She Lies Close

by Sharon Doering

  “I guess you don’t have to worry about moving now.”

  “I guess not,” I say, watching the opening credits. “One less thing to juggle. It sounds awful, but I’m relieved.”

  “Is that all you feel? Relieved?” He sounds considerate, yet methodical.

  That’s because this, right here, is an interrogation. “I don’t know. All I know about him is that he might have kidnapped a girl months ago. If that happened, he’s killed her by now. How should I feel?”

  Silence. “When did the guy down the street tell you Leland was a suspect?”

  “Recently. A week ago. Maybe two. You already asked me that when you and Ariana stopped by.”

  “Sorry, bad habit.”

  My palms are sweaty, and I’m hoping he doesn’t reach over to hold my hand because then he’ll know. I grab a handful of popcorn and hold it. I keep the remote in my other hand.

  “Do you know what happened to Ava?” I say, trying to focus on the police department’s shortcoming.

  “It’s not my case.”

  “I know, but do you?”

  “No.”

  “Do you think she’s dead?”

  He’s quiet. “Yeah.”

  “If it were my kid, I would never stop looking. What if it were your daughter? Would you stop looking?”

  “I don’t know,” he says, shaking his head thoughtfully. “I don’t think I would stop, but it’s a real mess what the families go through.” He grabs a handful of popcorn, acting nonchalant when he says, “Tell me about Lou.”

  Opening credits done, the movie begins. I hit pause. Bill Murray’s mouth hangs open. Looks like he’s going to be sick. “Haven’t you already questioned him?”

  “Yeah, but I’m interested to hear your thoughts. What did Lou think of Leland?” he says, his voice monotone and subtle, trying to slip into the shadows.

  Skin tightens and prickles along my skull. Here is a chance to direct the investigation. Here is a chance to point the finger. Lou told Leland if he so much as spoke to his daughter again, he’d slit his throat.

  But here’s the thing. I like Lou. I like that he had the nerve to get in Leland’s face and threaten him. Lou was the only person on my street bold enough to warn me about Leland. Like me, Lou is a guy who doesn’t shirk burden; he’s willing to jump in as Point Bird.

  And here’s another thing about Lou. He’s a poor male who isn’t cautious with his words. He is gruff and wears his potential for violence like a merit badge on a sash. These qualities make him vulnerable to the justice system.

  But maybe, maybe Lou actually did it. Maybe Lou killed Leland. Maybe your dream was just a dream.

  I picture the fine white sliver I tweezed from my neck. A fragment of Leland’s shattered bone. I picture myself waking at my kitchen table, holding my dad’s hammer. Which is now missing.

  Lou didn’t do it. Lou threatening Leland, that happened years ago.

  I turn to James, making eye contact. “I don’t know Lou. I just moved here and I’m busy. I don’t really know anyone on the street. Lou seems calm. Normal. Nice guy.” You should have never hit pause on Bill Murray. “How is the case going?”

  “Piss poor. I have a feeling this one’s going cold.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He angles his body towards me. “Our clearance rate is seventy-one percent for homicide, which is pretty damn good. That’s still twenty-nine percent going unsolved. Witnesses help us solve cases.” Even under the covers, such a vulnerable position, he projects confidence and good posture. His eyes are clear, honest, and energetic. “We have no witnesses, no one offering home security videos, and I don’t blame them. Who wants to go out of their way to vindicate a suspect in a child kidnapping case?”

  Thank God. My toes go cold. Giddiness grabs hold. I bite my lip so I can’t smile. I turn my gaze upon Bill Murray’s open mouth.

  “Plus,” he says, “Leland’s got no family, no advocates. And you got the crime scene, which was a total clusterfuck.”

  “Why?”

  “It rained the night of Leland’s murder, and the back door was left open.”

  Yes, it was. My head feels airy. It’s a good thing I’m sitting.

  “So you can imagine,” he says, “it was a mess. We had to call a trapper to catch a raccoon hissing under the bed. We had tracks and piss from a raccoon, cats, squirrels, maybe a fox. So many damn cats. Our DNA evidence should be processed in the next twenty-four hours, and I’m not expecting it to be extremely helpful. There are people in your neighborhood who let their cats roam. With house cats going in there,” he says, “we could have whole families’ DNA at the crime scene.”

  I can only hope. Cheers to roaming house cats and their freewheeling owners.

  His voice drops. “Animals didn’t only walk the scene, they fed on him.” His soft, somber voice gets to me.

  I close my eyes.

  A string of bloody phlegm dangles, wiggling, on his meaty lower lip. He opens his eyes, closes them.

  The murder feels more real than it has so far. Opening my eyes, I shiver to escape the coldness coming from within.

  They fed on him.

  “Was it a gunshot or a stabbing?” I venture, clinging to a chance at innocence.

  He hesitates. He’s not supposed to say. “Blunt force trauma to the head.”

  It’s like I’ve jumped into an icy pond. My hypothermic body can’t remember how to breathe. I squeeze the bedspread so tightly, my muscles cramp.

  “Plus, it was garbage night,” he says.

  I know.

  “Your yards back up to houses on a street that has no lampposts. Once the sun goes down, it’s pitch black on that street. No one would see a thing. I can see the guy dumping incriminating evidence in various garbage cans.”

  “I know.”

  “What do you mean you know?”

  “I mean, I can imagine.” I stare at the television. “I’m sorry, but I don’t want to hear about it. Forget I asked. I’m not cut out for homicide details.” I unpause the movie and stuff a handful of popcorn into my mouth.

  47

  I’VE BEEN HIDING MY PENIS

  I jolt awake not because I am well-rested, not because of the warm and gentle sunlight creeping over my bedspread, but because someone’s fingers are inside my underwear.

  I hated this when I was married to Nate. I hate it now. Anger spikes inside me, and I want to smash James’s head between my hands and say, Do you know how few times I have woken up naturally in the past eight years?

  But last night’s conversation—interrogation—regarding Leland’s investigation lingers in my head like the stink of broccoli left out overnight, and I welcome the chance to clear the rotting fumes. I roll toward him, stick my hand down his pants, and smile. “I can’t believe you slept over.”

  “Same here,” he says, a smile spreading, sleepy and wholesome, across his face.

  “I just met you,” I say.

  “Twenty-five years ago.”

  Even though I’d rather be sleeping, my body is warming to his fingers. “I should brush my teeth.”

  “You are not getting out of bed. We’ll skip kissing.”

  “Slow down. I’m getting too excited.”

  He doesn’t slow down. One of his fingers moves inside me in perfect time. I orgasm around his hand, clutching him, trapping his arm.

  “You want it so bad, don’t you?” He wraps his arm around my back and flips me onto my stomach. From behind he wiggles into me slowly and gently, but once he’s in, he’s rough. Too rough. But he’s also quick, which mostly cancels out his roughness.

  He flops beside me onto his back. I roll out of bed because my morning bladder is threatening to burst. While I’m in the bathroom I take a dangerously hot bath. Heat sucks the life from me and clears my mind. I am numb, nearly lobotomized, worry-free. I wrap myself in a towel and open the door, steam rushing past me into the bedroom. I flop onto the bed, face down.

  “Do you feel normal?” His wo
rds tumble around a smile. “You want to go to breakfast?”

  “That sounds nice, but what I’ve been wanting to ask you since you walked into my house yesterday is, can you fix my hallway closet? The hinge is busted.”

  He laughs. “You’ve been making a list for me?”

  “You have no idea. I can’t turn my brain off.”

  “Can I borrow your toothbrush first?”

  I walk to the bathroom, put the toothpaste on my toothbrush for him. He lifts an eyebrow. “Did you think I was going to use too much?”

  “Sorry, it’s habit.”

  In the mirror, he watches himself brush his teeth. I open my medicine cabinet, open a prescription bottle, and pop a capsule in my mouth.

  “What do you take?” he says, his mouth foamy, his voice garbled.

  “Adderall.” I put my mouth under the faucet and drink. In the mirror, his mouth is still foamy, but he is palming his forehead, eyes closed, shaking his head. As if he knew this was too good to be true. As if he realized I’ve been hiding my penis. “What?” I say.

  He spits. Meeting my eyes in the mirror, toothpaste coating the sides of his mouth, he says, “You take speed?”

  “Screw you. I’m forty.” I say “I’m forty” as if by forty a person is done screwing up.

  “Drug abuse doesn’t discriminate by age.”

  “Thank you, Public Service Announcement.” God, he really is a boy scout. I would laugh if I weren’t so insecure. Feeling defensive, I say, “I’m not some college kid trying to stay awake for days.”

  “Do you know what meth does to you?”

  “Come on. It’s not meth. It’s the extended release capsule version. I’m not snorting it.”

  “Amphetamines can cause heart attacks and induce paranoia and psychosis.”

  Psychosis? No shit. I knew the cardio risk, obviously. I can feel my heartbeat quicken. Never heard about psychosis.

  “Well,” I say, “every medication has risks.”

  “Incredibly addictive stuff and classified as a Schedule Two controlled substance.”

  I laugh. “Words only a cop says.”

  He sighs, almost smiles. “How long have you been on them?”

  “Since Wyatt was two.”

  “Hm.”

  Do not let him shame you. Do not hold his ignorance against him.

  He has no idea this drug helps me keep my job, my kids fed, and to drive safely.

  Also, I’ve tried everything else. After Wyatt was born, I tried rigorous exercise, no meat, no dairy, lots of coffee, no coffee, meditation, self-help books, cold showers, and hot baths. None of these alleviated the feeling of tar running through my veins and gumming up my brain.

  The phone would ring and as I would run to get it, I would repeat, Wyatt is in the bathtub Wyatt is in the bathtub. I would hang up on the telemarketer inside ten seconds and head to the sink to wash dishes, already forgetting Wyatt was in the tub.

  I frequently left the oven on overnight. Even though I would tell myself, Don’t forget about the oven. Don’t forget.

  I kept a Post-It note on the dashboard: Don’t forget the baby carrier. As in, Don’t leave the baby strapped in the carrier on the garage floor, inside the house, or inside the car.

  I fought postpartum exhaustion, depression, and guilt for two years before I turned to drugs.

  Like cowboys in a draw, James and I stare at each other in my bathroom mirror. It’s grimy with oily-finger smears and spit flecks. He sighs with his whole body. “How many times have you needed to hike your dose?”

  “Five times.” Dr. Nasir upped my dose last month.

  He hesitates, nods, then walks out of the bathroom.

  “So, what, you’re leaving now?”

  He turns toward me and gives a tired, but calm smile. “No. I’m going to fix the closet.”

  I wasn’t expecting that.

  “We’re good?” I say.

  He steps forward and kisses me on the forehead. “We’re good.”

  “What a relief, because I have been waiting for one of these sex-in-exchange-for-handyman-work relationships to fall in my lap for months.”

  He laughs and runs his fingers through his hair.

  48

  RIPPED FROM MY MOTHER’S WOMB

  James fixes the bathroom faucet handle and fiddles with the broken garbage disposal. Says he’ll pick up a new disposal over the next couple days.

  Gratitude bubbles like geysers up and down my limbs. I make him an omelet. I follow him around my house in a daze as he tightens screws, many of which have remained three turns from being fully tightened since I moved in. Nate took our beloved cordless drill and its breathtaking array of adapters.

  I make James coffee and we sit at the kitchen table, talking like old friends.

  My phone buzzes with a text. Nate.

  -Work called me in on an emergency. Can I bring the kids now?

  I want them back in my arms, I’m greedy for them, but I’m also annoyed. When he texts like this, he’s assuming I can—I should—drop everything for his job.

  -Sure, bring them now.

  I hurry James to the front door. We make out like teenagers in the foyer for a minute, then I shove him out. He trips on the outdoor mat, and we’re both laughing as he jogs to his car.

  After his unmarked car drives away, I sit on the couch and gaze out the window, butterflies flitting in my stomach. I fantasize about marrying James. I fantasize about being on his healthcare plan. I fantasize about two incomes. I fantasize about him repairing loose hinges and gurgly appliances and having sex whenever I feel out of sorts.

  Shallow, I know.

  I like James. But liking him is secondary. His attractiveness and kindness are also secondary. Having money to buy milk or pay my electric bill or fill a cavity so it doesn’t turn into a more expensive, painful root canal: these are the big things. The big things occasionally bring people to the edge of insanity or make them homeless.

  Nate’s car rolls into my driveway, and the kids pop out of the doors. They actually pop like solid bubbles of energy, their springy momentum nearly causing them to tumble and fall onto the driveway.

  Nate remains in the driver’s seat. He waves and backs out of the driveway.

  Huh. I am feeling something new toward him. An absence of anger.

  Wow. Revenge sex is grossly underrated.

  Chloe and Wyatt burst into the house, noisy and energetic, talking simultaneously about all the random moments of the weekend that crowd their minds.

  “We saw two grownups climb a tree,” Wyatt says as if he saw a dog grow wings, then fly away. “Grown men. They were geocaching.”

  “Dad says he’ll take us,” Chloe says.

  “We went to Dairy Queen,” Wyatt says.

  “I got a cone with sprinkles,” Chloe says, “and I stepped in gum!”

  “Did Daddy clean it off your shoe?”

  “Nope. Still there.” Her voice lifts in joyful, sing-song sarcasm. As if she were my middle-aged, divorced girlfriend rolling her eyes at my ex’s contemptible deed.

  Of course he didn’t. Why would he clean the gum off her shoe? He wasn’t taking her back to his place.

  She lifts her shoe to show me the gum, but loses her balance and tips back. Her head is a half-inch from banging into the doorknob when I catch her. “Mommy, I missed you so much.” She bear-hugs me and her teeth grind near my ear.

  “It smells weird in here,” Wyatt says. “Like Dad’s cologne or something.”

  “I was cleaning. I found one of Dad’s old coats. You guys hungry?”

  “Starving,” he says, dropping his bag at the front door and heading for the kitchen.

  Chloe says, “What did you do while we were gone, Momma?”

  “Missed you,” I say.

  * * *

  We have a calm afternoon of reading books, cuddling, and cleaning. We eat mac and cheese and carrot sticks for dinner while we watch Wheel of Fortune.

  Chloe is sleepy. I give her dozens of kis
ses, in her neck, on her soft cheeks, on the inner corners of her eyes, on the bottoms of her feet. She falls asleep before I tuck her blanket under her neck.

  I climb the ladder to Wyatt’s bed and heave my body over the rail. He keeps his body still and quiet while I scratch his back. He is enjoying my physical touch. He missed me.

  After a few minutes he breaks the silence. “If I scratch your back, can we do riddles on your phone?”

  “Scratch my back? This must be my lucky day.”

  We both flip over. He scratches under my bra, the most generous of gestures, and I open my Riddles app.

  “The man who made it didn’t need it. The man who bought it didn’t use it. The man who used it didn’t want it.”

  We both give up immediately and I check the answer. “Coffin.”

  He says, “That’s a good one.”

  “It is. Here’s the next. Ripped from my mother’s womb. Beaten and burned. I become a bloodthirsty killer.”

  “What’s womb?”

  “Uterus. Where a baby grows. These riddles are so morbid.”

  “What’s morbid mean?”

  “Disturbing. Gruesome. Death-related.”

  “Read it again.”

  I do. The last sentence echoes in my cavernous mind.

  I become a bloodthirsty killer.

  I don’t feel like a killer and I am the opposite of bloodthirsty. I didn’t want to do it. I don’t even feel criminal. I feel like a middle-aged, weary, scarred wolf trying her best to protect her pups. My memory of that night is both vivid and blurry, but most of all, distant.

  “I give up,” he says.

  “Me too.” I click for the answer. “Iron.”