by K. Bromberg
“Are we done now?” I huff as I hold my hand out for the bag.
We wage a visual war on the sidewalk in front of CVS. The lights on his squad car are still flashing and lighting up his face as he looks down at my hand and then back to me. “You tell me, Emerson. Are we done yet?”
“It’s just a box of tampons.”
“Oh, this is about so much more than just a box of tampons,” he says, voice serious, eyes locked on mine. We stare at each other for a minute more, both of us wondering who will give in first. My wanting to believe the lie I tell myself that this is only about feminine hygiene products against his waiting for me to realize I’m wrong.
“May I have the bag, please?”
“Of course you can, so long as we get one thing clear.” He steps closer to me and leans in. “Nothing’s changed, Em. Don’t you remember? I can always tell when someone is lying. Especially you. That’s one thing about me that’s still the same, so it’s best you don’t forget that. Otherwise, next time will be a whole lot worse than a box of tampons you don’t need.”
I grit my teeth as he leans back, those brown eyes of his laden with humor as he places the bag in my hand. “Is that a threat, Officer?”
“No. It’s a promise.”
I glance around the quiet cul-de-sac as I step out of my cruiser. The street is a perfect picture of fictional Mayberry with its pristine cut lawns, blooming flowerbeds, tidied houses, bikes left on driveways, glimpses of swing sets above the tops of backyard fences.
Nate eyes me as we double-check the address of the house in front of us: 12662 Serenity Court. It’s tan stucco with brown trim, above average in size. A minivan is parked in the garage with the door open, and an SUV is parked behind it. The garage is clean but cluttered with toys on one side and a table saw and drill press on the other.
Normal.
But that’s the problem. Sometimes it’s the normal that’s deceptive.
Nate runs the plates while I keep an eye on our surroundings. When the check comes back clean, we exit the vehicle. I glance over to the neighboring house to the right and nod at the woman peeking out the window from behind the curtains.
“Is she the one who reported it?” Nate asks as we cautiously make our way up the driveway.
I nod to tell him yes but don’t confirm it aloud. “The caller wishes to remain anonymous.”
“Mm-hmm.”
It isn’t surprising considering the call is a 10-16—possible domestic disturbance with a minor involved.
The pathway is lined with river rocks. Interspersed into the multi-colored gray stones are some that are painted. There are a few that look like ladybugs, others have indiscernible drawings on them, and still others with words written across the top, all obviously done by a child.
For the briefest of moments, I flash back to being a kid and making fun of Emmy for painting the rocks on the side of her house. Just like a thousand other kids have done. There’s no correlation. Yet, I find it funny how she’s been gone for so long but, in the last few weeks, it’s as if she’s everywhere and there is a memory of her in everything I see.
Nate’s knock on the door is loud against the afternoon quiet. Standing about ten feet back with one hand on the butt of my gun, I wait for someone to answer, listening for the slightest sounds of distress inside the house as my eyes scan back and forth over my surroundings.
“Who is it?” a male voice asks on the other side of the door.
“Sunnyville Police Department. We’d like to speak with you for a moment,” Nate says.
“About what?”
“Just want to make sure everything is all right in there. Neighbors heard some screaming going on, so we’re going door-to-door around the cul-de-sac checking each house to make sure everything is okay,” Nate lies in perfect good-cop fashion.
“Everything’s fine here. Thanks for your concern.”
“That’s good to hear, sir, but I need you to open up so we can check for ourselves. It’s a procedural thing.”
There’s movement to the right of me that catches my eye. A blonde-haired little girl peeks over the windowsill so all I can see is from her nose up. I smile softly to try to let her know we’re here to help. She stares at me before ducking out from beneath the curtain and disappearing from sight.
“Jesus Christ,” the man on the other side of the door mutters before the deadbolt slides and the door opens about a foot. “Everything’s fine. See? Are you happy?” His voice is loaded with irritation as we get a glimpse of him for the first time. I take a mental rundown: Dark hair, blue eyes, a drip of sweat sliding down his temple. He’s wearing a dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows and tie loosened around his neck. His shirttail is untucked, and as hard as I try, I can’t get a clear view of his hands so I can see what his knuckles look like.
“Thank you, sir. Your name please?”
“Ren Davis, but people just call me Davis.”
“Thank you, Mr. Davis,” Nate says, taking a step closer and placing a hand on the door to open it a little farther.
The man grunts in disdain. “You think I’m lying?”
“No, sir,” Nate’s smile is broad and disarming. “I’d just hate to lose my job for not crossing all the T’s and dotting all the I’s, if you know what I mean?”
“Goddamn government workers,” he grumbles.
“Exactly.” Nate moves his free hand from the butt of his gun and holds up two fingers behind his back.
There are two other people he can see in the house.
“I didn’t hear any yelling.”
“I didn’t ask if you did,” Nate responds, making sure the man understands he’s on our time; we’re not on his. “May I see the rest of the people in the house?”
The man’s head startles at the request. “I’m home al—”
“I just saw a little girl run by,” Nate interrupts. “I’d like to speak with her.”
Davis exhales loudly, his irritation written all over his face before he steps back to reveal more of the scene behind him. There is a dark stain on the carpet where it looks like the plant sitting on the pony wall at his back had been knocked over and the dirt has yet to be vacuumed. From what I can see of it, the house seems clean, which makes that smear of dirt stick out.
“Keely, get over here,” he yells, feet shifting, jaw clenched. With his movement, I can see one of his knuckles has blood on it and the others look a bit red. Nate notices it as well, and he slides a glance my way as I take a step forward.
“And your wife, too, please.”
“My wife isn’t—”
“There are two cars in the driveway, sir,” Nate explains. “So I’d like to make sure she’s okay, too.”
“Was it that damn lady next door who called?” he asks. “She’s so goddamn nosy. Always getting in our business. Last year, our dog pissed on her begonias and killed them so now she’s out to get me back.”
“No phone call,” Nate says. “Like I said, we’re just going door to door and checking to make sure everyone is okay.”
Davis eyes both of us. His skepticism is etched in the lines of his face, but he shakes his head and calls back into the house. “Amelia. The police are here and want to make sure you’re okay. Can you come down here to show them you are?” He steps back. “You happy?”
“Thank you, sir,” I say, entering the conversation for the first time just as the blonde-haired girl peers out from the corner of the wall behind him. “What’s your name?” I ask softly as I kneel to get on her level.
The poor thing is scared to death. Her eyes flicker to her father and then to me and then back to her father. She waits for him to nod before she responds. “Ke-Keely.”
“Can you come here for a second, Keely?” I ask as her mother comes up behind her and places a protective and trembling hand on her shoulder. Keely looks back to her dad and waits again for him to consent before she slowly approaches the door. She reaches the threshold and just stands her hand clutching the ar
m of a worn teddy bear. There are matching smears of dirt on her cheeks that tell me she’s been wiping away tears.
Her mother comes forward also but seems much more timid than her daughter. Amelia’s hair is a mess and her red-rimmed eyes have black smudges under them from where her makeup has run. She crosses her arms over her chest to steady the shaking of her hands. Even though she remains several feet behind her husband, she never looks at him.
Alcohol or abuse.
It’s my immediate assumption. It’s definitely one of the two.
“Did you paint those super cool rocks over there?” I ask Keely, using the same soothing voice as before in an effort to earn her trust.
“Me and my mommy did.” She barely nods, but it’s enough for me to try to coax her away from her parents to make sure she is okay and not in danger.
“Can you show me which ones you did? I bet I can guess because they are so pretty like you.”
She gives me a ghost of a smile, and the fleeting glimmer of happiness in her sad eyes breaks my heart. She looks up to her dad, who does not seem to be too pleased with my request. Those are the breaks, asshole. “Can I?”
He nods at her before shooting a glance over his shoulder to his wife.
Keely wrings her hands as she takes a few steps before looking back at her dad as if she’s going to get in trouble. I gently place my hand on her shoulder to try to lead her over to where the majority of the rocks are—far enough away that I can ask her questions to make sure she’s okay. My gut tells me she is—for now—but her mom’s well-being is a whole other story.
“Which ones did you paint?” I ask as I squat back down.
She angles her head to the side and stares at me without responding, the willingness to talk to me moments before suddenly dissipating into the distance I put between her and her mother.
“I bet you painted that caterpillar there,” I say, pointing to a rock and hoping I’m correct in my guess. The corners of her mouth softly turn up and her back straightens with pride. “And that one there?” I wait for her eyes to find what I’m pointing at. “That butterfly is so pretty. Is pink your favorite color?”
She nods but still doesn’t talk.
I glance over to where Nate is talking to Mr. and Mrs. Davis, who are still standing in the doorway, and hope he is able to get Mrs. Davis alone for a moment.
“Ahh, there’s a K on that one. I bet you painted that for your name.”
“Yeah.” Her voice is so quiet, and yet, I can hear the fear woven through it.
“That’s what I thought. That definitely looks like a ten-year-old painted it.”
She laughs, but there is no sound. “I’m not ten, though.”
“How old are you then?”
“I’m five.”
“No. Way. I thought for sure you were already driving. Are you sure the car in the driveway isn’t yours?”
Another crack of a smile is followed by an adamant shake of her head.
“And that rock there . . . is that one of your teddy bear?” I ask, pointing to the rock and then her ratty bear.
She nods. “His name is Nemo.”
“Nemo?” I smile. “I thought Nemo was a fish.”
“Nemo can be whatever he wants to be.”
“You are very right.” Schooled by a five-year-old. “Do you know why my friend, Officer Nate, and I are here, Keely?”
She shakes her head, but her quick glance over my shoulder to her dad tells me she knows exactly why we are here.
“We’re here to make sure you and your mom are okay.”
“What about my dad?” Her brow furrows, and she wraps a finger in the hem of her shirt.
“Your dad, too. We’re the police. It’s our job to make sure everyone is safe at all times.”
“Hmm.” She twists her lips as if she’s getting antsy, and I know I need to get to the point. It’s only a matter of time before Mr. Davis gets smart and tells me I can’t speak to Keely without a parent present.
“If you weren’t safe, you could tell me, you know? Like if your mommy and daddy got into a fight, and it scared you, it’s okay to tell a police officer like me. They’re not going to get into trouble for it, but it would help me understand why you seem so upset.” Her eyes widen. “Were they fighting earlier?”
“Mm-hmm.” There is so much shame in her little expression that this hard-ass wants to pull her into my arms and give her a hug.
“When you get in trouble, does your mommy or daddy ever spank you?”
“Only when I’ve been really bad,” she whispers, eyes downcast to watch her fingers, which are still twisting in the hem of her shirt.
“What’s really bad?” Her eyes flash up, and then she shakes her head and bends over to pick up one of the painted rocks. She turns it over in her hand as she finds the words her innocent mind wants to use.
“When I come out of my room when they’re fighting. Or if I spill my milk.” She shrugs as if it’s not a big deal but everything else about her posture says it is. “Or if I tell anyone about how they fight.”
Fucking Christ.
“Well, I won’t tell them that you told me anything if you don’t. Okay?”
She stares at me with tears welling in her big blue eyes as she tries to figure out whether to trust what I’m saying or not. I slowly nod to reinforce what I’ve said. “Okay,” she finally whispers, her eyes looking back to where her mom is speaking to Nate with her dad lingering close by.
“Does your mom ever get in trouble with your dad?” I ask, clocking her quick intake of breath.
“My mom doesn’t spill her glass of milk.” She breaks our eye contact and looks at the rock in her hand to avoid telling me more.
“Okay. Maybe she gets in trouble for other things though, huh?”
She nods subtly and then lifts her chin in pride as if she refuses to admit her mom is weak. She has no clue that her mom putting up with this might be a sign of weakness, but it is also a sign of strength to protect her daughter from the brunt of her dad’s anger.
“Did anything happen earlier that you want to tell me about?”
“Keely? Tell the officer goodbye now,” her mom says from the doorway where she stands with Davis’s arm wrapped possessively around her shoulders.
Keely nods, her little blonde curls bouncing with the movement before she looks back to me. “I have to go now.”
It’s my turn to nod, even though every part of me is screaming to pick her up and put her in the squad car with me until I know for sure she’s safe. “Can I give you something?” I ask.
She glances at them, torn between loyalty to her parents and the safety of a police officer, before looking back to me. “’kay.”
I reach into my pocket and produce a sticker badge. It’s left over from the elementary school appearance Nate and I made earlier today, and it’s perfect. “I want to give this to you and make you a deputy officer.”
“You do?” Her eyes widen and voice escalates with awe. Her innocence and willingness to trust is so palpable it breaks my heart.
“I sure do.” I hand it to her. “I don’t give these out to just anyone, either. It’s an important job I know you can handle. This gives you the authority to call the police, dial 9-1-1 on the phone, if you ever get scared or are hurt or need help.”
She stares at the sticker for a few seconds and speaks without thinking. “What about if my mommy needs help?” Her voice is back to being so quiet that I almost don’t hear it.
“Definitely use it for that, too.”
I hold my hand out for her to shake it. She giggles for the first time, and although I welcome the sound, I loathe it at the same time. Right now, I’m going to have to let her walk back into that house without knowing anything more about what happened other than the neighbor heard yelling.
“Nice to meet you, Deputy Keely.”
She smiles again as she shakes my hand before turning on her heel and walking back to her mother, who ushers her inside and shuts the door on
us without a second glance back.
Nate turns to meet my eyes and shakes his head as we walk down the front walkway.
“She walked into the wall,” he murmurs with resignation, and I know he’s referring to a bruise the mom must have had.
“She wouldn’t give you anything else?”
“Nah,” he says as he stares at me over the cruiser’s roof. “She wouldn’t step away from him so I could ask more. What about the girl?”
I know he isn’t using names to keep the emotional distance, but for some reason, I can’t do that this time. “Keely?” I reassert. “I didn’t see any bruises, nor did she say she’d been hit. Daddy spanks her for telling anyone about mommy and daddy fighting, though. Or for spilling her milk. And probably just for breathing.”
I grit my teeth as I rein in my anger. I can’t stay detached. Not from a little girl with big blue eyes and soft blonde curls, who has most likely seen more than her fair share of adult things.
“Fucking prick.”
“If only we could get Mrs. Davis alone to talk,” I think aloud.
“We can try another time. Stop by for a well check when he’s gone. Maybe she’ll talk then.”
“Perhaps.” It isn’t good enough. “He better not lay a hand on that little girl.”
Nate eyes me for a second before nodding and sliding into the car to continue our day.
“Well, that was crap.”
I glance over to Nate as I crack the top of a Coke open and nod. “Sure was.”
“And yet, we have shit to show for it. No arrests. No nothing.”
“Makes for a long-ass day.” I take a sip as I lean back and put my feet on the desk I’m currently occupying in the squad room. “If you want twenty-four hour lights and sirens, Nate, then you should move to San Francisco. I’m sure the guys there would kill for the slower beat we have.”
“True. But I bet they’re adrenaline junkies. They wouldn’t be able to live without it.” I nod at his statement. “Speaking of which, the fun stuff always seems to happen when I’m out sick.”