by Inga Vesper
*
At Mrs Ingram’s, plates of dried-up food sit on the dining table. Remnants of a long-devoured dinner seethe in the oven and the sideboard is covered with tumblers. Mrs Ingram makes an off-hand gesture at it all and smiles.
‘Had a guest last night. Get that fixed up, will you?’
‘Yes, Mrs Ingram.’ Ruby clenches her fists. You said just laundry, you lying bitch.
It takes the best part of an hour to tidy everything up and wash the dishes. Mrs Ingram spends that time in the bathroom. She emerges with her lipstick redrawn and rouge spots high on her cheekbones.
‘Take the sheets down as well, Ruby,’ she says. ‘They need changing.’
With all that makeup on, Mrs Ingram looks horrid. Those bright red lips and her smile so full of teeth, like a vampire. Ruby nods politely and makes her escape upstairs.
Mrs Ingram’s bedroom smells as if it hasn’t been aired in days. It’s a sharp, cloying scent, hinting at sweaty work under sheets. Ruby pinches her nose and sighs. Cleaning up other people’s private mess is always the worst part of the job. Mr Haney’s piss spots and Mrs Ingram’s tampons. And now her funny business.
The curtains are still drawn. Ruby pulls them open and jimmies the window up. The bed covers are all over the place and the pillows are pressed flat. Both of them. Two heads slept here last night.
Ain’t none of her business, really. But what a difference there is between Mrs Ingram and Joyce Haney, who would still be slipping a dirty dish rag into the wash and scooping out the ashtray while Ruby was pressing the doorbell. Of course. Ruby always pretended not to notice, and Joyce pretended that she never lifted a finger at home. Hello, Ruby, do come in. I am sorry the house is such a mess . . .
She shakes out the blankets and picks up a stocking that is lying next to the bed. Tangled in the covers, she finds a cuff link, shaped like a tiny wheel with a white line running all around . . .
Her stomach rolls over and heat flushes across her face. It’s Mr Haney’s. She puts it under the stocking on the bedside table. Out of sight, out of mind. Ain’t seen a thing.
Next, she tackles the sheets, which are dark purple and match the lavender carpet and curtains. When she pulls them off, she finds two little smears in the center.
Nausea rushes over her. Since she’s got Joseph in her life, she knows where those smears come from. The thought of Mr Haney rolling around atop of Mrs Ingram, grunting and groaning . . . Oh, Lord, did Joyce ever know?
What if she found out? Frank and Nancy think she was oblivious, but . . .
A stab of fear pierces her heart. She drops the sheets and picks up the cuff link again. Yes, what if Joyce found out? What if she confronted her cheating husband? What if he got really, really angry and—
‘Put that down.’
Ruby shrieks. Her muscles freeze up in terror. Slowly, she opens her hand. The cuff link drops to the floor.
Mrs Ingram is standing in the doorway. She is wearing a black blazer over a flesh-colored blouse, unbuttoned just far enough to show the canyon between her breasts. Her lips part in a strange smile. Ruby snaps for air. That’s it. She’s gonna get sucked dry by a vampire woman.
But Mrs Ingram merely asks, ‘Are you done in here?’
‘Nearly, ma’am.’ Ruby exhales until her heartbeat stops pushing up her throat. ‘Just getting the sheets.’
She picks up the pile of laundry and walks toward the door. Mrs Ingram steps aside. Her eyes fall onto the white smears and then lock with Ruby’s.
The look in her eyes is . . . triumphant. She had sex last night, and she wants Ruby to know. Now she and Ruby share a secret, and that gives Mrs Ingram power. She drinks it right up through her parted vampire lips.
Ruby’s heart starts to race like a pimp’s Corvette. The carpet wobbles underneath her feet as she makes her way downstairs. It feels like walking over the crooked floor-boards at Aunt Emmeline’s house. She moves on autopilot into the kitchen, where she stuffs the sheets into the washing machine. Her hands pour in the suds and press the buttons, but her mind is a maelstrom of panic.
She doesn’t know I know who she was with. She cannot possibly know that I recognized those cuff links. Dear Lord, make that she doesn’t know. Dear Lord, who gave His only son, protect me from the sinners and hold Your hand over me, amen.
Eventually, her eyesight clears and she’s able to breathe again, careful and controlled. When she walks back into the hall, Mrs Ingram is already by the door.
‘Time to go. I haven’t got all day.’
Ruby looks her square in the face. Like Momma said, you gotta tackle the devil head-on. But all she can see in Mrs Ingram’s eyes is impatience, and that slight hint of toothache that so many white people get when they look at a Negro.
Outside, Mrs Ingram gets into her car and drives away. Ruby crosses the lawn back to the Haney house. The afternoon sun tickles her skin. She closes her eyes for a moment and lets the light dance on her eyelids. Her stomach feels just like it did when Joseph showed her how to drive in Old Man Toby’s tow truck. That pulling sensation as you accelerate; exhilarating and scary.
A sigh escapes from her chest. It’s over, and she’s OK.
And then the realization hits her like a slap to the face, followed by a flush of red-hot anger: Mrs Ingram has forgotten her pay.
*
At number 47, Mr Haney is on the phone. His voice comes flying through the living room doors, which are flung wide open. He sounds agitated. Maybe it’s about Joyce.
Ruby stands by the front door, not sure what to do. She’s gotta get paid. But disturbing Mr Haney would not be a good idea. And if she just hangs around here for much longer, someone’s gonna see her linger and call the police.
With a pang of anxiety, she slips around the house and onto the terrace. Barbara is sitting on one of the lawn chairs.
‘You’re not Mommy,’ she says by way of hello.
‘Your mommy’s coming soon.’ Pray those words will be true. Ruby looks around the terrace. Mrs Haney’s geraniums are drooping their heads. They’re getting too much sun out here. She gets the watering can and puts it under the kitchen faucet. When she walks back out onto the terrace, Mr Haney’s voice has risen.
‘Please, Mother,’ he says. ‘I can’t manage. I’ve got to go to work again on Monday. The children don’t have anyone to look after them.’
Don’t let Mrs Ingram hear that . Ruby starts pouring water and listens.
‘Yes, the help is coming in every day. You won’t have to do cleaning. Just cook for them and keep the kids away from the pool. I’ll talk to Mr Erskine, I’m sure I can leave the office early, considering the circumstance . . .’
Then he pauses. The person on the other line – presumably Grandma Haney – seems to argue quite a deal. Mr Haney makes noises like hum and aha , and finally interrupts her.
‘No, you’re being ridiculous.’ His voice grows sharper. ‘You don’t need to bring the gun. Sunnylakes is as safe as heaven, and anyway, we’ve got one. Yes . . . yes, I know, but that’s not . . . Honestly, that has nothing to do with it.’
Ruby heads into the kitchen and puts the can under the faucet again. The hiss of water drowns out the next part of the conversation. But when she steps back outside the voices are clear.
‘Mother!’ Mr Haney sounds aghast. ‘Joyce is fine. Her birth mother’s health has nothing to do with what’s happened. No . . . that was a momentary lapse of judgment. I know . . . I know, and we’ve dealt with it.’
Ruby bites her lip. Whatever that momentary lapse of judgement was, Mr Haney does not sound happy about it.
‘She is not mad,’ he says, ‘she’s missing. Look, let’s talk about it when you’re down here. I’ll pick you up.’
Ruby pours water over the geraniums until it runs out the bottom of the pot, flushing away the dead petals that lie scattered across the tiles. But Mr Haney says nothing else.
Joyce wouldn’t like this. The dry petals look like old wrapping paper for a present long
since discarded. Ruby plucks off the dead buds and sweeps the petals aside. When she is done, the geraniums are starting to lift their heads. With a little love, they might just come right up again.
Chapter Fourteen
Mick
T
raffic on the Santa Monica Freeway has come to a dead stop. The sun is beating down on Mick’s Buick, gently broiling its occupant. The police radio clipped to the dashboard promises heavy traffic all the way to the ’burbs.
Mick tugs at his collar, then pulls off his tie. He better cool off. Looking like a human spam-in-a-can is not going to go down well with the Sunnylakes Women’s Improvement Committee. Neither will the half-hour he is already running late. If only that damned bridge was being built somewhere else, preferably on the other side of the planet.
At the next junction, most of the cars make a right turn toward the mall. The road clears and Mick floors the pedal. Air streams through the open windows and blasts the sweat off his forehead. A quick check of the map confirms what he already knows. Portland Avenue is not in Sunnylakes proper, but in the downtown area, a town formerly known as Speckleton.
Mrs Crane’s house is a handsome thing with bay windows, dark green shutters and a weathervane perched on the gable. The driveway is occupied by a big, black Pontiac and several other cars are parked along the curbside. Mick leaves the Buick and saunters up to the place, bracing himself for the inevitable protestations of concern, subtle glances at his wedding ring and the heavy cloud of perfume. And secrets. Women always have secrets. He needs to find out what really goes on in this committee, and whether it might solve the puzzle of Joyce’s disappearance.
Mrs Crane opens the door, greeting him with a polite smile. ‘You are a little late, the debate has already started. Please, come right in.’
She takes him to a large lounge with a thru-way to the kitchen. Around half a dozen women are sitting on scattered chairs, listening attentively to the speaker. He recognizes Mrs Kettering, dressed in a peach number that makes her pale enough to fade, and the spent-looking girl with the bad hair. Deena Klintz.
The speaker is an older woman with a tight bun and a brown skirt suit. She stops as he enters and throws a glance at Mrs Crane. ‘A visitor?’
‘Please, Dr Steps, continue,’ Mrs Crane says.
But it’s too late. His appearance has unsettled the flock. Mrs Kettering clasps her hands. Two women with pillbox hats start whispering urgently. Deena shirks away like a weasel spotting a wolf.
‘Very well,’ Dr Steps says. She seems a little irritated. ‘As I was just illuminating, the science of home economics follows the motto that living begins with leisure. The modern kitchen must reflect this, while fostering the values of our age: efficiency, cleanliness, propriety. Look here.’ She unfolds a cardboard picture of a square kitchen with white counters all around, a large refrigerator, a freezer and a humongous six-ring gas stove, which squats in the corner, dull and dominant like a Chi-Nu tank.
‘The gauze curtains prevent the eyes from being drawn to the street. Other distractions, such as the radio and telephone, have been firmly banned to the living room. White surfaces and floors will show the smallest speck of dirt, thereby encouraging constant vigilance against germs. But that’s not all.’ Dr Steps attempts a winning smile and comes last in the competition. ‘By arranging the necessary appliances in the most effective manner, a housewife can save significant time. Tests in our laboratory found that, with the right set-up, the number of footsteps needed to prepare a chiffon cake can be reduced from one-hundred-and-seven to seventy-nine. Just imagine how this will save your pep and reduce wear on the slippers.’
Some of the women whisper in appreciating tones. Mrs Kettering is taking frantic notes, while Deena chews the crumbly lipstick off her lips. Mick glances at Mrs Crane, who is sitting very erect, her face unreadable.
Dr Steps turns toward him. ‘Now, sir, what do you think? Isn’t it incredible how the science of economics can be just as valuable in the home as in a business?’
Mick nods. The kitchen truly looks as efficient as the office of a Wall Street tax adviser. But then Joyce’s kitchen flashes into his mind. Look closer, and you’ll find a trail of blood on the tiles, padded walls bulging out and every single dinner plate smashed to pieces.
‘It’s almost frightening,’ he says.
Evidently satisfied, Dr Steps takes measure of the room. ‘Now, does anyone have questions?’
Mrs Kettering pipes up. ‘What brand is that stove?’
Dr Steps opens her mouth to answer, but Genevieve Crane raises a hand and, as if Laura Kettering did not exist, says, ‘Thank you so much for your efforts, Dr Steps. You said your motto is that living begins with leisure. Yet, I did not see much provision for leisure time in this set-up.’
‘Well.’ Dr Steps looks taken aback. ‘Of course, the kitchen is not a space to relax. The efficiency savings we project can be utilized in other household areas. At the vanity table, for example. Or while engaging children in nurturing play.’
‘Yet, historically, kitchens were the heart of the house,’ Mrs Crane continues, a little smile on her lips. ‘A space for the whole family. A source of nourishment and warmth, where women gathered to share their burden, be it physical or emotional. Does your efficient design provide at all for the kitchen’s historic purpose?’
‘Scientifically, this is an antiquated view,’ says Dr Steps and folds the cardboard picture with a snap. ‘The reason why so many women in our age are succumbing to depression is precisely because they have to endure old-fashioned kitchens with all the entailing inefficiency.’
‘Is it not, perhaps, because these women are in the kitchen in the first place?’
There is a moment of the finest silence Mick has ever encountered. Eight women are holding their breath at once.
*
Mrs Crane sees Dr Steps out. The other women start talking in hushed whispers. Laura Kettering puts her notepad away, picks up a plate of chocolate donuts and walks over to him.
Wisely, Mick asks his first question before taking a bite. ‘Tell me about your committee. What do you actually do?’
‘All sorts of things. Classes in art and domestic science. Fairs and summer parties. We also have a book club, and once a month we run a debating afternoon.’
‘Can you tell me about Joyce Haney?’
‘Oh, what a sweet girl.’ Mrs Kettering’s eyes fill with tears. She puts the plate down and motions for the other women to help themselves. Deena Klintz is the only one who does. ‘She is ever so clever. You should see her art. She’s the best of all of us.’
‘Did she work as an artist before she married?’
‘Well, I am not the best person to fill you in on that. You should talk to Deena. Her and Joyce are such good friends, of course.’ There is something in Mrs Kettering’s voice that doesn’t sit right. She lowers her voice. ‘We all used to think of Deena as . . . well, from the wrong side of the tracks. But Mrs Crane says it does not matter where you’re from, we’re all sisters of the world.’
A thought flashes through Mick’s mind. He should ask Mrs Kettering if Ruby Wright could attend the next committee meeting. That would be a nice little trial by fire for the Sunnylakes sisterhood.
‘Joyce used to pick Deena up from Crankton, for our meetings,’ Mrs Kettering continues. ‘Deena has no car.’
‘Then how did she get to the search on Tuesday?’
‘I gave her a ride.’ Mrs Crane has reappeared. ‘Do you have any news about Joyce?’
‘It’s been five days,’ Mick says carefully. ‘It’s possible that she has come to some harm.’ He gauges her reaction and finds none. ‘Do you ever discuss healthcare issues in your committee?’
‘From time to time.’
‘How about family planning?’
There is a hint of guardedness about her now. ‘Of course, children are an important part of a woman’s life. We talk about how to raise them, how to instill good manners. And, of course, the experienc
e of pregnancy and birth.’
‘What about preventing that experience?’
Mrs Kettering’s eyes widen. But before she can say anything, Mrs Crane, her voice low and cool as steel, steps so close he can smell her perfume. ‘Detective, would you care to join me in the kitchen? I think we’re out of coffee.’
He wants to make some quip about whether her kitchen is efficient enough for the purpose, but the words get stuck in his throat.
The place is huge, with bright windows and an ancient, much-scuffed kitchen table. Polish earthenware with hand-painted flowers lines the counters. The shelves are cluttered with herb jars, cookbooks and tins of tea.
Mrs Crane takes a coffee pot from a shelf and all but slams it onto the counter. She fills the kettle with water.
‘Why are you asking about such things?’
‘Joyce Haney may have been pregnant. She may have had an abortion. She went to the mall and saw Dr Morton, on your recommendation, and walked away with a whole load of pills. Can you give me an explanation?’
‘About a dozen.’ Her voice is frosty. ‘Monthly pains. Headaches. Bloating from the heat. The prospect of one long week alone, with the kids grinding on her nerves and the dust piling up.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Did you know all the women here are on drugs?’
Fortunately, Mick hasn’t got his coffee yet, otherwise he might have spat it all over her dress. ‘Drugs?’
‘Medical drugs. Doesn’t that strike you as odd? These women are perfectly taken care of. They have it all: the prettiest dresses, an endless supply of Diet Rite and the best countertop mixers money can buy. And yet they all suffer from terrible ailments. Anxiety, depression, panic attacks, hysteria . . .’
Mick wants to reply that this sounds like just about normal for most women, but he’s wise enough to swallow it.
‘And Joyce Haney?’ he asks. ‘She was on such medication?’
‘Yes.’ Mrs Crane shovels coffee powder into a filter and places it onto the pot. ‘She told me her mother had suffered from bouts of mania, and she herself had a breakdown after Barbara’s birth. The move to Sunnylakes happened, in part, to calm her nerves.’
