by Inga Vesper
‘She bought watercolors, paper, brushes, erasers and so on. But we didn’t find any of that in the house. Have you seen any art supplies floating about?’
‘Nope.’ Haney’s voice is very even.
‘Does your wife like to paint?’
‘She used to. When we met. She gave it up when we had the kids. Maybe . . . she could have bought the paints for a friend.’
‘Which friend?’
‘Oh, I don’t know.’ Haney’s voice grows impatient. ‘Someone from the women’s committee. They very much enjoy art, as far as I know. There was a girl there who was friends with Joyce and didn’t have much money. Joyce sometimes helped her out with rides and such. Diane or something. I can’t remember her name.’
‘Thanks, we will look into it.’ He thinks of the skittish woman he met on his first visit to Sunnylakes. He’d bet his right arm it’s Deena.
‘You better. I’m running ragged here. I want my wife back. If you don’t find her by the end of the week, I’ll file a complaint for negligence.’
‘Sure, Mr Haney.’ Have a wonderful day, sir.
But Frank Haney has already slammed down the phone.
Mick doesn’t even get time to wipe his forehead before the phone rings again. He picks up and grunts.
A woman’s voice responds. ‘This is Florence Delawney.’
It takes him a moment to connect the dots. ‘Joyce Haney’s mother?’
‘Stepmother.’ The voice is curt and cutting. ‘Have you any news about our daughter?’
‘Nothing yet, I’m afraid,’ Mick answers. He pulls the phone across his desk and tries to lean away from the sunshine. ‘Thanks for returning my call. I’m Detective Blanke, I’m working on the case.’
‘I really don’t see how we can help you.’
‘Well, let’s start at the beginning. How old was Joyce when she came into your family?’
‘Twelve. She was a ward of the state. She had lost her parents. Bill and I decided we should do the Christian thing.’
‘You knew her family?’
‘Dear Lord, no. No, we do not associate . . . We were looking to take in a child from a disadvantaged background, but we had no prior knowledge of the family circumstances. If we did, we might have . . .’
An ominous pause ensues. Mick uses it to reach for his soda and takes a deep draft. ‘Joyce’s parents died in a fire?’
‘Yes.’
‘And was Joyce deeply affected by that?’
‘A little. Her mother was the one who started the fire. As far as I know, her mental health was . . . degraded. She tried to abscond with Joyce several times. Taking her daughter out of school, going to bars alone, letting the household go to rot . . . Joyce’s father tried to get her institutionalized. Of course, we knew nothing about the mother’s problems at the time. It only came out during confessionals we held with Joyce.’
‘Confessionals?’
‘Prayer, meditation. Reading the word of God. To make her better.’
‘Why?’
‘Mr Blanke.’ Florence Delawney clears her throat with a cough so sharp it pangs in Mick’s ear. ‘Joyce had terrible nightmares. It was the devil meddling with her brain. We decided that the word of Christ would be the best remedy. But we were never deceived. That child held a lot of secrets, and secrets are a sin.’
‘What was she like in school?’
‘Oh, clever enough. We quickly took her out of the sciences and put her into domestics. She insisted on going to college but, thank the Lord, then she met Frank.’
‘You appreciate Frank as a son-in-law?’
‘He made her a wife and mother. As Joyce was growing up . . . well, we got a little worried. With her history, she wasn’t the most attractive match.’
‘You think her mother’s mental health could have scared away suitors?’
‘That sort of thing runs in the family, doesn’t it?’ Mrs Delawney sighs. ‘And now it has come out. That’s what I always said to Bill, as soon as we learned the truth about Joyce’s parents. Blood will out, I said. We better gird our loins with the word of the Lord.’
The image of Florence Delawney’s loins flashes through Mick’s head, followed by a quiver of revulsion. He decides it’s time to take off the gloves.
‘Was there anyone in Joyce’s past who could have encouraged her to run off?’ he asks. ‘Or someone who might have something to do with her disappearance? A former boyfriend, perhaps, or a date?’
The pause on the other end of the receiver is telling. ‘We would not approve of that,’ says Mrs Delawney.
‘Sure, but was there—’
‘We run a respectful home. It was made very clear to Joyce that men would not be tolerated unless they proposed marriage.’
Mick translates this in his head. So there was a boy. A college flirtation, perhaps, or a neighborhood sweet-heart.
He finishes the soda and sets the bottle aside. The sweetness of it has made him queasy. ‘Thank you so much,’ he says. ‘You’ve definitely been really helpful. Have a wonderful day.’
Once she has hung up, he takes one look at his watch and decides to postpone the visit to Mrs Crane and her women’s committee. His own little realm of domestic bliss is waiting.
*
When he gets to the Blanke residence, dinner isn’t even started. Fran arrives a few minutes after him and patently ignores his growling stomach and his not-so-subtle hint that she could have left him something on a plate if she knew she was going to be late.
‘If you’re that hungry, Mick,’ she says, ‘you can make yourself some egg on toast.’
‘I just got home.’
‘So did I.’
‘I’m investigating a disappearance.’
‘Start investigating the stove. It’s still making that weird noise when I turn the gas flame up high.’
‘Why don’t you give me a demonstration?’
She sighs. ‘Again?’
‘Yes. And put some spaghetti on while you’re at it.’
‘Mick!’ Fran frowns. ‘You’re in a mood.’
‘I’m hungry.’
Fran rolls her eyes and disappears into the kitchen. Mick follows, his stomach gurgling. He demonstratively flings open the refrigerator door and reaches for a glass of pickles. But Fran has eyes in the back of her head.
‘Don’t you dare touch those.’
‘What? Why?’
‘They’re for Saturday.’
He puts the pickles back and cuts himself a few slices of cheese while Fran putters about with the pans. She prattles on about the Santa Monica Women’s Improvement Committee meeting. Eventually, she has to breathe, and Mick moves in before she can continue.
‘So,’ he asks, ‘what sort of stuff do you talk about with the ladies?’
‘Oh, everything. The woman’s role in the home, recipes, childcare, husbands . . .’ She gives him a meaningful look.
‘And health care?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Like, birth and things. Pregnancy.’
Fran blushes. ‘It’s a bit past that for me.’
‘But the younger women . . .’
‘It comes up, yes. The question of when to have children. And, you know, how not to.’
Oh, yes. That’s exactly what he’s getting at. ‘What’s the general advice?’
‘Mick.’ Fran looks aghast. ‘Why do you need to know about that?’
‘Right . . .’
‘Michael Blanke, I’ll ask you again. What do you need to know about preventing a pregnancy?’
He clocks her anger just a little too late. ‘Jeez, Fran. It’s for a case I’m working on, dammit.’
‘Mind your mouth.’
He sighs. ‘Sorry, darling. It’s been a long day.’
‘Don’t you “darling” me.’ She nods. ‘I know. It’s the Haney woman. The case is bothering you.’
Mick takes the last bite of cheese and watches Fran pour frozen peas into a pot of water. ‘You’re right. I have to find the ba
d guy, but he’s staying hidden.’
‘Because the suburbs are not your world, Mick. You’re out of your depth. This isn’t the war, where every bad guy wears a swastika.’
‘A rising sun,’ he corrects, and allows himself to think that it was never that easy.
Fran opens a can of cannelloni and tips it into a pan. The cannelloni make a slurping noise as they fall, trailing sauce. Inside Mick’s stomach, something flicks.
‘Look,’ Fran says, ‘there’s got to be something you can get your teeth into.’
‘There isn’t. My wife forgot to cook.’
‘Maybe I can go undercover for you. I’m a housewife and mother. Do you think I’d blend in?’
Mick watches her scrape sauce from the can. Her hair’s had a recent dye job and a summer of barbecues and potlucks has added a lovely little wriggle to her hips. He resists the urge to pinch it and wonders if, in a decade or so, Joyce Haney will start to go through that same transformation of middle age, her trim little figure expanded, her dreamy eyes enveloped by wrinkles. With Fran, the process seems natural, a marital act of solidarity to match his own receding hairline and achy knees. But for Joyce Haney, the image does not quite work. It’s hard to imagine her growing old.
His guts contract. Maybe she never will.
While they eat, Fran launches into the details of Saturday’s cheerleading dinner for Prissie and the art exhibition that she really must see, because simply everyone in the committee is going. Mick zones out when she starts to hint at the cost of the tickets. In his mind, he turns over her earlier words. He hates to admit it, but Fran is right. He needs someone who understands the Sunnylakes folk and their secrets. Someone who can go undercover and be neither seen nor heard.
An idea creeps into his head. Ruby Wright.
It’s mad. But then again, he’s always had a penchant for unusual methods.
Chapter Twelve
Joyce
A
fter Nancy drives off for work, I shoo the children up the driveway and struggle under the weight of the bag. What a face Frank would make if he knew. I haven’t bought any of the things we need. No corn flakes, no rice, no steaks for dinner. Instead, I’ve spent my budget on colors. Wonderful, beautiful colors.
I stick the paints into the back of the closet where he cannot find them. A wave of guilt rushes through me. I should focus on my duties. No matter how hard I work, I never focus on my duties well enough. He will find the proof. A dusty shelf, a sticky juice puddle on the floor. A trashcan that smells of diapers.
In the kitchen, I check the children’s work. Barbara is drawing dull little houses and stick figures and flowers. But Lily does not draw yet, Lily paints. She grabs the crayons tight in her fist and lets rip. Today she’s chosen red and yellow and orange. Her jagged lines cross the page with such vigor they’ve extended onto the EZ-Wipe tablecloth, marking her domain.
I plant a kiss on her hair. Barbara looks up at me, expectantly. But Professor Summers says not to praise a child who hasn’t done good, so I ignore her and start lunch.
They don’t know how good they have it. I had no paints as a child. No kitchen table covered in EZ-Wipe. Rarely a lunch simmering on the stove. I spent my nights hiding in cupboards and under the stairs. I pestered Mommy for the scraps of cabbage and the rotten oranges she begged off the grocer’s. I ran after her when she fled into the night. I sat with her in the corridors of the shelters that took us in and the waiting rooms of nurses who mended the worst. I prayed with her in the pews of churches, where everyone heard our plight and no one lifted a finger to help.
And, of course, I followed her, demurely and with my braids knotted tight as ropes, when we returned a few days later. When the money ran out or Daddy found us, dressed in his best suit, with roses in his hands and a softness in his voice. I nodded when he asked me if I wanted to come back and I learned that a man is never wrong for long.
I broke nights appeasing Daddy, stroking his hands, gently, carefully. Sometimes it worked. Then he would sleep and not throw Mommy about until her screams made the neighbors pound on the wall. He would snore, his head on the kitchen table, and I would sit by him and not dare move for fear of waking him, until my feet froze to ice.
Of all those nights, I remember one the most. I was twelve and a bit. He did not sleep but neither did he fly into a rage. Instead, he told me he loved me.
I still don’t know how Mommy found out. I never breathed a word, and never will. My daddy had told me he loved me. That was a treasure too beautiful to share and too painful to bear. Love, love, treasure trove. But Mommy knew anyway. Because something inside me broke, and she found the shards of it in my panties. And this time she did not run.
She should have. Daddy threw her against the kitchen counter and she slowly turned white. He kept kicking regardless. Get up, get up. Get up, you stupid whore bitch cunt you’re too dumb to fuck so how dare you question me dumbo bitch how dare you tell me what I can and cannot do with my own daughter—
She never got up. Daddy threw a blanket over her and said, It’s you and me now, honey . You and me. Lemon tree. We’ll be happy as can be.
I should be upset by this, shouldn’t I? I should find myself raging and crying. But I am calm as an ocean in the sun. Because it does not matter. Nothing matters today.
I pick up Lily’s drawing. The colors dance across the page like flames.
I never told anyone the truth about my dad, and I never will. Mommy told everybody about her bruises. The district nurse and the police and the preacher.
And what good did it do her?
Chapter Thirteen
Ruby
A
ll through Thursday morning, Barbara clings like a shadow. She follows Ruby around the house, stands in doorways and by tables, always silent, sometimes sucking her thumb. Ruby tries to involve her. She hands her a cloth for the baseboards and even squirts a little soap on the bathroom tiles so Barbara can help with the mopping. But she gets no response.
It’s when she is crouching on the floor and wiping around the back of the toilet, where Mr Haney’s pee dribbles and dust bunnies gather in unholy union, that Barbara sneaks in and simply leans against Ruby’s back.
Ruby freezes. She turns around and curls her arms around the girl’s body, swallows her right up. She runs a hand over that doll hair and pats the tiny shoulders. The bones of Barbara’s spine are frail as a bird’s.
But then Mr Haney’s footsteps sound in the hallway. Ruby untangles Barbara’s arms and resumes scrubbing. Barbara takes up position next to the sink and observes. ‘Whoobie,’ she says after a while, ‘can you stay in my room?’
‘I don’t stay here, baby. I gotta go home.’
‘But can’t you stay tonight? I don’t want to be alone.’
‘You’re not alone. You got Lily and Mr . . . your daddy.’
Barbara looks at the floor. ‘I had a nightmare.’
‘Poor baby. What was it?’
‘I saw a bad thing.’
‘It was just a dream, Barbie-baby. It . . .’
She hesitates. The way Barbara is looking down – it’s not shyness or dejection. She’s scared. The girl is damn scared.
Ruby throws the cloth into the bucket with a splash and kneels down by Barbara’s side. ‘Do you want to tell me?’
‘I found Mommy’s dress,’ Barbara says.
‘In the dream?’
‘She got angry. She told me to get out. I woke up to go tell Daddy. But Daddy wasn’t home.’
‘And then what happened?’
‘I dreamed I was driving with Mommy but then she fell down and got full of dirt.’
‘It’s not real,’ Ruby says, but her stomach hums with queasiness. That’s some messed up dream for a little girl.
Barbara follows her to the kitchen and watches from the doorway as Ruby wrings out the cloth and scrubs the bucket clean. She leans against the door frame, her thumb stuck deep in her mouth. But she doesn’t come in.
*
A memory slams into Ruby’s mind and plays back like a movie. Joyce made that dress from scraps left over after she sewed one for herself, the fabric way too wild to wear in Sunnylakes. She’d wrapped herself up in it like a Roman lady. Look, Ruby, I’m a field of flowers! It had been just two months after Momma’s death. Momma would have loved that fabric, and Ruby, so tired and sore, burst into tears.
Joyce had dropped the fabric and given her a hug. Ruby had never been hugged by a white woman, but she didn’t even have time to be surprised, because Joyce told her a secret so big it bonded them forever. My mother was murdered, just like yours. She was killed by a man who thought she did not deserve to live. Don’t make my mistake and be quiet about it. You tell the world what happened to your mom.
Problem is, the world doesn’t want to listen. Just thinking of it now drives tears into Ruby’s throat. She swallows them down and breathes out slowly.
Lily shrieks with joy. Mrs Ingram laughs and gives her a kiss. Mr Haney looks up from the TV, which is playing on silent in the background, and gives them a brief, painful smile.
Then Lily points at the TV and says, ‘Mommy’.
She’s right. Joyce Haney’s face is flickering across the screen.
Mrs Ingram puts Lily down and gasps. ‘A thousand dollars. My, that’s a tidy sum.’ Then she turns around and spots Ruby. ‘I see she’s still coming in. Oh, well. If she’s keeping time . . . That reminds me, I have to head off to the office.’ She smiles at Frank. ‘Can I have Ruby for an hour or so? I’ve got so much laundry.’
‘Sure,’ says Mr Haney.
Ruby flinches. Be nice to ask her, too. Maybe she ain’t got the time to spare.
But no discussion of this ensues. Mrs Ingram walks back to her house. Ruby follows her the roundabout way, through the kitchen and the back door. Barbara, still lingering, watches her leave from underneath her eyelashes. Ruby bends down, so her face is level with the girl’s.
‘I’ll be back soon, baby,’ she says. ‘Try not to dream.’
