Dead Enemies

by K. E. Garvey

  Dead Enemies

  by K.E. Garvey

  Copyright  2018 by K.E. Garvey

  All rights reserved

  To Bear

  For all you are, and all you do

  I love you

  I have come to learn that no book is written by a single person. Whether it be two strangers and their story idea conversation I inadvertently eavesdrop on from the next table, my family who tolerates my introverted (and sometimes quirky) ways, my slave driver agent who push, push, pushes me, my frenemy editor wielding the red pen, or any one of the many others who play a part in the making of a finished novel; from the bottom of my heart, I appreciate you all.

  My beta readers:

  Dorothy Wells-Peier

  (Who could have predicted this back when we were six?

  To another fifty!)

  Stacie Gumble

  Karen Howard-Stein

  Rachel Moore

  (Three’s a charm!)

  Cover photo courtesy of

  Richard Skoonberg

  Cover Design by

  K.E. Garvey

  Other titles by K.E. Garvey

  Lily White Lies

  The Red Strokes

  Cry Like A Girl

  Run Like A Girl

  Upcoming release

  Fight Like A Girl

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter One

  Wanda - 1988

  Wanda stood at the sink, her fist shoved deep in a glass as she worked a soapy sponge around the inside. She leaned forward until her heels lifted off the floor in order to watch her husband run down the road, hunched as he held onto the seat of a pink Mongoose bike to keep it steady.

  “Mama, I’m hungry.”

  Wanda’s attention bounced between her daughter and her husband, finally coming to rest on her hungry child.

  “I know you are, baby. We’ll be eating soon.” She cast another glance out the window only to find the street now empty. She turned back to her daughter. “Chicken and rice, your favorite. Let me fetch your daddy first. Why don’t you go finish watching Duck Tales so you can tell me about it over dinner?”

  Gail obeyed silently as Wanda squeezed by her, which wasn’t an easy task between the small size of their house and the large size of her belly. She had expected Warren to pop out from behind a tree or the other side of the house when he heard the screen door slam, but he was nowhere to be seen. Using both hands to support her back, she took long strides to the end of the walkway and looked up and down the street several times.

  Where the hell is he? she wondered.

  “Warren?” she called out, loudly, but not loud enough to raise Gail’s curiosity.

  Still no sign of him.

  The Lester’s place was the only house in view and it was Annie, the Lester’s oldest child, her husband had been helping learn to ride, so she headed in the direction of their house. The faint sound of voices lifted as she walked up the driveway. A little girl’s giggle. A man’s soothing tone. Another giggle.

  “Warren!”

  His head appeared from behind an old Chevy that Clyde Lester never removed from the garage except for the occasional wedding or funeral.

  “Dinner. I suggest you get on home.” She pointed an admonitory finger in the direction of their house as heat spread across her face.

  He looked back to the girl, smiled, and said, “I know you’ll get it next time,” barely loud enough for Wanda to hear.

  Wanda turned on a heel and took long strides in order to beat him home. When the door slammed behind him, she was already plating the meal, lips tight, shoulders squared, inherent signs of a brewing fight.

  Warren wiped his hands on the front of his jeans, hesitated, and then took his seat at the table. “You didn’t have to come looking for me like I was a child. All you had to do was give a holler.”

  She slapped a plate down in front of him. “I did.”

  He looked from his food to her. “Well, not loud enough I suppose.”

  He was in placating mode. She knew he never lost his cool in this stage, but if she continued to push he’d take his gloves off. “What are you doing with that girl?”

  “What did it look like I was doing? Lord knows you had enough time to figure it out while you were spying on me through the curtains.” He forked a bite into his mouth looking quite pleased with himself for having called her out on her sneaky behavior.

  She wanted nothing more than to smack the stupid grin off his face with the spoon she was holding. “If you’re so concerned with the kids of the neighborhood knowing how to ride a bike, why don’t you start with your own daughter? Charity begins at home.”

  He lowered his fork and glared at her, which brought a smile to her face as she turned her back on him. She knew how much he hated when she’d repeat the little phrases his father was so fond of, and somehow, they seemed to come to her quickly and naturally each time he upset her.

  “She ain’t ready.”

  “How can you know that if you ain’t ever tried?”

  With his mouth full and his head down, he replied, “She’s only four and Annie Lester is eight. ’Sides, the first time she fell and skinned her knee, it’d somehow be my fault like every other goddam thing that goes wrong around here.”

  “Ahh, the martyr. I was wondering when I was going to see him.” The sarcasm in her voice was as thick as the ketchup he poured over the top of his rice.

  “You ever notice, he tends to show up arm-in-arm with the bitch?” He wagged his head back and forth as if impressed by his own cleverness.

  Warren finished his meal so fast, she knew he had to be swallowing without chewing properly. She was already envisioning a sleepless night as he tossed and turned through his belly ache.

  Ignoring his last comment, she called into the living room using her best mommy voice, “Gail, honey. Come eat.”

  Gail skipped her way to her seat at the table, oblivious to the war of words going on only seconds earlier. “Can we get a pool?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “We’ll see.”

  Gail looked betwe
en her conflicted parents, and they looked between each other. Warren let out something of a grunt, stood, and threw his napkin on his plate before sauntering off. Seconds later, the screen door slammed again, this time on his way out.

  A confused expression settled on Gail’s face. “Is Daddy mad?” she asked, as Wanda squeezed into the seat next to her. She offered a smile and held back what she wanted to say. The better question would have been when isn’t he mad.

  Wanda watched as her daughter pulled small pieces of chicken off her fork with her shell pink lips. Her round eyes focused on her food, she didn’t notice when Wanda grabbed hold of the table and leaned back. Only Wanda knew what was happening, and now, like it or not, she’d have to put aside her differences with Warren and put up the happy-couple front. She stood and edged out of the kitchen keeping her back turned away from Gail. No need to scare the child with what felt like a huge wet target on her bottom. Once in the living room, she dialed her sister, who picked up on the second ring.

  “Katherine, it’s time. How soon can you get here?”

  She hung up as the screen slammed shut again. When she turned toward the door, Warren stood frozen in place, held by nothing more than the sight of his wife’s behind.

  Finally, he managed two words, “Is that—”

  “Yes. Katherine’s on her way. I haven’t said anything to Gail, just in case—”

  His face softened and he approached her. “No. No, that isn’t going to happen again. It was a fluke the first time. You had Gail after that with no problems. It’ll be fine, I know it.”

  They didn’t talk of their stillborn baby often, and even when they did, they skirted around it speaking in generalizations but never saying the words.

  She offered a weak smile and a limp nod. “My bag is packed; would you bring it down?”

  Warren headed for the stairs with the determination of a man on a mission only slowing long enough to run a hand down her arm. Once he disappeared up the stairs, she looked over her shoulder to find Gail stretched across the table, belly pressed into her plate as she tried to spoon rice from the casserole dish. Rather than rush in to assist, as she usually would, Wanda sat on the wooden rocker in the corner of the room and decided to let Katherine deal with the mess. She had just finished with one and had a bigger one on the horizon. This was something that didn’t require her personal attention.

  Warren came down the stairs, taking two at a time. He seemed a bit frantic now.

  “Is everything okay? Did you find it?” she asked.

  He nodded. “How close are the pains?”

  “I’m not having any yet, but once the water breaks they aren’t far behind and the baby not far behind that.”

  She sat quietly as he pulled in a deep breath, and then let it out slowly as if to calm himself. It seemed to work, and he took a seat on the couch. He ran a hand through his dusty brown hair, gave her a quick glance, and then said, “Hey, I’m sorry about… you know.”

  She didn’t make him finish. She said, “Yeah, I know,” and thought, And that makes us both liars.

  Chapter Two

  Wanda - 1991

  Not much had changed in the three years since Cheryl’s birth. She and her husband still fought at a healthy pace, Gail remained as spirited as ever, and Warren still felt the unexplained need to teach the neighbor girl how to ride a bike, swim, and climb trees. Sometimes, she felt as if he spent enough time with her that he might have been her daddy. That thought might have cemented itself had Annie Lester not been five-years-old when she and Warren moved into the house on Ridgeview Street.

  Warren would be home at 4:15, as he was every day, and she had not started dinner yet. Now that Gail was out of school for the summer, the days were full from the moment Wanda opened her eyes until she finally slid between the sheets each night. Cheryl had been a difficult baby, between the many months of colic and croup, and later her penchant for playing with the contents of her diaper, Wanda ran on autopilot for the first two and a half years of Cheryl’s life. Warren never seemed to see her frustration. Instead he’d examine her handiwork smeared on the walls and furniture, and say, “Yup, that one there is going to be the next Picasso.”

  She set the laundry basket on the dryer and exhaled, blowing loose strands of hair away from her face. Last load and then she would begin the evening ritual of dinner, baths, stories, and bed. If Warren wasn’t in the mood for his usual quickie, maybe she’d soak in the tub for a while, one of the few luxuries she could still afford.

  Lifting each piece of clothing from the basket, she shook it out before dropping it into the washer. A habit born out of necessity because neither Warren nor the girls seemed to know how to empty their pockets before tossing their clothes into the hamper. She hated that lazy habit almost as much as she hated their habit of taking every article of clothing off inside out.

  She pulled a pair of her husband’s underwear from the basket and her arm froze in its extended position. Slowly, she twisted her wrist to turn them around. Blood? She brought them closer to her face and examined them. Not wanting to touch the stain, she stared at it, her mind racing through anything it might be other than what it looked like. Finally, she ran a light finger over the darkest section of the stain. Dry. She then brought them part way to her nose before pulling back. Oh god, I can’t. She stared at them a moment longer, her heart sinking as she stared at them. Then, she closed her eyes and brought them to her nose. The smell of urine made her cringe. She forced herself to sniff again and there it was, the metallic odor of blood. Menstrual blood.

  The thoughts that followed were part question, part accusation. Who? How long? And the one that made her recoil, on her period? Warren wouldn’t come anywhere near her when she had her period saying she was unclean, and lying with her during that time would make him unclean as well. Something straight out of his Christian upbringing, she was sure. She set the underwear to the side and finished piling the clothes from the basket into the washer.

  ~

  Dinner was on the table when she heard Warren’s tired pick-up pull into the gravel drive. She sat in her usual chair at the table, hands folded in her lap, and never more cognizant of the sounds of her husband’s approach than she was in that moment. When he rounded the corner into the kitchen, she looked up, squaring her shoulders.

  “Hey.” He looked around the kitchen. “Where’s Mooshie and Kitten?”

  “Katherine’s. They’re having a sleepover.”

  She saw the change come over his face and didn’t want to give him time to think. “You and me, we need to talk.”

  His cheeks filled with air. He held it a moment and then let it out with a whoosh. “Jesus Christ, Wanda. My ass hasn’t even hit the chair and you’re starting in on me. Is this what you do all day? I’m out there busting my ass, you sit here thinking up ways to crack my nuts the minute I walk through the door? It’s getting old.”

  Without taking her eyes off him, she slowly lifted one hand from her lap. In it, his bloodied underwear. She watched his eyes move left to right and back, like a pendulum, as the shorts swayed gently through the air. Her throat clenched the moment she saw recognition in his eyes.

  “What?” His voice was weak. He ducked when the underwear sailed by him.

  “You come home in bloody underwear and all you can say is what? Start talking Warren. Who’s your whore?” She stood knocking her chair over behind her.

  He straightened and took a step back. “Calm down, Wanda. You’re jumping to the wrong conclusions.”

  “Am I? Then maybe you want to tell me what the right conclusions are, and I have to say, I’m looking forward to watching the fox dig his way out of this hole.”

  She took two more steps around the table. He backed up one more.

  “It’s not what you think.”

  “Then what is it? Do you have the balls to stand there and lie to my face when the proof is smeared on your underwear?” Without looking away from him, she took several steps until she was up against the
counter.

  “It ain’t what you think.”

  “So you’ve said.” She pulled the chef’s knife from the butcher block.

  “Jesus Christ, Wanda, put that thing down.”

  When she took a step closer, hand wrapped tightly around the handle of the knife, he looked behind him and then back to her. He backed into the living room as she continued to walk slowly toward him. She knew she wasn’t going to split his head open, but she wanted him to think she would.

  “Have you lost your mind, woman? Put that thing down. It’s my blood.”

  That was enough to make her stop coming at him, but not enough to make her put her weapon down.

  He took several calming breaths and looked to the floor. When he finally raised his head and their eyes met, he said, “It’s my blood. That’s my blood in my shorts. I caught myself in my zipper the other day. Sorry the real story isn’t nearly as exciting as the one you spent the day conjuring up, but that’s all it was.”

  She eyed him carefully. His words, his face, even his posture told her he was telling the truth. But her gut told her he was lying. “Is that right?”

  His mouth curled into a scant smile. “That’s right.” He took a step closer.

  “Let me see it.”

  Her words stopped him cold.

  “See what?”

  “Let me see where you caught yourself. If it just happened, there should be a mark or a black and blue. I want to see it.” She lifted the knife a few inches.

  He shifted his weight from one leg to the other and back again. His words came slowly. “You’re shittin’ me. You want to see my cock to prove whether I caught it in my zipper? What the—, and then maybe you want examine my teeth to make sure I brushed this morning.”

  She raised the knife over her head, the fingers of both hands curled around its handle. Her body propelled forward by rage. For the briefest moment, he looked as though he were going to stand his ground and face her head on; maybe try to wrestle the knife from her, but before she reached him he turned and sprinted through the living room and out the front door. She stopped and listened for the engine of his truck to turn over before lowering her hand, sweaty and still white-knuckling the knife. Her insides trembled in anger, but somewhere beneath, in a place of calm knowing, a thought pressed on her like a firm hand. He was lying, she was sure of it. The difference between this lie and all the others, this time he was able to look her in the eye while telling it.