by Inga Vesper
‘That’s messed up.’
‘No, it’s sad.’ Ruby lays the painting next to the dress. ‘She must have missed him. She must have missed that baby something fierce.’
Joseph stares past her. His face grows pale.
‘You OK?’ she asks. ‘Joseph, what—’
Joseph raises both his hands.
Ruby’s feet turn to lead. She wants to turn around, to see what Joseph is seeing, but it is impossible.
‘Hands up,’ says Mrs Ingram.
Ruby lifts her arms over her head. When she turns, it’s like fighting a storm. Mrs Ingram is standing in the door with a gun gleaming in her outstretched hands. Her eyes sparkle with joy.
Mrs Ingram’s eyes snag on Joseph. ‘Who are you?’ She chuckles. ‘Oh, Ruby. What is this? Bring your date to work day? For a little bit of daylight robbery?’
‘This ain’t want you think,’ Ruby says, but it only makes Mrs Ingram laugh louder. Her whole body is shaking. She laughs and laughs, but the gun remains trained on both of them.
‘No, Ruby,’ she says. ‘You got it all wrong, honey. This is not what you think. I should have gotten rid of you much sooner. As soon as you saw me in her dress. You knew then, didn’t you?’
The ground trembles. Or maybe it’s Ruby’s knees, giving way like rotten wood. She stumbles backwards against Joseph.
‘I know nothing,’ she croaks. ‘Please. Just let us go.’
Next to Ruby, Joseph shifts. The fabric of the green dress rustles. With two steps, Mrs Ingram is beside him and snatching the dress to her chest. ‘Don’t touch that.’ She holds it up with one hand and shakes it out. Then she twirls side-to-side, slowly, always keeping the gun aimed true. ‘How is this? Does it look good?’
‘It’s Joyce’s.’ Ruby’s arms are beginning to get heavy. ‘Why did you take it?’
‘It was meant to be a surprise for Frank.’ Mrs Ingram’s expression is almost gentle now. ‘And for the children. They loved their mother so much, poor things. I thought they might like to see me in her clothes.’
‘You’re trying to be like her.’
‘No, darling. I’m trying to be better than her. Look at that.’ Mrs Ingram picks up the painting. ‘Joyce Haney. With the perfect hair and the lovely home and the muffins on a tray . . . and all the while she was a killer. A reckless, heartless killer. She threw a life away. A precious, lovely little boy.’
Mr Haney twitches. Mrs Ingram’s glance flies toward him, just for a moment, but her attention never leaves the gun. ‘Oh, come on, Frank. I know you are mourning her. But she had it coming. A lovely, little baby . . . Joyce can never be forgiven for what she did. I will never forgive her.’
Her eyes sparkle as she speaks. Ruby shudders. Mrs Ingram has completely, utterly blown her fuse.
Ruby swallows. Her thoughts run like a steam train – slow and sluggish, shrouded in smoke. She fights the truth, but it rolls over her regardless. Barbara’s words. She left the house. She said they wouldn’t be long. Barbara didn’t mean her mom, she meant Mrs Ingram. She did it. Mrs Ingram killed Joyce. Because she hated her and her beautiful life.
‘Now,’ says Mrs Ingram. ‘I have a wonderful idea. Ruby, come here for a minute.’
Ruby’s chest burns up in panic.
‘Just over here.’ Mrs Ingram pulls her away by her arm. Her grasp is strong as steel. She grabs a silk scarf from the pile in front of the closet, makes Ruby kneel and ties her hands to Mr Haney’s. The knots are tight; they squeeze the blood from Ruby’s hands.
‘Good,’ says Mrs Ingram. ‘Now, Frank. Don’t worry about me or the children. Your mother has taken them to the mall.’ She bends down and kisses him on the forehead. ‘You’ll have to stay here a little while longer. You understand, it needs to look right. Don’t say anything, I’ll fix up a story.’ She nods at Ruby. ‘Once I’ve been rescued, I’ll tell the police to come here. I’ll say I’ve managed to overwhelm one of them, but then was kidnapped by the other. Now, come on.’
She pulls Joseph up from the bed and puts the gun to his head. He goes limp. The sight drives a knife through Ruby’s heart. He’s so strong and tall, bigger than Mrs Ingram by any measure. And yet she’s got all the power.
They always have all the power.
Joseph throws Ruby a look that sets the room on fire. Mrs Ingram pulls him away, and the last thing she sees is the desperation in his eyes. The front door falls shut behind them. Moments later, the roar of an engine cuts the golden air. Then, all is quiet.
*
Ruby breathes – three, four, five. She cannot think. Her heart pounds so hard it drowns out Mr Haney’s muffled breathing. She tries to move her fingers, which have begun to tingle. But the knots are holding tight. Ain’t no jigging these free.
She’s got to get out of here. Joseph. If the police find him in the car with a white lady and a gun, he’s done for. That clever bitch. That vampire.
Mr Haney turns to look at her. He has the expression of a man who’s been thrown off a rocket ship. Adrift and utterly alone.
Ruby tugs at her hands some more. She’s got to work that damn knot loose. But she’s got no knife, and anyway, she—
The hair clip. She bends her head low and pushes against the scarf. The green clip is wedged tight in her curls. It’s sturdy, powerful enough to keep the kink down. The silk soon snags on it. Ruby shakes her head, slowly, and eventually hears the satisfying tear of threads. Mr Haney’s hands move as he strains against Joseph’s shoelaces. She pulls away, the scarf rips apart and she is free.
She sits back and rubs her wrists. Her fingers don’t want to move for a long time. She cries a little, just because it helps. Mr Haney makes a moaning sound, but she ignores him. Not his damn time now.
Joseph and the vampire. There’s only one man who could stop them. The detective. He’d know what to do. He’s gotta get here, and fast.
She runs downstairs, where the telephone gleams like a beacon. She tries the front door, but of course it’s locked. She’d have to climb out a window to get away from here, but then the neighbors might see and—
Ain’t no time to waste. She presses the receiver to her ear, fumbles the detective’s card from her purse and dials. A woman picks up. She sounds annoyed.
‘Santa Monica PD, Jackie speaking, how can I help?’
‘Please.’ Ruby swallows a sob. ‘I need to speak to Detective Blanke. Please.’
‘May I ask who’s calling?’
‘Can you put me through, miss? Please. It’s really important.’
‘I’m sorry,’ the woman says. ‘But the detective is not here.’
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Joyce
J
immy’s car roars away, bearing him out of my life again, and this time, it is forever. I try to hoist myself up, but the room is spinning. My head pulses, and there is blood on the tiles. From my heart. My heart is bleeding out. He has left me. Like he always does.
I need to speak to someone. Deena. She will understand. I dial with shaky fingers. Bless her, she picks up.
‘Deena,’ I say. ‘I wanted to run away with him.’
Deena’s voice is tense. ‘Joyce? Is Jimmy with you? Do you need help?’
A silver car approaches. For a moment I think it is him. But then Nancy emerges, back from her job.
‘It’s fine,’ I murmur into the receiver. ‘Nancy is here. Nancy will take care of me.’
‘Joyce, wait—’
I hang up. Nancy sees me and her jaw drops. She comes running toward me as fast as her heels will allow.
‘Joyce, darling, what happened?’ She holds my shoulders and turns me around. ‘My God, you are bleeding. Did you fall?’
‘He hit me,’ I croak. ‘I want to go to Los Angeles. I want to see Amblioni. He did not want me. He left me alone, again.’
‘Frank?’
‘No, Jimmy.’
Her face twists. She drags me into the kitchen and presses some paper towel to my head. The phone rings, but we both ignore i
t.
‘Who is Jimmy?’
‘He . . . Jimmy McCarthy,’ I explain. It sounds so silly, but the fog in my head does not allow me to be sensible. ‘I love him. Don’t tell my mother.’
Nancy nods. Her movements are oddly slowed. I don’t feel pain in my head even though I can see blood all over the kitchen floor. The painting lies there, too. My baby boy. He squirmed and opened his eyes. He was so beautiful.
I tear myself away from Nancy’s grasp and pick up the painting.
‘What’s that?’ Nancy reaches out, but I pull away. ‘Did you paint that?’
I want to tell her. The whole world needs to know. ‘We had a baby,’ I say. ‘Me and Jimmy. Three years ago.’
Nancy gasps. ‘You . . . Does Frank know?’
‘He did not want to know. Nancy, neither of them wanted to know. Jimmy and Frank, shimmy and crank. I swam and I sank.’
She looks at me with eyes that are uncomprehending. ‘You need to sit down,’ she says. ‘You are not well.’
‘He died.’ It wants out. The secret wants out. ‘My boy. I had him in Philly on the kitchen floor. Frank did not come, and neither did Jimmy. I was so alone, Nancy. So terribly alone. He squirmed and opened his eyes. He was beautiful. Pearly and blue. I think I meant to wash him. It’s all a blur. There was so much blood. I took him to the pool. I meant to wash him so he would be lovely. For them. But they did not come. Not Frank, not Jimmy. And when I woke up . . .’
I need a pill. I am getting worked up again. I’m sure my hair is a mess.
‘What then?’ Nancy looks at me earnestly. ‘What happened?’
‘He was floating in the pool. He wasn’t squirming anymore.’
I look outside where the geraniums are letting their heads hang low. They need water. I need to go water them, but somehow something is wrong and I cannot quite remember what.
‘I think I killed him,’ I whisper. ‘I am so sorry.’
Nancy says nothing. She looks at the pot for the longest time, and then at the painting, and then at me.
‘You do not deserve all this,’ she says.
She is right. I do not deserve to suffer so. And neither did my boy. I feel a hint of something in my chest. Anger. At them. All of them, who left us alone in our greatest need.
‘You are right,’ I say. ‘I did not deserve any of it. That’s why I want to go to Los Angeles. To see Amblioni.’
Nancy’s eyes dart here and there. Suddenly, she plops me down on the floor. ‘I will take you to the exhibition,’ she says. ‘But first, let’s prepare a little bit.’
She runs into the bedroom and returns with something, clutching her purse tightly. She grabs my own purse, opens it and pulls out the pill jar. She pours out three Miltowns and shoves them into my mouth. I retch, and she hands me a glass of water. It’s too many, I think, but I don’t really care.
Barbara pokes her head in. ‘Mommy,’ she says. ‘Where is the man? Mommy, everything is a mess.’
Barbara is right. The kitchen looks dastardly. I grab a cloth and begin dabbing at my own blood. Too late I realize that I am using the sleepsuit.
‘Tell her to go outside,’ Nancy mumbles. ‘She doesn’t need to see this.’
I shoo Barbara away. ‘Go play in the trees, darling. I will send Joanie’s mom, all right? Auntie Nancy and I, we’ll be back soon.’
‘But Mommy—’
‘Be good. Promise me, darling. Don’t tell anyone. Be a good girl.’
Barbara goes away.
‘I’m bleeding,’ I say to Nancy. ‘Help me.’
‘Don’t worry, darling,’ she coos. ‘You think this is bad? You haven’t met my husband. He wasn’t like your Frank. Or like Jimmy. Zac would have truly shown you hell.’ She giggles wildly. ‘No one ever saw a thing. I was in agony. I lost two babies under his kicks. I will never have a child. And you threw yours away.’
She hoists me up. My legs are soft. I cannot quite remember why I sat down. But I do know one thing. I need to see art. Colors. Red and yellow and blue, like the pool.
‘Let me swim,’ I whisper. ‘Where is Frank?’
‘You stupid cow,’ Nancy hisses. ‘These pills are really kicking in, huh?’
Then she helps me up, grabs the painting and my art materials, and walks me to the car.
I slip inside. The span of the road. Freedom and laughter.
‘Amblioni,’ I murmur, but the syllables do not come out right.
I dream. In my dream I fly high over Sunnylakes. I am warm and light. I am the glint in a bird’s eye and the sparkle on the ocean. I am poolside blue and ice cream pink. I am life. I am love.
I am so very tired.
We reach the beach, but it is not the beach, although there is a lot of sand. Nancy rips open the car door and pulls me out. She drags me up a concrete ramp and we stand in space. Beautiful, terrible space. The sky is endless up here, but it is not Los Angeles, and that’s where I wanted to go.
‘Do you even know we’re fucking behind your back?’ Nancy’s voice is strangely low. One fist is plunged into her purse. ‘Frank loves it with me. He can’t get enough. I know how to please him like you never could. He told me you were always cold. Cold-hearted. Now I know why. Because you are a killer.’
I do not understand. ‘Frank?’ I say, and the name draws a blank.
‘See? You don’t even care about that. Your own husband fucking your best friend, and you don’t give a damn. You do not deserve what you’ve got. But I do.’
Nancy withdraws her fist. She is holding something silver. Silver-blue, me and you. I am wobbling. I’d like to sit down. I’d like to drive through Los Angeles with the wind in my hair and with my bare feet on the pedals. Floor the gas and fly away.
‘It is my turn now,’ Nancy says.
‘No,’ I reply. ‘It is mine. Finally.’
‘You never made him happy.’
‘I am happy.’
‘They’ll never find you under the rubble.’
‘That’s fine,’ I reply, and laughter gurgles in my throat. ‘Because I won’t be there.’
I won’t be there. I will be summer light on a pool, and the laughter of a baby boy. I will be cadmium yellow and sap green. I will be the water soaking into paper and the air stream on a freeway. I will be me, at last.
The pain in my womb explodes with a bang. I spin and tumble. The sky engulfs me and wraps me up. Blue, so blue. False and true.
Me and you.
Chapter Forty
Mick
G
enevieve returns with the drinks. ‘Now, Detective,’ she says. ‘Here’s to Joyce.’
Mick lifts his glass – and the ring of the telephone cuts him short.
Genevieve puts her glass down with a clink. ‘Just a moment.’
Goddammit. If this is some old gal from the women’s committee chin-wagging about the milkman, he’s going to find out where she lives and water her roses with gasoline.
Genevieve says things like ‘u-huh’ and ‘of course’ and ‘right away’. She hangs up and comes back into the lounge. The look on her face makes Mick’s stomach sink.
‘It was your secretary, Jackie,’ she says. ‘Ruby called your office. She said it’s an emergency and asked that you come to Nancy Ingram’s house as soon as possible.’
‘Mrs Ingram’s house?’
‘Yes. Jackie said there’s been some sort of altercation between Ruby and Mr Haney. He’s injured. A patrol car is on its way.’
Mick’s brain switches into overdrive. A patrol car in Sunnylakes. Frank Haney hurt and Ruby at the scene. That’s—
That’s not going to end well.
‘I have to go.’ He grabs his coat and pushes past Genevieve into the hallway. ‘Sorry.’
On the driveway, he breaks into a run. He digs for his car keys, drops them, curses and jams them into the lock. Heat slaps him in the face as he sits down, but he doesn’t care. The Santa Monica Freeway will be clogged with rushhour traffic. There’s just the sliver of a chance he’ll
get there before the boys.
He turns the key. The car yawls and coughs. He smacks the steering wheel and turns the key again. Another yawl, followed by the soothing purr of the engine. He cranks the car into reverse, pins the pedal and hurls out of the driveway.
He almost makes it onto the street before a nasty splutter emerges from the hood. The Buick grinds to a halt in silence. Terrible, ominous silence, broken only by a faint ticking from somewhere in the car’s bowels.
‘Fucking piece of crap.’
He twists the key again, twice, thrice. Nothing.
‘Mr Blanke, what’s happening?’
In the rearview mirror, he sees Genevieve running toward him. She’s put on a little hat and clutches a purse to her chest. He opens the door and gets out.
‘The fucking car. That old bastard pile of fucking trash.’ He kicks the fender and misjudges the force. Pain shoots up his legs. ‘Dammit!’
‘We’ll take mine.’ Genevieve grabs his arm and pulls him away. ‘Come on, we’ve got no time to lose.’
At least he remembers to grab the radio from the glove box. They head to the Pontiac. Genevieve pumps the pedal before he’s even closed the passenger door. They fly down the driveway and onto the road.
‘What do you think has happened?’ Genevieve asks.
‘No idea.’ He mops his brow. ‘What worries me more is what’s going to happen if the boys arrive before us.’
‘Oh. Oh, yes, I see.’
Genevieve drives like a racer, fast and sleek and confident. The car flies past the shops and the library, past a thousand lawns and rock-fronted houses until, with a swerve that knocks his head, they turn into Roseview Drive.
All the muscles in Mick’s body tense up when he sees the patrol car parked in front of Nancy Ingram’s pink house. It stands out like a commie in a kindergarten. Genevieve clunks the Pontiac over the sidewalk. Mick jumps out and starts running.
The door to Mrs Ingram’s house has been kicked open; the frame is splintered where the lock gave way. He dashes into the lounge and hollers, ‘Ruby!’
The response is loud and clear. A man’s voice, coming from upstairs. ‘You’re under arrest.’
