She Lies Close

by Sharon Doering

  Relax. Wyatt will buckle up. Chloe will remind him. She is a tiny, bossy Mother Goose.

  The rushing rain sounds like wind. Drops smash against leaves and pavement and cars, each with a different nuance and tone. Thunder rumbles, deep and ripe.

  I let my forehead drop against the metal screen, bowing it ever so slightly.

  If we got back together, could it be different? Could he resist strange sex?

  He had been bored with me, though, hadn’t he? I had not been intellectual enough, not impressive enough, not beautified and manicured enough, not shiny enough. He wanted to be adored. He wanted passion and desire.

  Is that true or are you making that up to justify your anger and your flaws?

  I already regret what I said to him. It lacked a punchline, it lacked teeth. What I said was so uninteresting. Forgettable. So me.

  No. He understood.

  I had been happy with plain. Plain routine. Plain conversation. Plain weekly meals. Plain sex. Oh God, how I loved plain sex! Knowing I could count on a plain and reliable orgasm. I knew every move he was going to make and I could accept it without uncertainty. I was happy with Nate, extensive work hours and all. I believed in the integrity of his work.

  How could he keep his cheating secrets and come home to me and look me in the eye when he told me a joke, when he kissed me, when he fucked me? How could he do that?

  You have a secret too. A monstrous and disgusting and violent secret. But you still look the kids in the eye and pretend you’re a good person. It’s only one teeny tiny monstrous part of you, but so many of the other parts are good.

  Maybe Nate and I are more alike than I thought.

  Do I want him back? Damn him for confusing me.

  The rain is pounding the cement, making a racket like a boat’s motor. Late afternoon sky is gray with a dangerous yellow tone which turns my mind to tornados. Lightning flickers, barely detectable against the light sky. Thunder groans.

  A pain grips my lower abdomen and I bend, my cheek, my mouth, pressing against the screen, the taste of cold rolled steel upon my lips. The pain feels menstrual. It feels like a fucking force to be reckoned with is what it feels like.

  I hope Wyatt is wearing his seat belt.

  Pain lets go, and my spine straightens.

  In front of my house a car slows and turns into my driveway, its headlights sweeping and lighting the mist. Rain blurs the shape and color of his car. Headlights wink off. He slams his car door and, as if to spite him, the rain intensifies. He is probably racing to get out of the driving rain, but I imagine he can’t wait to put his cool hands on my hot skin.

  His gray shirt clings to his frame. He opens my screen door, and the springs creak. A raindrop clings to his eyelash, another to his cheek. He smells of worms and water from a sunbaked hose. His hands grip my shoulders, but he says nothing.

  My hands are on him. My body, my heart, aches with a need more primal than sexual desire. I need to feel normal. I need to feel connected. If I don’t get his clothes off quick, I will burst into tears.

  57

  A HYSTERICAL BITCH WHO HAD NO FAITH

  Shower-moist, wrapped in a towel, and chilled, I walk into my bedroom. I need to adjust the thermostat. This house is too cold for me. I’m tired and my thighs are shaky-weak. I have gone from slutty middle-aged seductress to feeble old lady within the span of a shower.

  My bedroom is dark, but the diffuse light from my tiny bathroom behind me is sufficient. Curtains are drawn open, and James stands at the window, fully dressed and peering out at darkness. The thunderstorm passed and, in its wake, left a soothing, trickling rain.

  “You ever see that cat again?” he says.

  “No.” I shiver and go for underwear. A mild wave of nausea moves through me. I’m glad I skipped washing my hair. Wet hair would have made my chills worse.

  I hang my wet towel on a doorknob and pull my pajamas on quickly.

  Hulk’s nails click on the wood floor. She’s under my bed, circling and resettling, still anxious from the storm.

  “We should do something,” he says. “Go to the zoo.”

  “Zoo’s closed. Unless you’re talking about breaking in?” Is James one of those cops who speeds through intersections with his lights and sirens blazing just because he can? Even people who join the police force for the right reasons can fall in love with breaking rules.

  “No, I mean next weekend, when you don’t have the kids. We could go on a bike ride. Or a hot air balloon ride. I’ve always wanted to go up in a balloon.”

  I half grunt so he knows I am listening but simultaneously have no opinion. I dig in my sock drawer for my coziest pair. I sit on my bed and pull them on.

  “Well, we should do something together besides sex and fixing your house.” His tone hints that he’s joking, but there’s an underlying truth there. He may be starting to suspect this relationship might not work without the sex. He isn’t the cop who loves breaking rules. He’s the cop who is a nice guy. He’s the cop who gives people a chance to explain, who pulls over to help an old guy change his flat tire.

  I step beside him and stare out into the darkness. With the light from the bathroom behind me, the yard is fully black. Not even a tree branch reveals itself.

  “We can do something besides sex, but I should tell you something about myself: I enjoy boring.” I expressed this same sentiment to Nate hours ago, but used the word plain. I’ve gone from plain to boring surprisingly quick.

  Do I really enjoy boring?

  Yes. Yes, I do.

  Life is a constant string of fast balls. I am content when the pitcher takes a break to talk with the coach, and I get to stand there and do nothing. Chomp on my wad of gum. Scratch my balls. Sniff the air.

  I’m baffled when pregnant couples say they don’t want to find out the sex of their unborn baby because there are so few surprises in life.

  So few surprises in life?!

  Every moment is a surprise. I don’t know if I will wake up in bed to Chloe snuggling beside me, all smiles and candy breath, or if she’ll accidentally give me a titty twister with her foot or scream in my face that I ruined her day. If Wyatt will offer to help with the dishes or punch a hole in the drywall. If the person driving in the lane next to me will wave me ahead or if they’ll be high on crack and will ram into my car for the hell of it, maiming me or my children.

  I don’t even know what I will do. I am random, inconsistent, and unpredictable. Unknowable.

  It’s as if colossal power lines hum in the humidity one hundred feet over my head, and the buzzing static, the discord, saturates my skin. Something’s about to happen, some surprise, maybe good, more likely bad, and I will be stunned by it. A fish drowning in air.

  So few surprises in life?

  Really?

  “I enjoy boring too,” he says. “But I’d also like to go on a hot air balloon ride.”

  Dull pain radiates in the center of my abdomen. I hunch a little and it fades. “OK, next weekend we’ll do something. But I’m not ready to go on a hot air balloon ride until Chloe is eighteen. If we were to hit an electric wire and die, and Chloe had to navigate high school without a mom, I would never forgive myself.”

  He turns to me with wide eyes. “I have to wait fifteen years for a hot air balloon ride?”

  “Of course not. Just take someone else. Take your daughter. Then you can take me in fifteen years and you’ll be a pro and you can act all brave and chivalrous.”

  He looks out the window. “I guess.”

  “Listen, you shouldn’t stay tonight. I don’t feel great.”

  Which is true, but I’d also like to put distance between us and conversation. I don’t want him returning to entertaining the idea that I killed my neighbor. I’m also feeling sluggish and careless with my words.

  “I can’t anyway. I’m working the case. I should have already left,” he says, glancing at his watch. “Sorry if I upset you the other day. You know, when I was talking about Ariana and the case?�
� His eyes probe mine.

  To see who squirms.

  “Upset me? Nah,” I joke. “Your partner, who you’ve said is like a daughter, suspects me in a violent crime. No big deal.”

  He smiles, but it’s strange. The smile of a car salesman. “You weren’t the only one she suspected. She was thinking of neighbors. She’s smart. Because of her thinking, we have a lead.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You’re always distracting me.” His car salesman smile is making me sweat.

  “What a relief,” I say. “It will be nice to be off the hook.” The sarcasm in my voice is razor sharp. I’m struck by my viciousness. I am going out of my way to make him feel guilty because his partner suspects me of a murder I committed. Nate did the same thing when I first accused him of cheating. He acted like the notion was absurd, and that I was a hysterical bitch who had no faith.

  Not only are Nate and I more alike than I thought, I share his twisted cruelty.

  I’m dying to know about their lead. Who do they suspect? Could he be playing me? But diving into conversation is a bad idea. Like diving into the ocean, the water hides so many hazards. Better to stay dry.

  “Can you lock the door on your way out?”

  “Sure.”

  I slip underneath my covers and lie on my back. Instead of taking the hint, he lies beside me on top of the covers. He is on his back as well, staring at the ceiling. “It’s strange, though,” he says. “We’re closing in with Leland’s murder, but it’s one of those cases that I kind of don’t want to solve.”

  My cold palms sweat. “Why?”

  He hesitates. “Leland was a real creep. He harassed a few girls and women. He assaulted his grandfather’s nurse.”

  My pulse quickens. “I looked him up. I didn’t see any charges.”

  “None of his victims pressed charges. Most times, victims just want it to go away.”

  “Did you find anything in his house that belonged to a little girl?” Like, say, a broccoli Shopkin under his mattress?

  “No. I don’t think he took Ava.”

  If police searched Leland’s room and didn’t find anything under the mattress, then where did Leland put the sock, shovel, and Shopkin?

  It’s not possible you imagined those items, is it?

  No, no. I touched them. Held them. Those were real. “Bottom line,” James says, “he was an asshole who harassed girls and women. His behavior would have escalated to violence. So, you know, part of me wants to congratulate his killer. Thank the killer,” he says, his voice dimming, slowing. He’s measuring his words. “I don’t want to put this killer in prison. I think they were just trying to protect their kid.”

  No shit. Well, hey, you’re welcome!

  But, also. Panic presses down on my chest. He knows. He must know. I pull my comforter under my chin and shiver. “Please turn the thermostat to seventy-two before you leave.”

  His hand rests on my forehead. His skin is cool. “You’re sweating. You want some Tylenol?”

  I do want Tylenol, but more than that, I want him to go. If he brings me medicine, he might think up another excruciating, cryptic detail about my dead neighbor’s killer. I adore James, I do, but this whole thing is getting to be too much work. Our relationship is a slippery amalgam of compassion, ruinous secrets, and sex.

  “No thanks,” I say, panic still squeezing my chest, my lungs, my greasy heart.

  “Call if you need anything.”

  “Thank you.” Hulk’s metal tag clinks on the floor as she sprawls beside my bed. “James?” I say.

  “Yeah?”

  “Who is your lead?”

  He hesitates, then says quietly, “A neighbor.” My bed creaks, and James’s footsteps retreat softly. “Oh, and, Grace,” he says, his voice at the top of the stairs, “If police ever interview your kids? All questions stop if a kid asks to stay silent.”

  Downstairs, the front door closes gently, securely.

  He’s got to know. Why else would he say that? Maybe he’s just providing handy law enforcement tips! He can’t think you killed your neighbor. If he did, he wouldn’t keep stopping by, fucking you.

  Is Lou the neighbor they suspect?

  Lou is vulnerable, an easy target. I worry for him.

  Don’t worry. They won’t find anything linking him because he didn’t do it.

  58

  JUDGE, JURY, AND EXECUTIONER

  It’s a hot, sunny day. Maybe our last hot day. Nate drops off the kids, and I turn on the sprinkler. Within minutes, Wyatt and Chloe are in their suits, giggling as they run in the slick, wet grass, through a screen of falling water.

  I set a picnic, and the kids eat lunch at the table on the deck, bright beach towels wrapped around them and slipping off their dewy shoulders. Their eyelashes are moist and clumped together, their hair drips onto their backs; their eyes shine with ideas. They eat only for fuel, then they are back to the real work of childhood.

  I skip clean-up and sit on a lawn chair on the deck, my bare feet resting on the table. When I keep still, I have no pain at all.

  Half-eaten watermelon slices and cherry pits remain on plastic plates. A late summer wasp lands on a watermelon rind. With the buffet of sweetness, I doubt it’ll bother me.

  Chloe bends over and aims her butt toward the sprinkler, laughing hysterically, then running away. Wyatt is all over this butt-centric joke. He does the same thing and springs away. I consider turning on music, then veto it. The hush of water hitting grass, the kids’ ringing laughter and quiet chatter, along with the rising tick of cicadas in the trees, are a perfect symphony.

  Hulk lies on the deck in a wash of sun, half on her back, as if she has been working three shifts a day for weeks and is utterly exhausted. Her bare pink belly rises and falls in a slow, relaxed pattern. Couple of moles on her belly. Get those checked out. When you have a spare three hundred dollars.

  My phone buzzes with a text. Nate.

  -I’m sorry. No “buts” this time. I’m an asshole and I’m sorry. I’m not going to move on. I’m going to wait for you.

  I should respond, but my thoughts drift, unfocused. Later. Text him later. I breathe in the earthy scent of water from the hose and turn off my phone.

  The doorbell rings, and Hulk scurries to the screen. She barks frantically as she stares into the house toward the front door, which I left wide open to create a breeze within the house.

  James. He’s standing with his hands in his back pockets, a childish posture.

  I should scold him—I don’t want my kids to see him—but I am sun-sleepy. I stand, which sends an ache into my lower back. I grimace against it, slide the screen, walk the dark hall as my eyes adjust to the indoor lack of light, and open the front screen for him.

  “Come on in,” I say, smiling. “You want a glass of sun tea? I just made some.”

  His mouth is a hard line as he walks past me, headed to the kitchen. He is antsy and giving off a break-up vibe.

  Peace slips away from me, and anxiety checks in, chin high, back stiff, with a salute. Why does he want to break up?

  I shouldn’t have told him he has to wait fifteen years for a hot air balloon ride. I shouldn’t have exposed myself as sickly and old. I should have treated him like a shiny new boyfriend. Worn prettier underwear, more makeup. Made him a pie. Men need to feel appreciated, damn it.

  Pain stabs my lower back and I reach out to the wall. Stay still, like a statue; it will pass.

  My doctor’s office is closed today so it’s either the walk-in clinic or the emergency room. Every time I go to the walk-in clinic, I get sub-par, sleepy pseudo doctors who like to chat. Going to the ER for back pain that comes and goes seems pathetic. I don’t want to spoil the peace of this day with nagging the kids to get in the car, yelling at them to be still while we sit in the waiting room, having to give Chloe electronics so she doesn’t put her fingers on every germy thing.

  Monday. Call the doctor Monday. First thing.

  I limp down the h
all toward the kitchen. Fuck it, I’ll go on the stupid hot air balloon. If we hit a power line and I die, Nate will step up.

  “About that hot air balloon ride,” I say.

  James sets something on my kitchen counter, but what’s trapped under his palm is hidden. “You dropped Chloe’s barrette,” he says.

  “Oh, thanks. Let me peek on the kids.”

  I peer out the back screen. The kids are giggling. They moved the sprinkler near the swings, and when they swing forward, their toes and legs get wet.

  Alarms are ringing up and down my spine before my mind catches up. I’m off-balance. My ears warm and tingle as if I said something off-color at a funeral.

  Oh no. Chloe’s barrette? I’ve never been in James’s house. That means he found it—

  “Under the bedside table in Leland’s room,” he finishes my thought, accusation sharp in his voice. “A few strands of your hair are trapped in it.”

  I spin toward him and stare at what he placed on my countertop. Beside his meaty hand is a photograph of a hot pink barrette inside a plastic baggie. Beside the bagged barrette is a piece of tape, the number 4 written in Sharpie. Evidence. This is a photograph of evidence collected from Leland’s house.

  My expression of surprise and guilt must confirm any lingering suspicion he had because he says, stone-faced and cold, “I was thinking it was something he picked up at a grocery store. Some child dropped her barrette, and he picked it up, brought it home as a souvenir. I didn’t think much of it until we were in your bathroom and a bunch of these same barrettes fell out of your medicine cabinet.”

  While you were fucking me.

  His mouth opens again, but then he chews his bottom lip. He wants to say more. Instead he eyes my kitchen suspiciously, scrutinizing random junk on the countertops (chunks of Play-Doh, rotting bananas, broken crayons, a dirty sock), then he paces. Only four feet in either direction before he’s forced to turn; he’s a lion in a cage. His muscles are rigid, he keeps his arms at his sides, simultaneously intimidating and adolescent.

  Panicked, I’m on the verge of tears, on the verge of fury, on the verge of violence. I consider denial. What are you talking about, James? I bought those generic barrettes at Walmart. Leland could have gotten that barrette anywhere. Denying adamantly until the day I die. Except he didn’t come here to ask. He’s sure of himself. Why is that? Did he run his own covert DNA test equivalent to the Ziplocs of spooge stored in my refrigerator?