The Long, Long Afternoon

by Inga Vesper

  Leroy wipes his forehead with his sleeve and nods toward the garage. ‘Phew, it’s hot today. Go get a soda, Rubes. There’s a good girl.’

  She turns to Joseph, but he just grins.

  The need to scream at Leroy rampages through her chest. But the words won’t come. She oughta tell Leroy to suck on it, but she can’t. He’s so self-assured, so powerful. He always takes command, and he ain’t leaving space for backtalk. It’s like getting on the bus to Sunnylakes. Only there they call her Negro, and here they call her sugar.

  A hissing noise cuts into her thoughts. She spins around. In one corner of the dark garage, a man is spray-painting the chassis of a formerly silver-black Crestliner. Red varnish has spattered all over his boiler suit. In the dim light, it looks as if he is covered in blood. He grins as she walks past.

  ‘Nice, baby,’ he yells over the hissing of the spray gun. Ruby nods politely. ‘It’s a lovely car.’

  ‘Oh, baby. I’m talking ’bout you. How ’bout you get over here and check out my tool?’

  His screeching laughter chases her away. She beelines for Old Man Toby’s little office at the back, which houses the paperwork and, most importantly, the refrigerator. While she roots around for a soda, her mind flicks back to the car. A green rear fender and that dented, silver roof. She’s seen it before. On Monday afternoon.

  Carefully, she peers past the pinups plastered on the window that provides Old Man Toby with an overview of his business. The Crestliner stares at her with empty eyes, half-submerged in gloom. Its right fender and door are now a dusky red. The color looks familiar. A rich and juicy crimson. Just like . . .

  Just like blood.

  She scans the garage. Joseph and Leroy are still outside, shadows moving slowly in the bright sunlight. The man with the spray gun has receded behind the Crestliner, working on the trunk. There is no one else around.

  Her stomach buzzing, she opens the drawers in Old Man Toby’s battered desk. There is a registration book up top, its cover frayed and greasy. She pulls it onto her lap and flicks through the jobs covering the past two weeks. There is nothing in here about a silver Crestliner. But you gotta know Old Man Toby. If this is a cash job, he won’t have it in here, in his regular orders. Joseph told her once that there’s a second book, the one the tax man doesn’t get to see.

  Two drawers down she hits gold. A diary, the name Melanie scrawled across the cover, hides between some broken screwdrivers and a couple of yellowed petty cash slips. On Friday, Old Man Toby made a note. 12 noon Crelin. Aliz, specifics. CMJ.

  Old Man Toby ain’t very smart. He’s got his own system of making notes, and once you’ve read Dr Futterer, it’s easy to crack. Crelin, that’s a Crestliner. Aliz, specifics, that’s gotta be some sort of clue to what the job entails. But CMJ? That could mean anything.

  She slips the book back into its drawer.

  An idea pops into her head. She grabs a second bottle of soda and leaves the office. This time, she sways her hips a little as she walks back. The eyes of the spray man latch on to her with unnerving inevitability.

  ‘Baby girl,’ he shouts. ‘Changed your mind about my tool?’

  ‘Looks like thirsty work.’ She approaches cautiously, the sodas clinking between her fingers. ‘What’s it you’re doing?’

  ‘Just a little beauty job. This baby needs one. Unlike you.’

  Ruby ignores his leer. ‘What’s that color? I like it. It’s so pretty.’

  The spray man pulls at his goggles and moves closer. ‘Hot red,’ he says. ‘Like your lips, sugar.’

  He lowers the spray gun. The can of color attached to it comes into view. Written on the label are the words: Alizarin Crimson.

  Aliz. Alizarin. Old Man Toby, you really ain’t very smart at all. Ruby bites her lips to kill the grin spreading on her face. She puts the soda on the silver hood and slinks away, quickly, before the spray man’s fingers can make contact with her skin.

  Outside, Leroy cracks open the bottle and takes a long draft. When he is done, he throws the bottle onto the sidewalk, where it splinters into a thousand diamonds. Old Man Toby looks up from his polishing, seems to want to say something but then leaves it.

  ‘You should come with us,’ Leroy says. ‘Our committee. We’re starting a ladies’ night.’

  ‘She ain’t going,’ says Joseph. ‘She don’t care about the movement.’

  ‘Come on.’ Leroy winks at her. ‘Tamona will be there. You’ll love it. Might even learn something.’

  Joseph puts down his screwdriver. ‘I said no.’

  Ruby spins around. ‘You talking about me?’

  ‘Ain’t like you ever listen,’ Joseph replies. ‘But Leroy, she don’t wanna go.’

  ‘Speak for yourself. I sure got something to talk about, considering—’

  Leroy laughs. But it’s a dark laugh. His eyes remain hard and piercing, like those of all the boys on the street. ‘The time for talk is over, sugar.’

  ‘Go home,’ says Joseph.

  ‘But I thought we could . . . I was gonna—’

  ‘It’s too late, Ruby.’ He doesn’t even look at her. ‘Go. Check on your pa.’

  Leroy laughs. ‘Yeah, run home, baby girl. To your papa and your cop-man. He’ll sort you out, no problem. What did you do so he’d let you go, huh? You let him taste a bit of that sugar?’

  ‘Hey, man—’ Joseph begins.

  Ruby cuts him short. ‘Shut up, Leroy. You think you’re so clever with your committee and your big talk, but you understand nothing.’

  ‘Ooh, I love it when you’re angry.’ Leroy grins, and the grin makes her shiver. ‘Why not put your money where your mouth is? Ah, here’s Tamona.’

  A cab draws up to the curbside. The door cracks open and Tamona emerges. Her endless legs unwind like she’s a ballerina and the asphalt her stage. She is wearing a blouse with a swirly pattern of reds and greens and browns. The supple, shiny material accentuates her curves. She’s stopped using relaxer. Her hair poofs out from her head in a perfect black halo. She looks powerful and real. Better than Ruby ever will, no matter how many orange hair clips she sticks onto her head.

  Joseph gapes at her as if she’s made of ice cream. It’s too much to bear. Ruby pushes past Leroy, away into the street. But Tamona is faster. She intercepts her and gives her a once-over with her large, kohl-rimmed eyes.

  ‘Hey, Ruby, fancy seeing you out and about. Shouldn’t you be working?’

  ‘At least I got work,’ Ruby mutters.

  ‘Joseph told me all about your arrest.’ Tamona smirks. ‘But you done all right, from what I hear. Got yourself a swanky little job up in them hills. I can just about picture it.’ Her voice turns higher. ‘Yes, ma’am, yes, ma’am. Always at your service.’

  Ruby balls her fists. ‘You don’t know nothing.’ She spins around to Joseph. ‘And you? Got anything to say to my face, rather than talking about me behind my back?’

  Joseph shrugs.

  ‘All right.’

  She hastens down the street, back toward Trebeck, each heartbeat a thunderclap. Waiting for the lights to change, she catches her reflection in the storefront of Wheeler’s Radio Service. Her hair looks silly. She’s tried to straighten it, but the kink has returned to her parting, making it messy and dull. Her face, warped by the glass, is puffy with tears. Joseph’s watch is weighing down her pocket, heavy as a brick.

  Chapter Thirty

  Joyce

  B

  y the time I hear the roar of a car coming up the road, my face is fixed and my hair laid. Barbara is playing nicely in her frilly blouse. Lily is still sleeping, which is perfect. I will dress her once she wakes. The last thing I need at this moment is a cranky toddler.

  The engine revs and throttles. I rush to the door and fling it open. I wish he wouldn’t roar his engine so – the neighbors might hear. But old habits die hard.

  And how hard they die. I am in his arms before the door has fallen shut. I match myself against him. His scent, the mold of his back, the
pressure of his arms. My chest roars with anguish and joy. Jimmy. He has come for me.

  ‘Let’s go,’ I say.

  He untangles himself from my embrace and laughs. ‘Baby, you’re insatiable. I thought you’d cooled off. But seems the old bastard isn’t doing it for you, huh?’

  I ignore his words and take his hands. He laughs harder and pulls me toward the bedroom. He has misunderstood.

  ‘Los Angeles,’ I say.

  Jimmy stops. ‘What?’

  ‘I want to get away. Please. Please take me.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry, baby. I will take you, all right. Come here.’

  ‘No.’ I let go of his hands. ‘Not now. Not like this anymore, in secret. Take me away from here.’

  ‘You mean . . .’ The realization dawns on his face. ‘You want to run away with me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I expected elation. I had it all planned out. We would race away from Sunnylakes and find a motel for the first few nights. We would picnic on the beach and make love to each other every night, until we found a small house to rent. I would paint again and begin selling, and perhaps exhibit in New York and then in Paris and—

  There is something guarded in his eyes. Not like I had imagined. Not at all.

  ‘I am ready,’ I proclaim. ‘I don’t want this anymore. I want—’

  You , I should say. But suddenly the clouds part from my soul and I see it. See it clearly. My art and New York and Paris.

  ‘Freedom,’ I whisper. ‘I want to be free.’

  A thin wail emerges from the nursery. Jimmy stares at me. And then he scoffs. ‘Honey, it’s not that easy.’

  ‘Yes, it is,’ I say. ‘We’ll stage it. We will pour a bit of blood in the kitchen and leave the front door open. They’ll never know I went with you.’

  ‘And have you packed anything?’ His words don’t quite reach my brain. ‘Have you got any money?’

  ‘No money. That would be suspicious. I want to make it look like an abduction.’

  ‘No way. You’re crazy.’

  It is as if my head is wrapped in a scarf. I cannot quite comprehend. But he looks angry now. Worryingly so.

  ‘No way,’ he says again. ‘Frankie-boy’ll see right through your stupid plan. He’ll get the police on my ass before you can snap your fingers. We’ll be . . . And what about the kids?’

  ‘They’ll stay with Frank. They are better off with him.’ It’s true. I am a terrible mother. Dangerous to her children.

  ‘Darling.’ Jimmy wraps his arms around me, while Lily’s screams reach fever pitch. ‘This is not the time. Come on, we— Oh, for Christ’s sake, will you shut up that little pest? She’s rubbing me raw with her screeching.’

  I step away from him. My mind is swept blank. I want to speak up. But still, I can’t.

  ‘Honestly.’ He shakes his head. ‘Thank God I don’t have kids.’

  Something inside me cracks. You do. I want to scream it in his face. He was our boy. Our son. He died, because you left us all alone.

  He looks at me softly, smiles at my anger. ‘Come on, baby, what’s with the sour face? Be a good girl.’

  ‘No,’ I reply.

  And therein lies my revolution.

  ‘No,’ I say again. ‘I . . . I don’t want to.’

  Jimmy’s face goes cold. ‘What’s that? Look, we only have an hour or so. Goddammit, Joyce.’

  ‘Goddamn you,’ I whisper. ‘Goddamn you, for what you did.’

  He swallows. His skin is very white. There is nothing recognizable in his face. But I don’t care. I am cold inside, and dead. Where there once was life, there is nothing but a gaping, aching hole.

  ‘I had your boy,’ I say. ‘We had a child. But you were not there. You left me alone. All of you. I – I can’t . . .’

  I turn and run. Past the nursery door, which is open, and where I spy Barbara’s big eyes. I run to the bedroom. Bring out the painting. Press it to my womb as if I could return him there. I grab the little sleepsuit and hide my face in the flannel. I wish you had lived. I stifle a sob. Oh, how I wish you had lived.

  Jimmy has gone to the kitchen. I follow. ‘There,’ I say, and hold the painting up so he can see. So he will see. ‘Your son.’

  He stares at the painting. His mouth opens and closes. His fingers twitch. Inside me, a little flame begins to spark. I am enjoying this. I have never made a man feel bad in my entire life. I have always striven to please. No more. It’s over.

  ‘Where . . . where is he?’ says Jimmy.

  I curl my lips around the word. ‘Dead.’ I mouth it more than I say it. It cannot be spoken out loud.

  He strikes so fast I hardly know it happens. I am lifted off my feet by the blow, the painting slips from my fingers. I fly backwards and my head slams into the kitchen sink. I fall like a sack of flour. The light dims and I see the strong shape of his back recede.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Ruby

  D

  etective Blanke phones on Sunday night to say that a suspect, the same man who broke into the Haney house, has been apprehended. Ruby lets his words ripple through her mind. Apprehended. Boy, that feels good.

  Also, Mr Haney has been released on bail. Which means that, on Monday morning, she’s back on the bus to Sunnylakes, ready to clean up for the mother of all dragons.

  While she mops the kitchen floor, voices start drifting from the living room. Mr Haney is on the phone, talking loud enough for his words to carry. ‘The police treated me like a killer. It’s defamation . . . locked up for two nights. Come on, Marv, what are our options? I want to sue.’ A pause. And then, ‘No, I’m not a suspect. A person of interest. Of course I am – it’s a dead baby. But it’s got nothing to do with me.’

  The kitchen grows very hot. Ruby leans against the mop, which has gone slippery in her hands. Mr Haney didn’t say anything to her when she arrived. He cannot know the truth about who broke the pot and let the big secret come tumbling out. But still, her heart thumps in her chest.

  She pushes the mop over the same three tiles again and again. Mr Haney’s conversation switches to the police.

  ‘Blanke,’ he says. ‘B-l-a-n-k-e. Dunno. Yankee fellow. Sounds foreign, right? Maybe a Jew. Ah, well. You let me know.’

  He hangs up and silence returns to the house.

  Ruby wipes her forehead. The air is humid and the water won’t dry. She opens the front door to let a little breeze run through the house.

  And then she sees Barbara walking down the driveway all by herself. The sunlight plays on her hair and the frills on her white socks shine like angel wings.

  Ruby drops the mop and runs outside. She catches up with Barbara halfway to Mrs Ingram’s house. ‘Barbie,’ she shouts. ‘Where are you going?’

  Barbara steps behind a tree, then peers around it, beaming. ‘I’m waiting for Mommy,’ she says.

  Ruby’s chest grows tight. ‘Mommy is out. She’s not coming home just yet.’

  ‘She’s gone to live in a different place. With him.’

  A bolt of lightning freezes Ruby into place. Dr Futterer. Help me out here.

  She kneels down to make herself less threatening and evens out her voice as if she were asking the girl to tidy her dolls. ‘Barbie-baby,’ she says, ‘who are you talking about?’

  Barbara falls into sing-song. ‘Mommy’s in a different place, a different place, a different place.’

  ‘Where?’

  And Barbara points at Mrs Ingram’s house.

  Ruby shakes her head. ‘Barbara, that’s where Auntie Nancy lives. She’s not your mommy.’

  Barbara scrapes at the tree bark with her fingernails. ‘But she’s looking after us.’

  ‘Baby-girl, don’t listen to her. Come on inside. I’ll give you a cookie.’

  Barbara squirms. ‘Is the man still there? The one who came when I banged my head?’

  Ruby’s heart skips. ‘Nah, he’s gone for good.’

  Barbara falls silent. Ruby joins her in scraping at the tree bark.
Now there are two grayish lines on the trunk, and they both have dirt under their fingernails.

  She’s burning to know if Barbara saw Jimmy McCarthy here on the day Joyce Haney disappeared. But she’s not allowed to ask straight up. Dr Futterer says that’s planting ideas in a child’s head.

  She waits a little until Barbara gets tired of scraping. ‘Last time the man came to your house, what did he do?’

  Barbara investigates the tree bark under the tiny halfmoon of her fingernail. ‘He slammed the door and Mommy said I have to be good and go to Joanie. He said Lily is a pest and Mommy said, “you left me all alone”.’

  ‘Mhm.’

  Barbara picks at the dirt. Ruby reaches out and lets her fingers run over the girl’s arm.

  ‘I promised Mommy to be good,’ Barbara says quietly.

  ‘You are being very good. You are a wonderful, brave little girl.’

  ‘But Daddy didn’t get me a present from the counter fence.’

  ‘The conference. That’s because he had to come back in a hurry. Because Mommy went away.’

  Barbara smiles. ‘I never tell a secret, Whoobie. I didn’t tell Daddy about my head.’

  Dammit, girl. You’re too good.

  ‘I have an idea, Barbara,’ Ruby says. ‘If you tell me about the man, I will tell you what happened to him. I’ll trade you a secret for a secret. OK?’

  Barbara’s tiny lips purse to a point. For a moment, she looks like her grandma. A sad sight. It’ll only be a few years until the dog-poop face will become part of her repertoire.

  ‘Is it like a spell?’ she asks.

  ‘It’s a magic promise.’

  ‘And you’re going to give me a cookie?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Barbara flinches. ‘He put a spell on mommy.’

  ‘He did?’

  ‘He’s a wizard. He came to the house and I promised Mommy not to tell. He put a spell on her and she fell to the floor and then she went out.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘She said they wouldn’t be long.’

  ‘Where did she go?’

  Barbara smiles. She gets up and twirls around, twice, thrice, light and shadow dancing on her dress. ‘Third star from the left,’ she says, ‘over the hills and far away.’