She Lies Close

by Sharon Doering

  “That’s wild,” Mahoney says. “Seems like the summer for strange animal stories. My daughter showed me this YouTube video the other day. This bunny growling at a Labrador.” He touches his partner’s arm and says to her, “Did you see it?”

  My eyes linger on the touch. I’m curious how close they are.

  “No, you’ll have to show me,” she says, but she’s uninterested. She’s glancing around at houses, deciding which neighbor to attack next.

  “My son and I watched the same video. Peter versus Heidi,” I say, realizing I appear too enthusiastic.

  He points at the toddler seat in my minivan and laughs, “I remember all the cleanup when my daughter was that age. Juice, smashed crackers, broken crayons. It was always something. What’d she spill?” His eyes settle upon my towel, which is stained brown.

  “Blood, actually. Not my daughter’s, my dog’s. I got her nails clipped today and they cut too low. It’s splattered all over the backseat.”

  “I didn’t know clipping a nail could draw so much blood,” Detective Acosta says, interested, peeking in.

  “I’ll show you.” I walk to my front door and open it. Hulk comes barreling out, wagging her tail so hard, her ass wiggles. She brushes against their shins, licks their hands, and sniffs their crotches. Hell of a watchdog.

  Tissues gone from her injured paw, dried blood mats her fur.

  Detective Mahoney bends down, scratches Hulk’s ear, and lifts the injured paw. “They did an awful job. You could get a Dremel for thirty bucks, grind her nails yourself.”

  I smile. “I was thinking the same thing. You have a dog?”

  Detective Mahoney nods. “I grind her nails. Shave her myself too.” He is not playing a role, he’s not acting. He’s reacting, real time. He laughs, “I used to shave words into the dog’s fur to make my daughter crack up.”

  “Words?”

  “Hug me. Happy Birthday.” Memory fading, his smile fades. “Well, we appreciate your time, Ms. Wright. Grace. We will let you get back to work. If you remember anything that seemed off or seemed funny even, please give me a call. The smallest, most random details can turn out to be useful.” He hands me his card, and I’m stuck holding it because I have no pockets.

  Detective Acosta looks at Mahoney. “That’s probably the first time someone’s told us they’re cleaning blood out of their car.” She’s trying to get under my skin. Pin me as guilty of something. Make me feel awkward.

  Mahoney smiles at me. “First time someone told us they were attacked by bats too. Seems like you have your hands full.”

  You have no idea.

  They walk back to Leland’s house.

  He didn’t remember you. Or was he faking?

  I drop his card in my cup holder and go back to scrubbing fabric.

  How would they describe me?

  Chatty. Unforgettable because of my bloody minivan and bat attack. Unsympathetic to my neighbor’s murder. All these things are normal enough.

  35

  A MIDDLE-AGED MONSTER

  Ethan Boone murdered Leland. Had to be him. Had to be. Had to.

  I picture Ethan’s reaction when I told him I found a little girl’s items under Leland’s mattress. Covering his face with both hands, he said, “Oh my God.” Wiping his tears away, his despair abruptly shifted to rage. I can almost feel his ragged nails, his grip, rife with fury, digging into my arms. He had the craziest look in his eyes.

  And, holy shit, it’s my fault. Ethan suspected Leland, but I confirmed his suspicion. That poor Boone family. Lost their daughter, now they’re going to lose their father.

  You will keep his secret.

  You put that poor man in this situation, you will protect him.

  You need to let him know his secret is safe. Soon. So he doesn’t point the finger in your direction.

  My guilt and my conversation with the detectives have left my body and mind fatigued and useless. Hulk detailing my car’s interior with blood didn’t help.

  After dinner I leave dirty dishes and uneaten food on the table and collapse on the couch beside Chloe.

  Walking back from the bathroom, Wyatt says, “Hey, Mom, why are there police cars down the street?”

  I don’t have the energy or level-headedness needed to answer this question. “I don’t know, Wyatt. I’ll ask the neighbors about it later. Let’s watch Wheel of Fortune.”

  He drops it and plops down on the couch beside me.

  I love watching Wheel of Fortune with my kids. Scratch that, it’s the only adult program I’ll watch with my kids. I gave Family Feud a try once, but had forgotten how trashy it was. Lots of, “Survey Says, Lap Dance.”

  I get a kick out of how much effort Wyatt expends trying to solve Wheel of Fortune puzzles. He averages one out of ten and, in my opinion, one out of ten is a perfect effort–reward ratio for learning persistence. Chloe shouts out letters while laughing and running back and forth along the couch, hopping over Wyatt and me.

  The Wheel is also good for teaching empathy since contestants are constantly landing on Bankrupt. Wyatt is convinced the Wheel has been meddled with and, after six or seven Bankrupt spins, he hypothesizes in technical detail how they’ve rigged the game.

  The only thing that bugs me about the show? The glowing-yet-humdrum family intros… My wonderful husband works at Xerox and sings in a barbershop quartet. My beautiful daughter plays soccer and is on the honor roll. I am a sales associate at JCPenney and enjoy scrapbooking and sea-shelling.

  I want something meatier. I want real.

  Mine would go like this…

  Pat, my ex is a surgeon skilled at fixing shitty intestines. He is known for his late-night, compulsive online-shopping habit—everything from batteries to birdseed—and he can’t turn down free pussy.

  My eight-year-old son is a lover of dogs and fart jokes, notorious for making his sister giggle as well as punching holes in drywall—though not at the same time!—and can occasionally be found studying his butthole in the mirror.

  My toddler enjoys jumping off slides, furniture, and into deep bodies of water, no regard for consequences. She is a genius at apologies, whispers love in my ear with lollipop-sweet breath, but refuses to keep her socks on.

  And me, Pat?

  I might just be a middle-aged monster.

  36

  DEMONS SENT FROM UNDERGROUND HELL-CAVES

  It is officially The summer of bats.

  Not only according to me. Hadley Stykes, reporter for the Kilkenny Sun, has come to the same conclusion.

  She wrote, “The rabies-infected bat count in Whisper County is up to twenty-one, which is the highest count since they’ve been recording it (1987). Keep in mind, twenty-one makes for a low percentage overall since thousands of bats live in Whisper County. There have been only three human cases of rabies in Whisper County in thirty years and no human cases of rabies in the county for eight consecutive years.”

  Here’s hoping I don’t break the streak.

  I’m not sure why I keep reading about bats. If I trust all the literature, and I do, as long as post-exposure prophylaxis is given within six days of exposure, victims survive in every case. I suppose it’s the manner of the bat attack that bothers me. I haven’t come across a single story of someone being attacked by a cluster of bats.

  And the more I read about bats, the more I worry. Bats carry at least sixty viruses capable of infecting humans. We’re talking serious shit like Ebola, Marburg, SARS, and, a-hem, rabies.

  Bats don’t die from these viruses because when they take flight, their internal body temperature rises to 106 degrees, which initiates some badass immune response that allows them to harbor viruses safely, but pass those viruses on through their feces and piss and saliva so humans die painfully, excessively salivating and hallucinating while partially paralyzed and unable to swallow.

  If you believe every living thing was put on this planet for humans, bats are certainly demons sent from underground hell-caves to spread disease, fear, and cha
os.

  I worry about the unknown. Why did a gang of them attack me? Were they sick with a new disease yet to be identified? No doubt there are countless subtle viral infections that have yet to be catalogued and understood.

  The summer of bats.

  Funny how so many of us label time by music, disasters, and pests. Maybe it’s because as we get older and lose memory and wit, there is too much to mentally juggle, so we simplify.

  The year of Hurricane Katrina.

  The summer the Cubs won the World Series.

  The winter we got twelve feet of snow and couldn’t get out of the house.

  The summer of the Seventeen-Year Cicada. That was a fun one. Wyatt had been three and in little-boy bliss. Usually he had to search for bugs. That summer, he would take one step outside and they would crash into him. He’d find them on the porch, their wings moist, unable to fly, because minutes ago they’d squeezed themselves out of a molt, their crisp empty translucent shells still clinging to the porch.

  The spring Ava Boone went missing.

  The summer my neighbor was murdered.

  After Wyatt and Chloe are sleeping, I lace my sneakers tight, giddy at the idea of jogging now that Leland is dead. This is wrong, I know, which makes me even more giddy. My cheek muscles ache.

  37

  THE BOY-DOPED SILLINESS I SMOKED

  I skip the sidewalk and hit the asphalt, playing my 90s playlist because Detective James Mahoney has been standing quietly, hands in pockets, shoulders shrugged, faint smirk on his face, sweet blue eyes, in the back of my mind all evening, waiting for me to give him proper consideration.

  The moon is full and glowing, backed by lit clouds.

  I’m pounding the asphalt, approaching the furthest point from my house, approaching the place where bats blindsided me, and anxiety smacks me in the chest like a wet-towel slap in the locker room. Painful. Burning. Breathtaking.

  I worry for the Boone family. I worry about my role in Leland’s murder. I tipped off Ethan, and now a man is dead. I worry about being a terrible mother. I worry for my health—something is happening to me, I know it. I worry for my children’s future; I desperately want them to have peaceful lives. I worry about growing old alone. I worry about my house falling apart.

  A dark cloud has drifted in front of the bright moon, taking a small bite out of it.

  There’s a car to my right, behind me. No, it’s keeping pace with you. My pulse triples. Goosebumps break along my cool skin. Be ready for anything. I yank out my earbuds.

  “Bush,” a voice says.

  “What!” I scream. Perv.

  “You were singing. ‘Chemicals Between Us’ by Bush?”

  Detective Mahoney. His elbow rests on his open window. Street lamps cast a yellow glow, and I can make out his eyes and smile.

  I slow to a walk. I relax a little, but my heart is still fluttering. “Yeah, I guess I was singing.” I’m the perv.

  “You’re living in the past.” His car is crawling beside me. Chevy Impala.

  “Oh fuck off,” I say.

  He laughs. “I was kidding. Wait,” he says softly, “are you crying?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “What happened?”

  “It’s nothing. I cry when I run. It’s just something I do. Like brushing my teeth.”

  He says nothing.

  OK, I’m not making the best impression. My pulse drums. His engine idles.

  I stop and face him. “Why did you act like you didn’t know me?”

  His car stops. He puts it in park right in the middle of the street, looks to his steering wheel for an answer, and turns to me. “I don’t know. I was caught off guard.” He smiles sheepishly. “I had a crush on you in high school.”

  “Me?” I laugh, but it’s not flirty, it’s loud and accusatory.

  I was not the crush type. Not one of the beautiful ones. Not of the popular crowd. Not a party animal. I smoked and drank, but kept myself under control. No sexy clothes or heavy makeup. I had bad hair.

  I ran track. Hurdles. God, how I loved hurdles. In my wide-open and probing teenage mind, I believed I wasn’t entirely human. Running hurdles, the avian leap and lift, solidified the thought.

  I loved the all-weather track rounding the football field. Vulcanized rubber baking in the sun, a faint sulfur odor, the warm scent of grass, and the brassy smell of the wire fence enclosing the stadium. Chalk white lines painted on smooth yet textured track. I didn’t even mind the stench of Lakewood High’s basement track surrounding the weight room. Sweat, corroded metal, cement, and mildew under shitty lighting.

  When I wasn’t running, I had my nose in a book. I had a few friends, none of them forever or lifelong. I had a few boyfriends.

  James Mahoney was my high school opposite. Star baseball player, but not your stereotypical asshole athlete. He was reserved. When he smiled, a hint of mischievousness slid up one smooth cheek.

  I say, “I could have used the confidence boost decades ago.”

  A horn startles me, and a car swerves to pass James’s car. Driver sticks his arm out the window, gives James the finger.

  Does Detective Mahoney have a cop ego? Will he chase the Finger Giver down, humiliate him, and write a ticket?

  James smiles at me, unruffled, unfazed. He rakes his hand through his hair. “Yeah, well, I was a self-conscious teenager myself. And, to be fair and honest, I had a crush on half of the girls in school. At sixteen, sweaty hands were a turn-on.”

  “Sweaty hands?”

  “When I recognized you this morning, I reverted to that hormone-charged boy for a few seconds.”

  “Huh.”

  “What?”

  “You’re a detective. You’re not supposed to get easily flustered.”

  He bites his lip, sexy, and says casually, “Who’s watching your kids?”

  His question obliterates the sexy lip-biting thing. I roll my eyes. Jesus. Once a parent, you can never escape judgement. “I do one lap. I’m gone for ten minutes. So if you would let me do my thing.” I turn away from him and run.

  I expect his Impala to creep into my peripheral vision or maybe pass me, but it doesn’t. Where’d he go? Is he still in park back there? There’s no way I’m turning around to check. I continue to run home, sprinting as fast as I can. Why? In case he’s watching, I want to convey the full extent of my athletic ability, of course.

  Butterflies still dancing in my stomach, I am kicking myself for ditching our conversation. For being too defensive.

  Stop. Please. Idiot. You are out of your mind. You can’t get weak-kneed over the detective who’s investigating your neighbor’s murder case, you boy-crazy, horny dumbshit.

  I’m two driveways from my house when I lurch into my cool-down walk. I’m panting hard and sweating hard, but my mind is back to cold-hearted and steady.

  Gone is the boy-doped silliness I smoked minutes ago.

  Headlights flip on between my house and my dead neighbor’s house.

  I’m pretty sure it’s his Impala. Door opens, and he gets out. He shuts the door and leans against it.

  He’s not done with you. Careful, Grace.

  As I walk toward him, cool and resolute, he lights a cigarette.

  “You’re a smoker? Who’s living in the past? My kids think smoking is like robbing a bank.”

  He laughs, letting it trail off to silence. “What I said before? I didn’t mean, well, I wasn’t judging.” He sighs and rakes his fingers through his hair again. “What I meant was, you’re divorced?”

  “Yes.”

  “Me too. For a while now. How long for you?”

  “Five months.”

  “Maybe after this investigation is over, I could take you to dinner?”

  More to the point: Maybe after I’m done investigating you for homicide, we could go on a date?

  Nate never smoked, but I’ve dated smokers and I do miss the taste of a smoker’s nicotine-and-raisin kiss. It tastes a little like home, a little like strange.

 
Careful.

  I want to say, Hell yes! But dating him would be a bad idea. Especially when I have information he wants. Information I need to keep bottled.

  I smile politely. “I don’t date divorced men.” You haven’t dated at all.

  He laughs. “But you’re divorced.”

  “I didn’t want to be. He cheated five times. Actually, he admitted to five, so it was probably fifteen.”

  “I didn’t cheat.”

  “Let me guess. When the baby came, she changed.”

  I’ve heard “she changed” so many times, said so sincerely and believed so intently. These words make my scalp prickle.

  What, she didn’t give you enough attention anymore? You poor baby, she’s got your child on her tit every two hours, she’s wearing diapers for underwear to soak up blood, and she hasn’t slept for months, she’s changed all right. How about sticking it out for a year before you jump ship? Or lightening her load by taking care of your child?

  If “When the baby came, she changed” is the most frequent line, the best line I’ve heard from a divorced man was that his ex-wife didn’t share his spiritual beliefs so he couldn’t stay married to her. In other words: bitch wouldn’t go to church and let God in so I divorced her ass.

  James flicks his cigarette into the street. “You shouldn’t make assumptions, and why my marriage failed is none of your business. So who do you date? Twenty-year-olds?” His smirk is back. He is not put off. How is he still interested? Even I find myself irritating. Oh God, I have to look disgusting. My clothes cling to my skin and I stink.

  “I haven’t dated anyone. If I did, I guess it would be guys my age, widowed.”

  His eyes widen and he laughs like a free-spirited kid. “But they could have killed their wives.”

  In my peripheral vision, I sense movement. I search the darkness. Three houses away, a pair of glowing nocturnal eyes hover near the ground. Raccoon, skunk, or cat.