The Long, Long Afternoon

by Inga Vesper

  ‘I called your number and spoke to one of your boys at the station,’ she says. ‘I just found out that Deena took away Joyce’s paintings. This fellow – Barnes was his name – told me that a woman called Deena Klintz had been murdered, and that you were at the scene.’

  Curse those rookie cops. Mick heaves a sigh. ‘Look, it really is quite upsetting. Not a good place for a lady. Why don’t you—’

  ‘Deena took Joyce’s paintings. What do you think, Detective Blanke? Does that play a role?’

  ‘This investigation is really just beginning. If you would—’

  Tears well up in her eyes and drown the steel in them. She pulls a handkerchief from her purse and closes it with a decisive snap.

  ‘The paintings,’ she says. ‘We met for class yesterday evening and Nancy mentioned that Deena and Joyce often compared their work.’

  Mick flinches. ‘There were some paintings spread out on her bed.’

  ‘May I see them? I could tell which ones are Joyce’s and which Deena’s.’

  Out of the question, Mick wants to say. But then the idea doesn’t sound so bad. Maybe the paintings are important.

  ‘I’ll get them,’ he says.

  Wilson is just vacating the place. He scans the Pontiac and its driver, and throws Mick a demented grin. ‘Nice ride, Detective.’

  Mick ignores him and opens the door. He gathers the paintings on the bed into an untidy pile. When he turns around, Genevieve Crane is standing in the doorway.

  ‘Don’t come in here,’ Mick says. But it’s too late.

  Mrs Crane steps into the lounge and looks around with a serene composure that is both admirable and frightening.

  ‘Bastards,’ she says, each syllable quiet and sharp as needle stabs. ‘Bas-tards.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Mick says. ‘But you have to get out.’

  ‘I won’t touch anything. Do you have any suspects?’

  ‘Nothing so far. A witness saw a silver car on the property last night, but that’s about it. Do you know if Deena had any enemies?’

  Mrs Crane snorts. ‘A dozen times a dozen.’

  ‘Really? Who?’

  She raises the corners of her mouth into a smile, but her eyes remain aglow with anger. ‘If by enemies you mean people that were a danger to her . . . just talk to every trucker and every traveling salesman and every goddamn drunkard who traipsed through that diner and called her a frigid slut for not accepting his paws under her skirt.’

  Mick stares at her, dumbfounded. ‘This looks like a surprise job,’ he says carefully. ‘She didn’t put up a fight. I mean, I don’t think this was some date gone wrong, or an admirer who got a little too excited—’

  Mrs Crane’s eyes shoot right through his heart. ‘The correct word for such admirers is rapists,’ she says. ‘And admiration plays little part in it. Quite the opposite, Detective.’

  Mick swallows. ‘What I mean is, it looks planned. As if the killer wanted to make her feel comfortable before . . .’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Don’t know yet.’ Mick holds out the paintings. ‘Here, what do you think?’

  Mrs Crane takes them and flicks through clunky fruit bowls and blotched rivers. She hesitates for just a moment over the painting of a pink hat and dress hanging over a chair.

  ‘Deena,’ she murmurs, and a film of moisture pulls over her eyes. ‘Poor, poor Deena.’

  Then she holds up a painting of an orchid. Only it’s not merely a painting. It is a vision of blue and purple blossoms. The leaves are swords of green, the petals are drawn with gentle brush strokes, each fade of color merely suggested, yet perfectly clear.

  ‘Joyce,’ Mrs Crane says. ‘That’s Joyce’s talent. She had a gift like Amblioni. Has, I mean.’

  Mick studies the painting carefully. He knows just as much about art as his dog knows about Danish philosophers, but he recognizes skill when he sees it. Joyce has captured the soul of an orchid. Languid and tender and bulbous.

  Mrs Crane hands him the paintings. ‘The others are Deena’s. Strange, there ought to be more from Joyce. I’ll check again at the art center.’

  ‘Appreciate it,’ Mick says. ‘I’ll let you know what we find out here.’

  As he ushers her to the door, he casts a final glance toward Deena. With her head on her arm, you could almost pretend that she’s just resting. But her thighs and hands have gone dark where they press against the floor. The medics will have a hell of a time flattening her on a gurney.

  ‘Find him,’ says Mrs Crane. ‘Find that bastard.’

  Mick nods. She looks at him a little longer, then turns on her heels and steps outside.

  He follows her. He wants to say so many things. Thank you for crying over Deena, because hell knows no one else will. Thank you for being tougher than me, for not looking away. Thank you for caring.

  But the moment passes and soon she drives off.

  He exchanges a few more words with Hodge and goes to sit in his car until the medics arrive. He leaves the doors open and waits for coolness, which will never come. And then it hits him. Sandy and Prissie and Fran. The game. It’s quarter past three. He’s missed it.

  Which means Fran won’t speak to him for the rest of the weekend. Which, in turn, means it doesn’t matter if he goes home now or stays out a little longer. And who could resist South Central on a Saturday night?

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Joyce

  I

  spend half an hour fixing my face and putting on the outfit I have chosen. I want to wear my daisy dress, but Frank says it makes me look girlish, and today is too important to be playful.

  Inside my abdomen, something cramps. It’s not the menstruation. When I came out of the bath, I found myself clean. This is something more archaic. My body has a memory of its own. These are the pains of childbirth, echoing deep inside me. A pain known by uncountable women since Eve was damned to give life to her sons in agony.

  I listen at the door of the children’s room. Lily is still sleeping. Barbara murmurs under her breath, putting her dolls through a fashion routine. I sneak into the bedroom and pull out the bag of painting materials, along with the sleepsuit I bought. I run my hands along the fabric.

  I will give it to Jimmy. For our son, I will say. The one you never met, and perhaps for another one we are still to meet. If I should be so blessed.

  My son. He would be three today. Last year, on his birthday, I numbed myself with my leftover Mornidine and lay on this bed in delirium, while Lily screamed and screamed. Eventually Nancy arrived, grabbed the children and took them God knows where. I don’t remember Frank coming home, but I recall his face when he opened the bedroom door and looked at me. He did not say anything. But he thought that I deserved this. And I did. But even the longest purgatory must come to an end.

  I have begun to sweat. The room spins. I can hear my own heartbeat. Panic surges through my body with each pulse. I deserve this. I must not—

  I cannot stand the pain in my belly, so raw and yet so soothing. I hate it and yet I want it. A limb that hurts is still alive. What has stopped hurting is truly dead.

  The Mellarils go down easy. I close my eyes and I see him. My beautiful, pearly boy. He was blue and red and white and purple. Black hair and yellow fingernails. All the colors of the rainbow. He squirmed. That is the worst of it. He squirmed and opened his eyes. He lived and then he died, I laughed and then I cried. He died, I died inside.

  My abdomen cramps and I groan. Frank says I should forget. But I cannot. I will remember every little detail. His tiny fingers opened like geranium blossoms. The curve of his upper lip was fine and lofty, just like Jimmy’s.

  I will paint him. The thought electrifies my joints. I will capture him on paper. I will present him to the world. My beautiful rainbow boy.

  When I rise, the room spins. I grab the paints. In the kitchen I fill several glasses with water. Lily’s orange-red-yellow drawing on the refrigerator catches my eye and I think again about purgatory and whether it c
ould be at all worse than the hellfire on the night my mother died.

  First, it was just one match. I lit it while crouching on the kitchen floor, my insides still burning from Daddy’s love. I did not think of anything. It simply made sense to light a match and take it to Daddy’s coat and suits, and then another and another, until the flames danced so merrily.

  I run out onto the terrace, unroll the paper and stick it to the terrace tiles with tape. Here among the geraniums I will paint him. So Jimmy will see what he would have looked like. So they all will see what a wonderful, beautiful boy I had.

  I was so alone. Oh, Frank, you will never understand how terribly alone I was. I took the pills and the pills made me numb, so I laid down and laying down made me anxious, so I got up and took other pills and walked around in waves of pain. I missed Barbara. I missed you. And all the while my baby boy kicked inside me, wanting to come out and embrace the world.

  After he was gone, silence. Silence from you and from Lucille. The same silence that surrounded my mother, the silence of the firemen and the lady from the welfare office. The silence that envelops the room when Deena shows up with a bruise or someone asks about Genevieve’s husband. It’s the silence of those who don’t want to know.

  You must have known, Frank. Oh, yes, you knew. But you never asked.

  I did wrong. I broke our happy family. I could not bear your touch, Frank, but I welcomed another’s, and that is my fault, and you have every right to be angry.

  But it wasn’t my boy’s fault. Your silence killed him. There, I said it. I will paint it into the grain of this paper. Your silence killed him, and you, Jimmy, you killed him, too. My father and my husband and my lover, they all conspired against my boy and now he is dead and I—

  Barbara is banging against the terrace door. I have locked it. I am not to be disturbed. Not this afternoon.

  His face is perfect. He is the essence of our love. Jimmy and me, coffee and tea, river and sea.

  It was not my fault. It was not my fault alone .

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Ruby

  T

  his time round, the detective has the decency to phone ahead and announce his visit, rather than just rocking up at her house like a preacher. He says he’ll meet her on Skid Row, which is good, because there’s more white folk there, and it won’t look so weird for them to talk. Mrs Estrada is listening to every word of their call from her living room, so all Ruby can answer is ‘yes’ and ‘all right’ and ‘u-huh, let’s do that’.

  When she gets back home, her heart is hammering. Maybe the detective has solved the case. She still thinks about the baby all the time. Poor little thing.

  She pushes the memory away and starts to rummage through her clothes. What do you wear when meeting a white man? Definitely not a dress. She ain’t gonna risk it. Slacks, then, and a top. But nothing too bright. She doesn’t want to look exotic, even though she loves her oranges and reds. Pa always says her and Momma shared the same appreciation of color.

  She picks out a blue church blouse and her best pair of pants, which she folds up at the ankle so they look like they’re cuffed. Then she swats her hair down with the hot comb, lathers Vaseline on her bangs and pulls her kinks into a ponytail.

  Suddenly, there is a pressure at the back of her throat. She fights the tears and pushes them under. It’s no good crying. She doesn’t even know what she’s crying over. Joseph, perhaps, or the letter from the lawyer saying the civil suit was dropped and there’d be no damages paid for Momma’s death. The fading dream of college. The tiny baby in the flowerpot, an angel now in heaven. She folds her hands and prays. Momma, if you find Joyce’s baby up there, please tell that kid I pray for him in my heart of hearts. Tell that baby he’s not alone.

  Mimi bursts into the room. ‘What are you looking like rainy weather for?’ she demands. Her eyes run over Ruby’s outfit and a grin spreads on her face. ‘Going to ask Joseph to take you back? Or is it a new fella?’

  ‘None of your beeswax.’ Ruby pushes past her sister and breezes into the living room.

  Pa is staring out the window without seeing a thing. The dreaded letter that arrived this morning is still on the kitchen table. Mimi brought it in with a smile, but as soon as Ruby saw the crisp white paper and printed address she knew it was about Momma and it would not be good.

  They’d spent their savings on a lawyer to sue over her death. Pa, still sluggish with grief, had told the city that there should be something for the girls. Hoping against hope, like you always do. And now . . .

  Pa. The sight of him standing at the window gives Ruby a pang in the chest. He looked like that after Momma died. He just stood there, staring, for days on end.

  She’s gotta stay strong for him. Let him know it’s all OK. She splashes some water over her hands and turns to him, smiling. ‘Don’t beat yourself up. We’ll appeal.’

  ‘We don’t have money to appeal.’

  ‘Mr Haney’s paying me overtime. I’ll scrape it together.’

  ‘Ruby, you shouldn’t . . .’

  He doesn’t finish the sentence. He can’t. Ruby bites her tongue and forces a smile onto her face. ‘I’m just heading out for a bit. Gonna go see the detective about some results.’

  ‘Oh.’ Pa frowns. ‘Joseph coming with you?’

  ‘Might run into him.’

  ‘You back together?’

  She shrugs and turns to leave. But then Pa walks up to her and puts his hands on her shoulders. She shrinks back. Since she’s got a job and a man, he’s stopped being affectionate. Now his hands press her into the floor with gentle weight.

  ‘He’s a good boy, that Joseph,’ Pa says. ‘But he gets too whirled up about things. They all do, those young men. And it ain’t gonna lead to nothing good. You two should make up. He needs a girl like you. Someone who can keep him grounded. Someone to anchor him.’

  Ruby tries to meet her father’s eyes and fails. It’s not that Pa is not right – he is. But her heart is singing a different tune lately. One fueled by the Haney’s dollars and the detective’s calls and Dr Futterer’s book.

  ‘Yes, Pa,’ she says, and swallows down the question that is burning on her tongue. If I’m always gonna anchor him, when is it gonna be my time to fly?

  Pa squeezes her shoulders. ‘Good luck with the detective. Don’t say the wrong thing.’

  ‘Pa, don’t worry.’

  His eyes go to the letter. ‘It’s just . . . take care.’

  Ruby grasps his hands and pushes them off her shoulders. ‘I’ll be back before you know it.’

  He gives her a queer look. ‘You just remember your momma,’ he says.

  *

  Ruby hits the street just as the sun hangs low enough to scrape the roofs. The neon signs have sprung on. The air is silver and smells of desert wind. Pa’s words burn in her heart. You just remember your momma. Well, she’s thinking about Momma every single day. And maybe Pa is right. When it comes to white folks, you cannot take anything for granted.

  Skid Row’s always teeming on a night like this. White people come here to drink in blues bars. Students and war veterans and those at the margins. Ruby settles on a bench in Pershing Square. It’s a prettyish place during the day, with trees and a fountain. Often, there are pigeons sitting on the statue of a man on a horse. But now, at night, the square is full of shadows.

  It’s not too long until Detective Blanke arrives. He pulls up to the curb and slams the car door without locking it. Ruby smirks. Could be that South Central is gonna teach you a lesson tonight, mister.

  ‘Thank you for coming,’ he says and plonks himself down on the bench. ‘I really need to talk to you.’

  ‘Did you find out what happened?’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘That Deena Klintz . . .’ Realization dawns on his face. ‘Oh, you mean what happened to the baby?’

  ‘Why? What happened to Deena Whatshername? Isn’t she the diner girl?’

  �
��You know her?’

  Ruby folds her arms. ‘She came over to Joyce’s once or twice after the women’s committee. Her and Joyce, they’d have coffee on the terrace.’ She hesitates. ‘But it’s not like I ever talked to her.’

  ‘She was killed this afternoon.’

  Her breath catches in her lungs. ‘Because of Joyce?’

  ‘I don’t know. Hell, I’ve got no friggin’ clue about this case. It’s as if . . . it’s so close, but I can’t get into their heads. These people – Frank and Deena and Mrs Ingram and Mrs Crane. And Frank’s mother.’ He groans.

  ‘The mother of all dragons.’ It slips out before Ruby can stop herself. She holds her breath and digs her fingers into her thighs. Mistake, girl. Big mistake.

  But the detective laughs. It sounds like his first laugh of the day. ‘You can say that again. She knew Joyce was pregnant. And so did Frank. But they never wondered where the baby had gone.’

  ‘Lord, how’d it get into . . . into the pot?’

  The detective’s eyes darken. It’s not often you see white people unsure of what to say. He presses his lips together and shakes his head. ‘Either they didn’t know, or they didn’t care,’ he says.

  Her throat starts to feel like she’s swallowed chewing gum. ‘They gonna trace it back to me?’

  ‘No. I buddied up with someone. The story we’re running with is that she saw you walking with the pot and took it from you to keep for Joyce.’

  ‘Who is she?’

  ‘Genevieve Crane. She heads the Sunnylakes Women’s Improvement Committee.’

  ‘The boss lady with the big car? Why’s she gonna help me?’

  ‘Because I asked her. Because she’s a woman who can be trusted.’

  Ruby says nothing more. That’s what the detective thinks. But the detective doesn’t know the women of Sunnylakes.

  A couple come out of a bar and totter toward them. At the end of the square they start yelling. The man slaps the woman, hard, and shouts, ‘You crazy whore!’

  The detective spins around, but before he can jump up another man emerges from the bar and pulls the woman in, laughing.