She Lies Close

by Sharon Doering

  As I slip into my clothes, the doorbell rings. Hulk bolts and slides down the stairs, barking like mad.

  Nate and the kids stand on the porch. Sidewalks and driveways are tinged dark from rain, but the early sun is bright. Wet grass shimmers in the morning light.

  Nate gives me a kind smile, then hustles back to his idling car. The kids take off way too many clothes in the foyer while telling me random stuff. The deluge of their questions, their chatting, plays on my brain like a small child pounding on a piano.

  I pull Chloe up into my arms. “Did you eat breakfast, Chlo?”

  “No!” She laughs, amazed she hasn’t had breakfast yet.

  “No breakfast! Oh boy, we’d better fix that.” I squirm my mouth into her neck and kiss the soft skin there smelling of lollipops. She laughs and tries to close her neck, but my mouth is already wedged in and I’m enjoying her boisterous laughing too much.

  I remember we’re running late.

  I get them cereal and pull Wyatt in for a hug. I squeeze him too hard. He lets me, and hugs me back for a change. And here I didn’t even put on deodorant.

  With Chloe and Wyatt fed and packed in the car, I look both ways before I back out of the driveway. I am alert and calm. Rain has cleaned and refreshed the earth. The morning is sunny and breezy. I roll down everyone’s windows. Wind rattles the trees’ leaves, freeing small rain droplets to sprinkle the sidewalks and grass.

  There’s no avoiding seeing Leland’s house. And once I see it, I can’t pull my gaze away. Nothing appears outwardly unusual, yet his house stands out. The butter-yellow vinyl siding that was previously faded and mildew-speckled is now sharper, in technicolor, against a dull neighborhood backdrop of monotonous houses and trees. His house is striking. His house is like a brand-new tattoo engraved in my skin, just beginning to bleed and swell.

  Clouds pass overhead, dimming the bright morning and casting a moving shadow across my dashboard. Alarm sinks teeth into my skin. I can’t breathe.

  Sock. Shopkin. Plastic shovel. I am back in Leland’s room two days ago, finding a little girl’s items under his mattress.

  You should have called the police.

  Sock. Shopkin. Plastic shovel.

  You couldn’t call the police. You broke into his house.

  The tired, overweight engine of a garbage truck sighs. The familiar sound eases my panic. I breathe in. Out. The truck turns the corner onto my street.

  33

  RIPPED OPEN THIS DIMENSION TO OOZE BLOOD INTO MY CAR

  Work is work. Bad pay. Good people. Cute, impressionable children. A time-suck. A pleasant distraction. A few laughs. Constant cleaning, which, today, includes: spilled paint, a hard macaroni project, juice puddles, tiny beads springing free from a torn necklace and rolling in every possible direction, and a broken coffee cup in the breakroom, the last one being completely my fault. It didn’t crack simply; it shattered, and small shards struck my skin.

  After work, I pick up Chloe, then Hulk, and we head to PetSmart.

  A pet store is as good as any playground. As Hulk gets her nails cut, Chloe has a blast. We talk to the cats. We gaze at the fish. We keep our eyes glued to the trembling hill of hamster bedding, waiting for a tiny pink nose to emerge.

  “What are they doing under there, Momma?” Chloe is delighted.

  I am even feeling calm enough to play hide-and-seek. I hide behind the aisle-end section of feather toys for cats. I wait a few seconds before peeking my head into the aisle. When Chloe sees me, she scream-laughs with joy and rushes my leg like a twenty-five-pound linebacker.

  “Momma! I thought you were gone but then I saw your brown teeth and smelled your smell and I knew it was you.” Kids, the ultimate ego-deflators.

  “What do I smell like?”

  “A plant.”

  “A good plant or a stinky plant?”

  “Good plant.”

  At least there’s that.

  When it’s time, we open the door to the Grooming Room. Perfumed air blasts us, sweet oatmeal and chocolate wash, but underneath are the buried scents of dog urine and freshly squeezed anal glands. Drowning out the foul stink of excretions with the aroma of delicious desserts? Cruel deception.

  Chloe, Hulk, and I walk out, careful to dodge the random piles of shit in the parking lot.

  I am happy when all three of us make it to the car with feces-free shoes and paws. I let Hulk loose in the backseat and I buckle Chloe.

  “That was fun, wasn’t it?” I say, seeking props, as I do.

  “I want to do it again,” Chloe says, wanting more, as she does.

  I drive away from PetSmart and I’m in the midst of a sketchy four-lane left-hand turn when Chloe screams, “There’s blood everywhere! Blood! It’s on my blanket, Momma!”

  I’m not the type of driver to whom you yell “Boo.” I’m a driver on edge, over-caffeinated, and, OK, taking speed.

  Her scream panics me and I dart into the middle of the intersection. I get a trail of angry honks, and a few cars swerve around me, but no one crashes on account of my stupidity. In my near miss, I solemnly swear I will never make a risky left-hand turn again. I will drive an extra twenty minutes out of my way if need be.

  You made the same solemn swear last month.

  Chloe is bawling. I can no longer decipher what she’s saying, but I definitely heard the “blood” part. I swerve onto a side street, put the minivan in park, unbuckle, and turn to face her. There is blood on her blanket! More brownish than red. I frantically scan her screaming face and clenched fists for an injury, but her tear-wet skin is perfect and intact. A smear of snot crosses her cheek. Where did the blood come from?

  The seats are dotted and smeared with blood, all of them. There’s blood splattered on the carpet. Reddish-brown blood, stale menstrual blood, is everywhere.

  For a full second, I’m certain some demon has ripped open this dimension to ooze blood into my car. Even Hulk senses the dimension invasion; she’s berserk, jumping from seat to floor and back again.

  A moment before diving headfirst into my own insanity, I glance at Hulk. Her front paw is matted in blood.

  PetSmart motherfuckers.

  I’ve heard dogs bleed fast and plentiful, but I thought it was wild exaggeration.

  Chloe is still sobbing. I climb into the back seat, unbuckle her, and pull her into a hug. I explain what happened, tell her Hulk will be fine, and we will wash her blanket. None of these things help. My sleeves are wet with her tears and smudged with her boogers.

  I fish around in my purse for a lollipop. The lollipop does the trick. She settles down to focus on sucking and sugar.

  I wrap Hulk’s bleeding paw in the crumpled tissues I find under the seats of the minivan. Tissues, which may contain gum or boogers, that Chloe and Wyatt have cast carelessly onto the floor of this neglected vehicle.

  Ha! Just when I think I should criticize myself for not cleaning more often or my children for being so sloppy, our trash comes in handy! More fuel for my slovenly ways.

  I pop in a silly songs CD. Chloe blinks and smiles.

  I drive home, wondering why the groomer didn’t simply tell me she cut the nail too low? She could have wrapped Hulk’s paw before we left. It wouldn’t have been a problem. The groomer saw me. She saw me talking and laughing with Chloe. She had to know I wasn’t one of those people who obsesses over their dog or threatens lawsuits. She had to notice how easy-going and normal I look.

  Maybe not as normal as you think.

  Or maybe it had nothing to do with me. Maybe the groomer didn’t want to say she’d made a mistake. No one likes to admit their incompetence.

  I turn onto my street.

  There are four cars parked in front of Leland Ernest’s house, two of them police cars.

  34

  A WOMAN’S VOICE SAYS TO MY ASS

  Police cars make me nervous.

  Of course they do. Police cars make everyone nervous.

  I park in my driveway.

  Normal. Be normal.
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  I carry Chloe inside, and Hulk follows at my feet.

  I don’t want the police to come to my door. With everything I’ve been meddling in, I’m feeling guilty. Detectives have rung enough doorbells to spot a guilty person as she answers her door.

  Stay calm. What would you do right now if the cops weren’t next door?

  Easy. Clean up Hulk’s blood.

  I throw Chloe’s blanket into the washing machine and turn on the brainless Barbie show she loves and I hate. I change into shorts and, barefoot, head outside with a bucket of soapy water and a dish rag.

  I plop my bucket on the driveway, then roll my empty recycling and garbage bins into the garage.

  Hulk’s blood has already browned and become one with the fabric and carpet. I scrub. It smears, then lightens. I’m pretty sure I can get this car back to its baseline nasty, moldy-smelling self.

  The sun beats on the vinyl dashboard, and inside the car it’s hot. I’m sweating, but I enjoy the physical labor. The uncomplicated essence of it, the type of slender, strong body it builds, the type of black-and-white thinking it lends itself to.

  Hulk barks like mad from inside the house.

  “Excuse me,” a woman’s voice says to my ass.

  I back out of the minivan, dropping my towel on the car floor.

  A man and woman dressed in plain clothes stand in the grass a few feet away from me. Detectives.

  The woman is young. Her hair is pulled back into a messy ponytail. Her face is angular, yet soft. Her skin is olive-toned and flawless. Puerto Rican, I think. Her beauty stuns me like a slap in the cold. I have met women like her on occasion. Stunning women who work regular jobs: teachers, nurses, and police officers. Each time I run into these women, I wonder, Why are you working this ordinary job? Why isn’t some dude paying you ridiculous amounts of money to be eye-candy on his yacht? Don’t you look in the mirror in the morning and say, Pshaw! I do not have to go to work today. Look at this face. I can do whatever I want!

  The man is attractive too, but far less exotic than his partner. His skin is fair with a slight summer tan. His body is slender, but his bones are solid. His hair is dark, his jaw is smooth, and his familiar blue eyes are kind and non-judgmental, which probably helps him solve cases. He looks older than me, but he is my age exactly. His name is James. I haven’t seen him in over twenty years.

  The woman says, “I’m Detective Acosta. This is Detective Mahoney. You are?”

  “Grace Wright.”

  “Nice to meet you, Grace,” he says, nodding, keeping his hands at his sides.

  Oh, we are playing that game. Interesting.

  Hulk is still barking madly, the little watchdog.

  “What happened?” I say, blocking the sun from my eyes and squinting so they can’t read my eyes clearly.

  “When is the last time you’ve seen Leland Ernest?”

  “Oh, um, I guess a few days ago. I saw him on his patio.” Drinking a juice box. Disgust wells up inside me.

  “Did you hear anything unusual last night?” Detective Mahoney says.

  “I don’t think.” I consider it, then shake my head. “No.”

  “So, Grace, you were home last night?” Detective Acosta says, scratching her neck, trying to seem casual. Her fingernails are short, unpainted, but somehow perfectly pretty and petite. No earrings or rings on her, just a simple digital watch. A boy’s watch.

  “Yes. I was home. Went to bed kind of early actually.” Acosta’s skin looks airbrushed. Even her eyelids, her eyebrows, are stunning. “My husband, well, ex-husband, had the kids last night. I leave the bathroom fan on for noise and keep the windows closed because of my allergies. If there was anything to hear, I probably wouldn’t hear it.” I’m rambling. Her beauty is distracting. Try not to look at her. “Did something happen? What happened?”

  Mahoney says, “Has there been anything related to your neighbor or his house that struck you as unusual lately? More visitors? More activity in front of the house? Arguments?”

  Come to think of it, I did break into his house a couple days ago.

  Oh, and also, yesterday I told Ethan Boone that Leland had a few little girl’s items hidden under his mattress.

  “Oh my God,” I whisper. “Did you find Ava?”

  The detectives glance at each other and shift stances.

  Detective Mahoney says, “Grace, why would you think we stopped by about Ava?”

  “I heard Leland was a suspect in her case. Did they find her?”

  Detective Acosta bites her lip, then releases it. Both of them are superb at milking silence. Don’t fall for it. Wait them out. She finally says, “Grace, where did you hear Leland was a suspect in Ava Boone’s case?”

  It annoys me that they keep saying my name. It’s a sales technique. They are trying to lull me into familiarity. I feel uncomfortable, sweaty-sticky. I wish I were wearing shoes. I feel exposed, sloppy. Strands of hair have fallen against my cheeks. I push my hair back and sigh.

  “The guy down the street, near the end of the block. His name is Lou; he told me. I’m pretty sure most of the neighbors know. What’s going on?”

  “How often do you talk to your neighbor Leland?” Detective Acosta says, glancing briefly inside my minivan.

  “Pretty much never. He always struck me as…” I search for a neutral word, something besides stalker, predator, kidnapper. “He struck me as odd. What happened?” How many times do I have to ask?

  Detective Mahoney tips his chin down a bit, his light blue eyes somber. “Your neighbor was murdered.”

  Good thing they didn’t catch me at my door in my air-conditioned house. Good thing I was scrubbing my hot van a minute ago. My face already heat-flushed and pebbled in sweat, my clothes already stained, they can’t gauge my anxiety.

  “What? Jesus,” I whisper. Chills prickle along my cold stomach, and I steady myself against the minivan. I search for what I’m supposed to say; there are no convenient words when someone is murdered. “I’m sorry. That’s crazy. Isn’t that information private? I mean, are you supposed to tell people?”

  She smiles as if I gave something away. Detective Mahoney, the more humble of the two, says, “If someone has a medical emergency, we don’t discuss that with neighbors. If we are uncertain about how someone died, we don’t jump to conclusions. In this case, a neighbor found him this morning, and the coroner has already filed cause of death so now we are trying to collect information from anyone who might be able to help.”

  “Where is the ambulance or, or, the coroner’s van?”

  Detective Acosta says, “Many of the vehicles that were on your street earlier today have left.”

  “How did he… I mean, was it a gun?”

  “We can’t discuss that,” she says and looks at my neck with assertive eyes.

  “Oh.” I touch my bandage, ready to tell her about my bat scratches.

  “So, Grace,” Detective Acosta says, “if you could help us out and tell us anything you have noticed, like, have you noticed any cars parked in front of his house recently?”

  “Um, no. I don’t think. I’m busy though. Single mom, two kids, full-time job. I’m not paying attention to the neighborhood, you could say.”

  “How old are your kids?” Detective Acosta says.

  I know where she’s headed. I pointed her in that direction, after all, by mentioning Ava. You shouldn’t have mentioned Ava. No, it’s fine that you mentioned Ava. It’s normal that you mentioned Ava. “My boy is eight. My little girl is three.”

  “Must have been disturbing to hear your neighbor was a suspect in the kidnapping of a little girl,” Detective Acosta says, getting straight to the point and playing me for an idiot.

  You are an idiot. You put yourself in their crosshairs.

  Acosta plays sympathetic, her eyes sorrowful. “I can’t imagine being a mother, a single mother, and finding out something so upsetting.”

  “Yeah, it pissed me off. It worried me. It worried all of us in the neighborhood, I’m s
ure. But what are you gonna do? You have to let the police figure it out. And, well, have you?” I say, playing the same game she’s playing with me. “Figured anything out, I mean. Do you have any idea what happened to Ava Boone?”

  “It’s not our case,” Mahoney says. “Detectives are still working it.”

  “It’s been a long time though. If they haven’t figured it out by now…” I say, letting my unspoken words hang, my tone turning accusatory. I’m pissed they haven’t found her or solved her case. I should be pissed.

  They might find out you’ve been probing.

  That’s OK. I should be probing. Everyone should be probing.

  “How long have you lived here?” she says, not taking my bait.

  “Three months.”

  “When did you find out your neighbor was a suspect in the case of a missing child?”

  Not missing. Kidnapped. Murdered.

  “Maybe two weeks ago,” I say, pretending I don’t know exactly how many days it’s been. “Like I said, a neighbor down the street, Lou, told me. Most of the neighbors know, he said.”

  Detective Mahoney smiles and nods. He is the listener, the gentle cop. I bet they switch roles when interviewing a male.

  “Is there anyone else besides you who has been angry with Leland?” Acosta says. I see what she’s doing, trying to put me on the defense, trying to raise my hackles, trying to get me to point a finger somewhere else.

  As a matter of fact, yesterday I told Ethan Boone that Leland might have his daughter’s sock under his mattress.

  Oh, and Lou down the street. That crazy dude threatened to slit Leland’s throat. You believe that shit?

  “Not that I know of,” I lie, not entirely certain of my motives.

  “What happened to your neck?” Detective Acosta says.

  “What? Oh, I keep forgetting.” I touch the gauze taped to my neck. “I got attacked by bats.”

  “You’re kidding,” Detective Mahoney says, a genuine smile widening on his face.

  “No. It happened several nights ago. I was going for a late-night jog, and they ran into me, the bats. I went to the hospital for post-rabies exposure shots. It’s on record, if you want to check,” I add. I pull the gauze back to show them. “It’s already scabbed over and the doctor is almost positive I didn’t get exposed to rabies, but to be on the safe side, they’re giving me the series of shots and I keep it covered. My daughter is always wrapping her arms around my neck.”