disappears and comes back with a fitness bag. "We need to tie him up."

  She rolls him onto his front.

  "Help me."

  Jen pulls his hands behind his back and Lenise does the zip ties and the gag.

  "What's the time?" Lenise asks.

  "Twenty to twelve."

  "Ron will be here soon."

  They sit down to wait.

  26

  The lump that is Jennifer's husband lies on the linoleum in front of them. The pose of the child, Lenise had once heard a yoga teacher call it. And right now it seems preposterous to see a grown man in such a state of vulnerability, preposterous and strangely gratifying.