The Long, Long Afternoon

by Inga Vesper

  He sobs and rocks as if he is being punched by an invisible heavyweight. He hunches over and slowly slides from the chair. On the floor, he curls up and cries into his fist.

  Mick taps his fingers on the table, then switches off the tape recorder. He is not going to make sense of the man in this state. A night in the cells might calm him down. That would also give Mick time to talk to Joyce’s parents again, and to Frank Haney’s mother.

  ‘Mr Haney, I’m placing you under arrest for your suspected involvement in the death of an infant.’

  He grips Haney’s arm. But Frank Haney doesn’t move.

  He is still shaking uncontrollably.

  ‘Mr Haney, please. Get up or I’ll have to add resistance to your charge sheet.’

  ‘Out on the terrace.’ Haney’s face is the color of a handkerchief at the end of a bad winter. ‘All this time. And she was watering the flowers. Every day.’

  In the end, the boys have to drag Frank Haney to his feet and guide him to his cell. At the door, he turns to Mick. His eyes are red-rimmed and glassy, and yet oddly intense. ‘Was it . . .’ He swallows. ‘Was it a boy?’

  Mick shrugs. ‘Impossible to tell. There’s only bones left.’

  It is then that Frank Haney screams. He screams the whole station down. An animal cry, a howl that will still ring in Mick’s ears hours later, when he’s lying bed and cannot find sleep for the specter of a tiny rib cage entangled in the convolutions of his brain.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Ruby

  T

  hat night, after the detective has gone away with the tray, Mrs Lucille Haney senior calls. Everything she said that morning seems to be forgotten. Mr Haney, she says, had to go away suddenly, and Mrs Ingram can only take one child at a time, so she needs someone to mind Barbara while she goes about her business.

  Ruby has nightmares all night. She wakes up while the sunlight is still milky, her stomach filled with stones. Ain’t no good thing going back to that house. Not after everything that’s happened. But staying away is no answer, either. So she puts on her uniform and makes for the bus.

  In Sunnylakes, the mother of all dragons receives her in full empress mode. She is wearing a purple dress and purple pillbox hat with a little veil dangling over her hair. The hair itself is freshly waved and crimped. She has completed the outfit with black leather gloves, like the Nazis wear in Joseph’s comic books.

  Mrs Haney senior greets Ruby with a dog-poop stare that would win silver in the national championships. ‘I must go to Santa Monica and meet my son,’ she says. ‘I may be a while. Do the kitchen floor, the nursery and the bathroom. If you need to wash your face, use the kitchen sink. And see to it that Barbara goes down for her nap.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. Where is Barbara?’

  ‘In the garden, of course.’

  Mrs Haney senior heads out without another word and locks the front door.

  Barbara is playing on the terrace, a safe distance away from the pool. Ruby sits down on one of the pool chairs – a terrible violation – and shields her eyes from the twinkling water. In the hazy heat, she grows aware of a voice, whispering. Her mind jumps back to the presence she felt out here when she was watering the flowers. But it’s just Barbara, talking in her play.

  ‘Barbara-baby, you be a good girl,’ Barbara tells herself. ‘You wait in your room. Mommy’s going to talk to him.’

  Ruby inches a little closer. Barbara takes her baby doll and puts it behind a pool chair leg. Then she walks another doll, a long-legged plastic thing with vicious eyes and a stripy bathing suit, toward her knee. There, it meets up with a dog-eared paper boy whose head has been scribbled on violently with black pen. She lays both of them down and picks up the baby doll.

  ‘Bye, Mommy,’ she says. ‘Don’t get a boo-boo.’

  Ruby thinks of the book that arrived yesterday in the post, rerouted via Mrs Cannon. Dr Matt Futterer’s Interview Techniques for the Criminal Investigator. It came with a card from a real professor who’d wished her luck in her studies. She hid the card under her mattress, next to her college savings, and stayed up reading till 2 a.m.

  She kneels down beside Barbara and runs a hand along her back. ‘What are you playing?’ she asks.

  ‘House.’

  ‘And why is Mommy in one room and the baby in the other?’

  ‘Because they don’t want the baby.’

  ‘Really? But mommies and daddies love their babies very much.’

  ‘Mommy left the baby alone outside.’

  Ruby thinks of the little skeleton and shivers. Barbara could not possibly know about that, could she?

  Ruby picks up the paper boy and walks him over to the baby doll.

  ‘Look, Daddy’s coming back. He’s saying: “Poor, little Barbara-baby. I’m coming back and I love you very much.” Right?’

  ‘That’s not Daddy.’

  Ruby halts. Dr Futterer says you ain’t supposed to ask leading questions. Let the kids tell by themselves. So she tries to phrase it carefully. ‘If you tell me his name, I’ll play him.’

  ‘Whoobie, can I have a soda?’

  ‘Barbara, let’s play our game.’

  Barbara puts the dolls down. ‘I’m thirsty.’

  ‘Was this man here when . . . when Mommy went away? Did you see—’

  ‘I want a soda.’

  With a rustle of her petticoat, Barbara dashes into the house and flings open the refrigerator. By the time Ruby has collected the dolls, the girl has taken out a bottle and is struggling with the screw-top. Ruby takes the bottle from her hands, opens it and pours cherry soda into a cup.

  ‘Sit at the table,’ she says.

  Barbara drinks with violent little sips. Ruby gets out the mop and bucket and runs the hot water. She waits until the bucket is half full, then sets it down and pours in the King Pine. Barbara watches her, slurping loudly, her little legs dangling.

  ‘Barbara,’ Ruby tries again. ‘Do you remember last week, when I met you outside under the trees?’

  Another slurp.

  ‘Mommy told you to wait for Mrs Kettering, but she never came. Ain’t that right? What was Mommy doing?’

  ‘Where’s Lily?’

  ‘She’s with Auntie Nancy. Listen, Barbara, what was—’

  ‘I want Lily.’

  ‘You can’t go see Lily now. I asked you a question. Now you have to answer me. I—’

  ‘I want my mommy.’ Barbara throws her head back and slides off the chair. The cup tips over and unleashes a sickly pink flood over the table.

  ‘Barbara.’ Ruby jumps forward and takes the girl by the arm. ‘Now look what you’ve done.’

  ‘Mommy, Mommy. I want Lily. I want Daddy.’

  ‘They’re not here. You’re being very bad. Be quiet now—’

  ‘Mommiiiieeee.’ Barbara twists in Ruby’s grip. Ruby pulls her forward but Barbara is faster. She hurls herself back, slips and bangs her head against the corner of the chair.

  It makes a hollow sound. Barbara’s eyes grow wide. There’s a moment of stunned silence. Time freezes, and Ruby’s heart falls into empty space. Then Barbara opens her mouth and, thank the Lord Almighty, takes a big breath.

  And then she screams. Shrill and loud. Loud enough to be heard till the end of the street, and if this doesn’t send Mrs Ingram running, Ruby doesn’t know what’s what.

  She grabs Barbara’s head and presses it into her chest. ‘It’s OK, baby,’ she murmurs. ‘Barbie-baby. It’s fine. You’re good. It ain’t gonna hurt for long.’

  But Barbara writhes and kicks and hollers. Ruby pushes her away and holds her wrists with her hands. ‘Stop it, Barbara. Enough. You gotta stop yelling right now.’

  ‘Mooommiiiie!’

  The noise is deafening. It’s got to stop, or she’s done for. She grasps Barbara’s arms in one hand and smacks the little fingers. Once, twice. Harder. The third time, Barbara stops crying. She just stands and stares. Ruby sits back and exhales.

  ‘There. Wait till I tell
your daddy what a naughty—’

  ‘So that’s what goes on when the boss is away.’

  Ruby spins around. A man is standing on the terrace. A white man, with black hair and a blue shirt. The grin on his face is utterly terrifying.

  ‘Don’t mind me,’ he says, and steps into the kitchen.

  Ruby jumps up. ‘You can’t come in, sir. It’s . . . We . . .’

  ‘The old bitch is out, right? Good. Don’t worry, sweet-heart. I’m a family friend.’

  ‘No.’ Ruby shoves Barbara behind her. ‘You gotta leave.’

  ‘Or what?’

  ‘Or . . . I’ll call the police.’

  ‘Really? Funny, I was about to do the same. Don’t like to see a nigger abuse a little girl.’

  Ruby’s insides grow ice-cold. She reaches out behind her back and puts her hand on Barbara’s hair, where a bump is growing. Her brain is screaming to get away from this man. But her legs are stuck to the floor.

  ‘I wasn’t . . .’ Her voice squeaks like a sorry-ass mouse. ‘That’s not true.’

  ‘Honey, I saw what I saw.’ The man walks past her and peers into the hallway. ‘Say, Frankie-boy’s out, huh?’ He goes into the lounge and starts to open the cupboards. Two fingers on his right hand are short and stunted, as if he’s had a bad accident with a sledgehammer. ‘You know where Joyce keeps her paintings?’

  Ruby shakes her head. ‘I don’t know who you are, but you’re not welcome in this house.’

  He turns around and grins. ‘Oh, you don’t know a thing. I’m very welcome here. Friend of the family, so to speak. And I want to find Joyce as badly as her darling husband. So, think about this. I could tell Frankie what you’ve been doing to his lovely daughter. Or I could not. So, are you going to snitch, sweetheart? Because I think it’ll be best if we say no more about it, huh? We’ll pass like ships in the night.’

  Ruby picks Barbara up from the floor. The girl hangs across her chest, limp as a towel, tiny fingers digging into her skin. She tries to think of a good reply, but all she can focus on, all her mind is willing to process, is panic racing through her veins. Danger , it screams. Danger, danger, danger.

  The man chuckles. ‘So, I guess we have a deal. Now, be a good girl and tell me where Joyce put her paintings. There’s one that I want and I better get it before Frankie finds out.’

  ‘I don’t know. She ain’t doing no painting.’

  ‘Come on. You seriously never sniffed around this place?’

  Ruby backs into the hallway. He pushes past her, up the mezzanine. He smells strongly of aftershave. His slacks are freshly pressed and his hair is slicked back and shiny. He’s youngish, probably just hitting thirty. But there’s something off about him, something rancid and used-up.

  ‘Then who would know, sweetheart? Care to point me in the right direction?’

  ‘I only clean,’ Ruby says weakly. ‘I dunno.’

  ‘OK then. I think I know who to ask, anyway. Over the tracks and far away. Now, you sit tight.’

  The man beelines for the bedroom. He’s been here before, Ruby thinks. He knows what’s where. His shirt bulges at the back where it conceals something stuck in his waistband. Ruby grasps Barbara with a new surge of horror. She’s lived in South Central long enough to recognize the shape of a gun.

  Her knees buckle and she’s glad for the wall in her back. The man turns around. He takes one look at her face and smiles. He knows what she’s seen.

  ‘You know what, why don’t you come into the bedroom, sweetheart?’ he coos. ‘Can’t have a good look around with my back turned to you.’

  Ruby shakes her head.

  His smile slips. ‘Come on, move. Do as you’re told.’

  Ruby tries to answer. Go to hell, mister. You’re bluffing. I ain’t gonna get into that bedroom. Because once I get in, I’ll never get out.

  But her mouth is dry as coal dust. She shifts Barbara in her arms and walks backwards. One step, and then another.

  The man snarls. He strides toward her and grabs her arm with iron hands, the stunted fingers poking into her flesh. ‘I said move, bitch.’

  Barbara whimpers. It’s a tiny noise, but it does the trick. Something inside Ruby snaps. Hell, no, daddy-oh. You ain’t getting us that easily.

  She twists under his grip and brings her knee up fast like they do in movies, right into his jewel box. She strikes true. The man lets go and stumbles backwards. He makes a sound like a dying donkey, but then steadies himself and lunges at her.

  Ruby punches him. Her fist connects with skin and hair. It hurts. The pain comes as a surprise, shooting up her arm. But she’s dealt more pain than she’s received. The man recoils, groaning.

  Enough. She turns around and runs, fast. Holding Barbara as tight as she can, she races through the kitchen, into the garden and sprints around the house.

  As she reaches the driveway, something slams against the front door from inside. Of course. He doesn’t know it’s locked. Ruby runs toward Mrs Ingram’s house, stumbling between the trees with Barbara clasped to her body. Fleetingly, she sees a car, silver-black. The car. His car.

  She pounds against Mrs Ingram’s door and screams: ‘Open up, open. Please, Mrs Ingram. Open, please.’

  It takes an eternity of pure horror, during which she waits for the inevitable shot to ring out and splinter her skull apart. But then the door flies open and she falls inside, almost into Mrs Ingram’s arms.

  ‘There’s a man,’ she stammers. ‘A man. Joyce’s killer. I saw his car, the silver one. He broke into the house.’

  You gotta hand it to Mrs Ingram, she ain’t wasting time. She slams the door shut, ushers them into the upstairs bedroom, flings open the closet and pulls out a gun.

  Ruby shrieks at the sight of it but Mrs Ingram, lipstick shining like warpaint, grins. ‘It’s Frank’s. He gave it to me yesterday, just in case the criminal came back to the neighborhood. Well, who would have thought he’d be right?’

  And with that, she runs back downstairs.

  Ruby sets Barbara down on the bed, where her little sister is sleeping. She has to pry away each of Barbara’s fingers; they leave grooves in her skin as deep as South Sea tattoos. Then she tiptoes over to the window. The Haney house is just visible through the trees. She can see the bedroom window. But nothing stirs inside.

  Barbara begins to cry. Ruby sits down on the bed and pulls her onto her lap. While she is rocking, she looks around the room. This time, there is no sign of gentleman company, thank the Lord.

  Her eyes fall on the open closet. Mrs Ingram’s clothes are a jumble of pink and turquoise and purple, and plenty cheap as well. But there, in a dry-cleaning bag and crisp as the morning, hangs a canary-yellow dress with a tapered skirt. It looks . . . familiar.

  Ruby sets Barbara down next to her little sister and takes a look. The dress is not Mrs Ingram’s style. But it’s very beautiful.

  At that moment, the door opens and Mrs Ingram sweeps in. ‘I saw no one. He must have gone,’ she says. ‘Hey, what—’

  Her eyes lock on Ruby, who is frozen stiff, one hand on the dress. A moment passes between them, distrust and anger, and, suddenly, surrender. A sad smile crosses Mrs Ingram’s face.

  ‘Lovely dress, isn’t it?’ She pulls it out and holds it up. ‘I bought it for our exhibition on Sunday. We’re doing a little display in the library with the committee. Joyce and I were . . .’ Her voice breaks off. ‘We were both going to make a day of it. Go to town, just us, and . . . Oh, it doesn’t matter now.’

  She puts the dress back and her face hardens. ‘You get yourself home, now,’ she says. ‘I have to get ready. I’ll tell Lucille what happened once she comes back.’

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Mick

  ‘O

  n Saturday morning, Mick is in the office, in an attempt to get away from Fran’s incessant party preparations. He rings Dr Morton first thing. Their conversation is short but insightful. After hearing about Mick’s conversation with Mrs Crane, he admits to prescribing
a few things here and there to help the ladies of Sunnylakes through their day. His alibi checks out. Joyce Haney, Dr Morton says, came to him to deal with her mood swings.

  ‘She had previously been diagnosed with low moods and lack of enthusiasm for marital relations,’ he explains to Mick. ‘I continued the medications she brought with her from Philadelphia.’

  Apparently, these worked well, until about three weeks before her disappearance. All of a sudden her husband, dear Frankie the Magnificent, complained about anxiety and nervousness in his wife. So Dr Morton, always concerned about the marriages of Sunnylakes, topped up her usual subscriptions.

  Mick draws a heart on his notepad. Three weeks. Just when her old steady showed up and churned the calm waters.

  ‘I took it to be a periodic recurrence of the old problems,’ Dr Morton says. ‘It’s quite common among homemakers. The stress of children and housework and husbands . . . you understand.’

  ‘I do,’ Mick says, and thinks of how he would feel if he were faced with another perfect day in Sunnylakes, locked up in a perfect kitchen, waiting for the perfect kids to go to bed so the perfect husband can pump another one inside you. Last night, he ripped out a Miltown ad from one of Fran’s magazines and pinned it up on his wall. A pristine housewife at the end of a productive day, graciously receiving a peck on the cheek from the man of the house, while polishing the last of the dishes. Since I take Miltown, our fights have turned to kisses.

  The names of Joyce Haney’s medicines are trailing down the pages of his notebook. Mellaril, Butisol, Methedrine, Miltown-meprobamate. They sound like the names of jungle tribes. He reads them out in the voice of a TV narrator. ‘The primitive Meprobamatians sustain their meager existence by hunting and spear-fishing, always battling for resources with the neighboring tribe of Butisol.’

  A thought comes to him. What does this shit do to you when you’re pregnant? When Fran was carrying Sandy, her hormones gave her emotional stability of a pre-school ballet dancer and lowered her intelligence to that of a plate of mash. Now, if you added some Thorizuma-whatever into the mix, what would—

  A knock on the door rips him from his thoughts. He pulls his feet off the desk and dislodges a pile of papers, which flutters to the floor.