My Name Is Venus Black

by Heather Lloyd

  She flips on the light and tosses several empty boxes ahead of her down the wooden stairs. At the last second, she remembers to grab several large trash bags for garbage.

  Inez begins to descend the stairs when a memory hits, and it’s not the kind she’s expecting. She remembers how Venus used to love to call for Inez to come downstairs and then she’d hide in the space under the stairs and jump out and scare her. She made Inez wet her pants once doing that.

  She finds the door to Venus’s room hanging partly open. Inez swings her arm inside to flip the light switch before she enters. Everything is covered in dust, of course. But she hadn’t anticipated so much of it or that the moist basement air would have turned it to layers of scum.

  Her plan is probably cowardly. But there’s a difference between being willing to face something and being willing to see it up close.

  The plan is simple. Do not look. Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t look at the hole, she tells herself. Whatever you do, don’t look at that wall. Don’t let your gaze fall on it. There is plenty else to see, she reminds herself. There is no reason to glance in that direction.

  Part of the plenty to see is the giant mobile and all the pasted stars on the ceiling. How could she have forgotten?

  Well, pretty easily, she realizes. Even before the shooting, she rarely went down to Venus’s room. She often set her laundry near the top step. Hard to miss, you’d think, but how many times had Venus chosen to not pick it up?

  She decides to start with the dresser, a garage-sale find that Venus hated until Inez suggested she spray-paint it whatever color she wanted. Venus went for orange and added decals to the drawers. Inez opens the top one to find socks and a jumble of panties for a young teen—labeled by days of the week. The second drawer contains nighties and a couple of bras. Venus had taken after Inez and was a solid B cup by the time she was twelve.

  It is this, the sight of Venus’s bras, that makes Inez catch her breath and become aware of the hole in an entirely new way. She imagines Venus coming in from the shower, dropping her towel. Opening her dresser drawer to get her bra. And feeling watched without knowing why.

  Over the years, Inez has often tried to put herself in Venus’s shoes. But now, standing in her room, imagining her own husband’s eye at that hole, she feels a visceral sense of horror on a whole new level.

  With a sinking heart, she realizes it’s going to be like this the entire time she packs up and cleans down here. She will get to know what it’s like. The hole will follow her every move around the room. And it will demand that she remember.

  * * *

  —

  BY THE TIME Venus found the hole so cleverly disguised in the knotted wood, Inez already had some niggling concerns. A few months earlier, she’d had some reason to go to Venus’s door and was surprised to discover she’d stopped using her skeleton key to lock it—and had stuffed the keyhole with gum instead.

  She never asked Venus why, even though it seemed odd to her that Venus—who guarded her privacy so much—would rather have gum in her lock than be able to lock people out. Now it would seem that Venus must have suspected something but thought she had solved the problem.

  Why didn’t she say something? Or maybe she had, but Inez had brushed it off. Could it be? Over the years, Venus’s complaints about Ray had come to seem like the constant whine of a mosquito. Bothersome but not alarming. Yes, Venus had made accusations of Ray creeping around, trying to be too close to her. Sometimes she claimed he hurt her and Leo physically. But she also complained that Ray was too nice to her and her friends.

  Once, Inez told Venus to make up her mind. Was Ray a brute or was he way too nice?

  Done with the dresser, Inez decides to remove the stars from the ceiling. For that, she’ll have to get a chair to stand on. While upstairs, she pours herself two glasses of wine and steadily gulps them down.

  But, of course, the wine can’t keep the truth at bay. As she stands on the chair and slowly peels the stars from Venus’s ceiling, she’s confronted with another damning memory. The time Inez had gotten off work early and, pulling into the carport off the alley, she’d almost run right over Ray. He’d been lying facedown on the cement, looking through the basement window into Venus’s bedroom. Ray’s explanation had been that he’d come out the back door and dropped a screw. It had fallen into the window well, and he’d been looking for it.

  She had chosen to believe him. But did she? No, she had chosen to pretend she did.

  Oh my God. How could she explain to Venus now—or ever—the blinding power of denial. How could she expect her to understand that sometimes the hardest truths to see are the ones staring right at you?

  Now she takes some solace—not that she deserves any—in the fact that she is absolutely certain the discovery of the hole that terrible day would have been the final straw. It had been the end, in Inez’s mind. Even as she put Venus off, even as she struggled to breathe through the terror at her throat, she knew it was true. Her marriage was over, and Ray had been exposed as a pervert.

  She would have kicked him out on his ass. That day, as Venus hysterically sobbed over the perfectly drilled hole in the knotty pine, Inez could already see herself confronting Ray.

  But for God’s sake! She needed time to come to terms, to figure out what to do next, to talk to someone. You can’t process such a monstrous truth in one afternoon. Venus didn’t even give her one day!

  This was the heart of her defense—what she screamed at Venus in her mind but would never say to her face: You didn’t give me enough time! You didn’t wait for me to figure out how to handle it! You should never have taken my immediate reaction as my true and entire and timeless last word!

  Now Inez knows better. Never assume you can take back anything. Never assume you have time to face facts later. And never underestimate the power of a parent’s betrayal.

  As Inez moves on to Venus’s bathroom, the sight of the pink bottle of Love’s Baby Soft perfume makes her want to rush back upstairs and guzzle the rest of that bottle of wine. She doesn’t have to open the bottle or spray a drop in order to smell Venus—or to imagine Ray ogling her innocent daughter.

  Somewhere deep in her little-girl heart, Venus had known it, hadn’t she? And no wonder she’d hated Ray so much all those years. And then to hear the prosecutor archly point out, “But there’s no proof he even touched her. You can’t claim sexual abuse as a mitigating factor if she was only peeped at.”

  Only peeped at?

  The memory of his disdain fills Inez with rage now. But at the time, it had filled her with something much more like relief. She did not take up Venus’s defense. She did not scream at the top of her lungs that of course voyeurism is sexual abuse. She had left that to others, then and since.

  Now, as Inez stands on Venus’s bed to take down the mobile of planets, she sees herself emptying her daughter’s sky of dreams, and she sees, coming down with them, her last defense against the truth: Worse than not sticking up for Venus is the reason she refused. At the time, she’d been desperate to minimize what Ray did—what she allowed to happen—because it lessened her own awful guilt. And it kept her from feeling like she’d been part of a dirty secret.

  How could she have been so selfish?

  She realizes she is sobbing. Why had she thought she could get through this cleanup without a major breakdown? If only she had taken that guy’s phone number, she could have canceled this stupid showing. She could have run from the room. Could have forgotten about moving, and never opened the basement door again.

  Suddenly, the thought of calling Shirley and Marianne and begging them to do this for her sounds genius. Of course this is too much for any mother! Of course she can’t bear it!

  But, in the end, love makes her stay.

  Tony arrives at the house a few minutes early. It’s begun to rain. He parks his truck right behind a red Honda. He
is nervous.

  He has carefully rehearsed how he hopes this conversation will unfold. He’s hoping Inez is not suspicious or closemouthed. He climbs the few steps to the front door and knocks. He’d rather not ring the bell.

  He’s about to knock again when she answers. He’s surprised that she’s so pretty. Long black hair, a narrow sculpted face. She’s thin, seems fragile, and it looks like she’s been crying. What had Tony been expecting?

  A woman who looked like she would marry an abuser and raise a homicidal daughter.

  “Are you here for the house?” she asks. Her voice is fairly low, like maybe she’s a smoker.

  “Yes,” Tony says, extending his hand. “I’m Tony.”

  She shakes his hand very lightly. Her small hands remind him of Leo’s hands. He’s startled by the idea that he’s looking at Leo’s mother.

  “Come on in,” she says, standing back.

  Upon entering the house’s foyer, Tony notices a giant photograph of a waterfall in the woods covering one small wall. He follows her down a single step into the living room. He looks around him. It’s nice, but plain. The walls are pale yellow, and there’s some kind of rust-colored flower border that runs along the wall just below the ceiling. A small fireplace sits on the west wall. A burgundy plaid living room set looks a bit tired. Then he spots a picture of Leo on an end table. It is so obviously Leo that Tony’s throat catches. Shit. Fuck. There goes his last hope of being wrong.

  He looks away quickly. “You’ve got nice light in here,” he says.

  “Thanks.” She hesitates, seeming uncertain. “Do you want me to just let you wander around, or do you want a tour?”

  “I’d love a tour,” he says. He’d normally rather snoop alone, but he’s here to learn what he can about this woman.

  She smiles, and he sees that her top teeth are slightly crooked. “Well, this is the living room. Obviously.” She walks through it, past a hallway to the right, into a small alcove that is a dining area and past it to a galley kitchen. “This is the kitchen,” she says, almost apologetic.

  Tony goes over to the bank of windows on the other side of the dining-room table and looks out. He turns back to face her. “How’s the neighborhood?” he asks. “Any trouble?”

  She flinches, and Tony is almost sorry for the question.

  “No,” she says. “The neighbors are good.”

  “So, are you moving across town or farther away?” asks Tony. “If you don’t mind my asking.”

  “Probably not far,” she says with a girlish shrug. “Mainly I want to downsize.” She is fidgeting with her fingers. No rings. Her nails are unpainted. She seems almost as nervous as he is.

  When Tony scans the kitchen, he notices that the appliances are all outdated. He also sees yet another picture of Leo, on the windowsill above the sink. At the end of the kitchen is a back door that leads to a carport. And, catty corner from it, a door that must lead to a basement.

  “Let me show you the upstairs bedrooms first,” Inez says. She leads him back to the hallway. The first door on the left is a bathroom. He peeks in. Ordinary. Clean. Pink porcelain tub and toilet, cheap fixtures, and a plastic shower door with that bubble glass you can’t see through.

  At the end of the hall she opens a door to what is clearly a boy’s room. Leo’s. Tony’s gut tightens. He walks in, looks around. Shit. Obviously she hasn’t changed this room since Leo went missing, but it’s clean and dusted. A red toy car sits on the floor by the bed; a blue plastic ball is in the corner. The curtains are decorated with spaceships. The rug is the “right” blue.

  Oh dear God. She has been waiting and hoping for Leo to come home for six years. For a second, he feels dizzy. He puts a hand on a dresser to steady himself.

  “I see you have a son,” he says with a catch in his voice.

  “Yeah,” she says. “He’s out with friends right now.” Tony could swear that she knows he knows she is lying. Her face is flushed and she quickly leaves the room.

  “This is the master,” she says, turning toward the door opposite the bathroom. Tony follows her in. “I’m afraid there’s no adjoining master bath. Just the one across the hall. But there’s another bathroom—no tub but a shower and sink and toilet downstairs. I think they call it a three-quarter bath?”

  “Great,” says Tony.

  “So, you said you have a daughter?” she asks. Tony is totally taken aback by the question. He forgot he’d said that. “Sure do. She’s seventeen.”

  “And your wife?”

  “She passed when my daughter was born,” he says. He’s remembering the old advice that when you have to lie, use the truth whenever possible.

  “Oh, I’m sorry!” she says, combing a hand through her hair. “That must be hard. Being a single parent.”

  “Yeah,” says Tony. “But we get by.”

  “I know what that’s like,” she says. “I’ve been widowed for a while.”

  Tony hadn’t expected for the conversation to get this personal. His eyes quickly dart around her bedroom. The bed is plain, a white nubby bedspread. A painted white headboard. Two pieces of art that look like garage-sale buys. On the nightstand, yet another photo of Leo.

  Tony thinks it is weird that there are no photos of the daughter, Venus. Then again, given what happened, maybe it’s not weird at all.

  Pretending to be serious about looking hard at the house, he opens her closet door. When he sees the jumble within, he quickly shuts it.

  “I’m sorry, I’m kind of a slob!” she says, with a laugh.

  “So am I,” says Tony. “I like to think it’s a sign of creativity, so maybe you’re creative, too.”

  “I don’t know about that.” She shrugs. “Are you an artist?”

  “Kind of,” he says, shaking his head. “So, when was the house built?” These are the kinds of questions he needs to be asking.

  “You know, I think around the late forties. But I’m not positive.

  “Let’s go downstairs,” she offers. “It’s a basement but partly finished.”

  For the rest of the tour, he sticks to buyer-oriented questions. Downstairs, he compliments the knotty-pine paneling in the bedroom. It contains a stripped bed, small furniture, and packed boxes.

  After she shows him the bathroom, which opens right off the bedroom, Tony takes a big breath. “Well, I think I’ve bothered you enough,” he says.

  “No bother,” she says. But he can tell this whole tour has been a torture for her. She doesn’t offer to show the garage and he doesn’t ask, just turns away and starts upstairs, desperate to get out.

  At the door, Inez says, “I just have a question.”

  “Yes?”

  “How did you know my phone number?”

  Tony is caught off guard. “Well…I got it off the COMING SOON sign out there.”

  She nods. “Oh. I didn’t even know it was on there.”

  Tony turns back to her at the door, realizing he screwed up. “I really like the place. I’ll probably give your realtor a call once I’m back home and see what we can do.”

  “Sure,” she says. “Thanks.” She moves toward him and awkwardly extends her hand. He shakes it. Their eyes meet briefly. Sad gray eyes with brows shaped exactly like Leo’s.

  It’s a Sunday evening in February, and I can tell Inez is startled to see me on her porch.

  “Venus,” she says.

  “Yeah,” I answer, like I’m disappointed it’s me, too.

  She lets me in and I shut the door behind me. For a second we both stand there, shivering from the blast of cold air we let in. I set my heavy suitcase down, my arm burning with relief. Her arms are wrapped around her body, and she’s wearing a thick gray cardigan I don’t recognize.

  “You could at least offer to take my coat,” I say. “Or is this a bad time?”

  “Oh no!” she s
ays, looking stricken. “I’m sorry! I’m just surprised. But glad surprised.” She reaches for my coat and I raise my hand to stop her. I shrug out of the parka I got from Goodwill and hand it to her.

  While she hangs it in the small coat closet, I notice how strongly the house smells like the past, and it makes me want to run for my life. I also notice a glass of wine on the coffee table. “You could offer me some wine, too,” I say, surprising myself. “Since I see you’re already at it,” I add.

  I hadn’t planned to sound so bratty, much less to ask for a drink.

  She looks embarrassed about the wine, and I wonder if she still drinks too much. I can see her debating whether to act like a mother and remind me I’m not old enough to drink—or go with the flow. I kind of enjoy her fluster.

  “Okay,” she says in a shaky voice. “I’ve got a good bottle of red, if that’s okay…”

  “That’s fine.”

  While she heads into the kitchen, I take a seat on the bizarrely familiar plaid couch and survey the living room. A black faux-leather recliner has replaced Raymond’s shabby olive-green one—but otherwise it all looks creepily the same. How could she stay here?

  I hear the pop of a cork from the kitchen just as I notice the framed photo of Leo on the side table. There used to be a picture of me there, too—in a matching frame. I can’t help wondering whether she threw it in the garbage or packed it away.

  This trip to Everett was never my plan—until that reporter wrote a feature for The Seattle Times about my story, including where I work. Julie had turned out to be right about people’s curiosity, and pretty soon I felt the way I’d thought I would. Like a monkey in a zoo.

  I never liked monkeys anyway. In fifth grade, we took a field trip to the Woodland Park Zoo and there was a sign on the monkey enclosure saying not to knock on the window—so of course I had to. I knocked really hard and the monkeys went nuts. It’s one of the few times I ever got in trouble at school. But it seemed worth it at the time and still does now. I’ve a mind to go do it again.