In the seat across the aisle, the rumpled man wearing the camouflage jacket stood, his knees crackling as he rose and stretched his arms above his head. Unsmiling, he nodded at her as he stepped into the aisle and wedged his way through the narrow bathroom door.
Jenny bent over and unzipped her father’s duffel bag, hoping to find something, anything that would help her get out of this mess. She riffled past two pairs of jeans, four shirts, underwear, a pair of dress pants that she’d never seen before, a disposable razor, deodorant and a box of condoms. Jenny recoiled. She never actually thought of her father having sex, but of course he did, with all the women who came in and out of their apartment over the years. She learned all about condoms on the school bus while eavesdropping on a conversation between two middle-school girls. “It unrolls right over it,” a girl with purple streaks in her hair and a mouth filled with braces explained to her skeptical seatmate with canary-yellow hair and eyes heavily lined with black makeup. The two girls looked up to find Jenny peeking over the seat. The two began giggling, huddled more closely together, lowered their voices and resumed their conversation, but Jenny could still hear.
Jenny pushed the box of condoms to the bottom of the bag and turned her attention to an overstuffed manila envelope that was sealed shut. She pulled it out of the duffel bag and turned it over in her hands. The envelope was wrinkled and battered and there was no writing on the outside to indicate what the contents were. Jenny was picking at the red string that was wound tightly around a small, round metal clasp at the top of the envelope when she felt someone settle in the seat next to her. Startled, Jenny looked up to find the plump man wearing khaki pants in the seat next to her. “You looked lonely back here all by yourself,” he said with a wide grin that showed a set of small, straight white teeth. Tic Tacs came to Jenny’s mind. “You hungry? I’ve got trail mix.” He produced a baggie filled with nuts, dried fruit and chocolate chips and shook it at her like she could be lured like a hungry puppy.
Jenny shook her head. “Excuse me,” she said, “I need to go to the bathroom.”
“Someone’s already in there,” the man said. “He didn’t look so good. He might be in there for a while.” Jenny looked around the bus, hoping to get someone’s attention, but the other passengers were near the front of the bus. She’d have to yell and what did she have to holler about? A man with trail mix? A pink flush had risen up the man’s neck and he leaned in closely to Jenny so that she could feel his breath on her cheek. His short, pudgy fingers released the plastic bag and it dropped heavily into her lap. Before the man could retrieve the bag and just as the man in the army jacket emerged from the bathroom Jenny stood up, causing dried cranberries and peanuts to spill to the floor.
“Jeez,” she exclaimed. “Took you long enough, Uncle Mike.” Jenny squeezed past the surprised man in the seat next to her and quickly stepped into the bathroom, slammed the door and slid the lock into place. Jenny breathed a sigh of relief. If the man in the army coat was surprised at being called uncle, he didn’t let on and she hoped that he wouldn’t tell the creepy man with the trail mix otherwise. The bathroom was tiny and dimly lit. Realizing she really did have to go to the bathroom, she set the manila envelope she was carrying carefully on the edge of the small sink, spread toilet paper around the rim of the toilet seat as her father had always told her to do. When Jenny was finished and had washed her hands, she found that she was hesitant to open the door and return to her seat, worried that the strange man was still there and that the army jacket man had told him that he wasn’t really her uncle. She could stay where she was, ensconced within the stuffy, narrow walls of the bathroom and wait until the bus stopped or return to her seat where her book bag and father’s duffel, and possibly the weird man waited for her. There was a sudden knock on the bathroom door, causing Jenny to jump and forcing her decision. Jenny slowly opened the door and found the grouchy old woman in the red-and-pink sundress waiting outside.
“Everything okay?” the woman asked. “I thought you fell in.”
“I’m okay,” Jenny murmured, ducking past her, relieved to see that the khaki man had returned to his own seat. She avoided eye contact with Uncle Mike, slid into her seat and dropped the manila envelope damp from her sweaty fingers on the chair next to her. Sensing the weight of his stare upon her, Jenny finally looked up to meet his gaze.
He leaned slightly toward her and whispered conspiratorially, “By the way, it’s Uncle Dave.” Jenny responded with a limp smile and returned her attention to the unopened envelope.
She tried to imagine what could be inside. She often played this game with wrapped birthday and Christmas presents, with unopened doors. Maybe there was a treasure map in the envelope with clues to a buried treasure, but the chance of a pirate’s booty ending up in Iowa was not a good bet. Maybe there was a wad of money inside, enough for her to buy a bus ticket so that she could get back to Benton and get her father out of jail. Someone was always bailing someone out of jail on television. She could imagine herself walking into the police station, wearing her blue-jean skirt and her best polo shirt. Soft pink and sporting an alligator emblem, she saved this shirt for the most special of occasions: school concerts, holidays, and now for bailing her father out of jail. “Here,” she would say importantly as she slapped the money down on the counter. “Billy Briard is coming with me now.” The policeman behind the counter would be impressed and quickly bring her father to her.
“If you just open it you’ll find out what’s inside,” the man in camouflage offered. Though Jenny saw the wisdom in this, she was undecided. Inside the envelope could be something awful, the evidence of a terrible crime, some apparently deadly powder that is always being sent in the mail to courthouses and important people. But, even worse, there could be nothing inside. Nothing of value anyway. Receipts or bills or boring clippings from the newspaper. She dared a look at her newly acquired Uncle Dave. He was staring expectantly at her as if saying, Just open it already. Jenny unwound the red string and pushed back the flap. Peering inside the envelope she could see that she was right on almost all counts. There was no toxic powder, but the envelope held a map, a wad of money and a stack of smaller envelopes held together with a thick rubber band.
“You want me to call someone for you?” Uncle Dave asked, wagging a cell phone toward her.
Jenny shook her head and held up her father’s phone. “I’m good. Thanks though.” Uncle Dave looked at her thoughtfully for a moment nodded and closed his eyes. Jenny pulled out the folded map of Iowa. It had been folded and unfolded so many times it looked as if it would disintegrate at any moment. “How far are we from Cedar City?” Jenny asked suddenly, struck with a wonderfully, startling idea.
Uncle Dave opened one eye. “It’s the next stop, about an hour from here.” He sat up, the narrow space between his eyes creased with worry. “You getting off there? You sure you’ve got someone meeting you? What town are you getting off at?”
“I’m getting off in Cedar City,” Jenny answered, hope rising in her chest as the bus lumbered onward.
“Who’s meeting you at the station?” Dave asked, his steadfast gaze making Jenny uncomfortable. She didn’t like lying, especially to those who were nice to her, but it had never stopped her before.
“My grandma,” Jenny said, pinning her eyes to Dave’s. The quickest way for someone to figure out you’re lying is if you look away when the hard questions are being asked. And, besides, she wasn’t really lying, not really, she rationalized, thinking of the letter from her grandmother in the lavender envelope inside her backpack.
Dave didn’t look convinced, but Jenny continued looking him in the eye until he sighed and reached for the phone she held in her hand. “Give me your phone and I’ll put my number in. If you need something, give me a call and I’ll try and help if I can.” Jenny reluctantly handed him the phone and he began punching numbers. “Don’t try and get so good at it.” At Jenny�
��s confused look, he went on. “Lying. Don’t get so good at it that you forget what’s real.” Dave handed Jenny the phone and slumped back in his seat and closed his eyes.
Chapter 7
When I arrive at the familiarly ramshackle neighborhood, I am struck at how depressingly run-down it has gotten through the years. Burnt yellow lawns are edged with rusty metal fences, windows are boarded up and the ones that are intact are covered with grungy sheets or threadbare blankets.
Before I even turn onto Madison Street, I hear the sirens behind me. I pull to the side of the road to let a police car pass. Please just be precautionary, I say to myself, hoping that help hasn’t arrived too late. I drive the final four blocks as people in the neighboring houses peek out screened windows and step out onto crumbling front steps to see what’s happening. I stop three houses away, throw the van into Park and leap out and hit Lock on my key fob. The temperature has risen in just the few minutes I’ve been driving; the oppressive air crawls heavily into my nostrils and sits like sludge in my chest. Two police cars are idling in front of the house and I rush up to the nearest officer, who has emerged from his squad car and is calmly surveying the house that looks eerily quiet, empty.
Without looking at me, the officer holds up his hand to silence me before I even speak.
“Please stay back,” he says.
“I’m Ellen Moore, the social worker. I called 911,” I say, as if this explains everything.
He raises his eyebrows, finally looking me in the face. Sweat glistens on his bald forehead, his uniform already darkened with perspiration. “Officer Stamm,” he introduces himself. “Then you probably know a lot more about what’s going on in there than I do. What’s the situation?”
I try to keep my voice composed, level, but it still shakes with fear. “Manda Haskins lives here with her two children, Kylie who is seven and Krissie is four. Kylie called me a few minutes ago and said that her mom’s boyfriend, whom Manda has a temporary restraining order against, came over last night. Kylie said that this morning he started beating up their mother, so she and her little sister locked themselves in the bathroom and called me. We got disconnected and then I called you. I’m afraid the boyfriend is done with the mom and now is going after the girls.”
I don’t have time to go into the entire all-too-familiar story of Manda Haskins’s life with Officer Stamm. That Manda is twenty-five years old but still seems to always choose the wrong man. She may have been pretty once, but now Manda looks closer to forty than twenty-five—a meth addiction will do that to you. Her face is set in a permanent scowl. Manda lost custody of Kylie and Krissie two years ago when the police stopped her van and found that she was housing a mobile meth lab inside. She swore that her boyfriend was the one who placed all the drug paraphernalia in the back. In return for testifying against the boyfriend and admitting herself into an inpatient drug treatment center, Manda avoided jail time. In foster care the two children did well and all thought that Manda had done the work. Gotten clean, gotten a job. I’d hoped for so much more for Manda and her girls, but apparently her self-improvement didn’t extend to her choice in men.
“Any weapons in the house that you know about?” Officer Stamm asks.
I shake my head. “No. I mean I don’t know. Have you been able find out what’s going on inside?”
“Not yet. We’re going to walk around the house, take a look in the windows, see if we can hear anything. Have you tried to call the kids back?” Stamm asks.
“No,” I say. “I was afraid if the phone started ringing it might lead the boyfriend to where Kylie and Krissie are hiding. Should I call now?”
“Yeah, go ahead. We’ll walk around the perimeter and see if we can hear a phone ringing. That might give us an idea of where the kids are. If the kids or the mom answer, try to find out the status of the situation and keep them on the line.” Stamm and the other officer begin to make their way around the house and I scroll through my received calls to find the number that Kylie called me from, hit Send and the phone goes directly to voice mail. Stamm looks at me over his shoulder and I shake my head in disappointment. He rotates his hand in a keep-trying gesture. I scan my phone looking for Manda’s contact information. In the back of my mind I remember that at one time she had a landline number as well as a cell phone. I locate the number, press Send and an instant later I can hear the faint trill of a phone ringing from within the house.
A woman, a neighbor I presume, sidles up next to me. “What’s going on?” she asks. I give her a cursory look. She is wearing flip-flops, flannel boxers, a tank top and holds a crusty-nosed toddler on her hip.
“I’m sorry, I can’t talk right now,” I say to her, and take two steps toward the house. The phone continues to ring and ring. “What’s going on?” the woman asks again, this time more insistently. The boy in her arms begins to giggle, a strange sound amid such a tense situation. I turn to face the woman and immediately recognize her as one my former clients, a woman whose son was removed from her home because of severe neglect. “Jade, Anthony,” I say. I give the little boy’s bare foot a squeeze and he smiles shyly back at me before burying his face in his mother’s shoulder. I lower my phone down to my side as it continues to ring, unanswered from within the house. “It’s Manda Haskins. The police are afraid that she’s got some trouble in there and are worried about her girls.”
Jade shakes her head, her dark eyes knowingly serious. “Haven’t met her new boyfriend, but I’ve seen him coming and going. Used to be Manda would be outside all the time in her front yard while the girls played. Her Kylie is real good with Anthony here. They would sit in their little pool.” She nods toward the small, round, plastic pool. A yellow duck floats aimlessly and a few Barbie dolls are submerged in the shallow, dirty water. “It’s too hot to be inside.”
“You don’t see them outside much anymore?” I ask.
“No.” Jade shifts Anthony to her other hip. “The boyfriend is over all the time and Manda won’t let the girls outside by themselves. Haven’t seen much of them the past three weeks or so...” Jade trails off and we both watch as Officer Stamm and his partner emerge from the other side of the house and make their way back toward to where we are standing.
“No answer,” I say, indicating the still-ringing phone. “Did you see anything?”
“No,” the female officer says, running a forearm across her sweaty forehead. “The house is shut down tight. Shades are drawn and the only sound is the phone ringing.”
We are silent for a moment, quietly regarding the house. I don’t see any sign of activity. “Jesus,” Stamm whispers. “It’s hotter than hell standing out here. Call for another car,” he tells the other officer, “I’m going to go knock on the front door.”
I’m vaguely aware of movements behind me. Curious onlookers and neighbors trying to see what is going on.
Jade lays a hand on my arm. “Look,” she says, and all our eyes fix upon the front of the house. “Something’s happening inside.”
There is movement behind the curtains at the front of the house and my attention returns to the Haskinses’ home. Abruptly the ringing stops and I quickly raise my cell phone to my ear. “Hello,” I say fervently. “Kylie, is that you? Are you okay?”
“Uh-huh,” the little girl whispers.
“Where are you?”
“Inside,” she whispers.
“Where at inside? Are you in the kitchen, the living room...?”
“The TV room,” she answers. Her voice is small and so scared sounding.
“Where’s Krissie?” I ask. I tilt the phone away from my ear so that Officer Stamm can hear what Kylie is saying.
“She’s still in the bathroom.”
“Good. That’s good,” I reassure her. “Where’s your mommy?”
Kylie’s voice quivers. “I don’t know. The bedroom door is locked. There was yell
ing and loud noises and then it stopped. I was afraid to knock. Should I go knock?”
“No, no, Kylie, stay right here with me,” I say in a rush, desperate to keep her on the line.
“Tell her we’re coming to the door,” Officer Stamm instructs.
I cover my hand over the phone. “Can’t I go to the door to get them? The kids know me. They won’t be afraid of me.”
Stamm shakes his head. “No. Too dangerous. Stay down here and you’ll be the first person they see when they come out. Tell them that two police officers are coming to the door.”
“Kylie, honey,” I say. “Two nice police officers are going to come to the door. You open it up for them and then they’ll be able to check on your mom, okay?” I nod at Stamm and the two officers move toward the front door.
“Okay,” Kylie answers. “Should I go back to the bathroom and get Krissie?”
“No, no. Lay the phone down but don’t hang it up. The police officers are almost to the door. Okay, Kylie, go open the door. I’m right outside waiting for you.” The front door opens a crack and a short beep indicates that I have another call coming in. I ignore it.
Shouts come from behind me, and when I turn I find that a handful of people are not watching to see what is happening in the house. They are turned in the opposite direction, their backs to the drama unfolding right in front of them. I face the house again. Stamm and the other officer cautiously enter the home, hands near their weapons. More hollering from behind me, this time urgent, frantic sounding. The commotion behind us has also caught Jade’s attention and I can tell she is torn between attending to what is happening in the home and the flurry behind us.
Little Mercies Page 4