by Joseph Souza
“Hey there. I’m here to pick up Sasha and Willie?”
“Yes, of course. Come inside.”
He steps across the threshold and I close the door behind him. Flustered, I can’t remember if we’ve been formally introduced. Then I remember the time I brought over pie and wine. He stands quietly, content not to chat, gazing around our cluttered living room as if it’s the last place he wants to be right now. So embarrassing. It takes me a few seconds to remember his name. Russell. When he sees his children sprawled out on the floor, he goes over and picks Willie up and cradles the boy in his powerful arms. I gently wake Sasha. She sits up and yawns, stretching her skinny arms above her head.
“Wake up, Sasha. Your father’s here,” I whisper.
“Okay.”
“Did you like the movie?”
“What movie?” She yawns again.
“Toy Story.”
“Uh-huh.”
She rubs her eyes and I help her stand. It pleases me that our kids got along so well. But then I remember the Gaineses’ party tonight and the fact that we weren’t invited, and I become all ruffled again. This obvious slight stings me. Should I say something to him? I open my mouth to inquire about the get-together when I hear Clay’s voice calling out.
“Hey, Russell,” Clay says, standing at the foot of the stairs in his pajamas.
“What’s up, man?” Russell says to Clay. “Thanks for watching the kids.”
“No problem,” says Clay, selfishly taking all the credit when I was the one who offered Molly’s services.
“We didn’t watch them, actually. Our babysitter did,” I say. “We were at the vigil tonight. Just like you.”
“Oh. That’s cool.”
“Wasn’t it beautiful?”
“Yeah, real nice vigil.” He grabs Sasha’s hand and smiles stiffly at me as he turns to leave. “Have a nice night.”
“Throwing a party tonight?” I ask.
He turns and stares at me as if I asked a personal question. “Having a few close friends over. We’ll try to keep the noise down.” He winks at Clay, and that condescending gesture irritates me.
“Would you please tell Clarissa I thought her speech was amazing?”
“Will do,” Russell says.
“So what’s the occasion?” I ask.
“Occasion for what?”
“The get-together.”
“We’re having some people over from the college. People who knew the missing girl,” he says, struggling with the door. Clay walks over and opens it for him.
“How’s Clarissa? She seemed nervous when I was over at your house this afternoon,” I say.
“You were at my house today?” he asks, looking surprised.
“We had a few glasses of wine together. I arranged for our sitter to watch the kids.” I shoot Clay a glance.
“She’s good.” He turns to Clay and says, “Take care, man. See you around.”
I wait for Clay to shut the door. He looks at me sleepily, his ripped Pearl Jam T-shirt scrunched over his slight paunch. It bothers me that he seems to know Russell better than I know Clarissa.
It suddenly occurs to me that the Gaineses didn’t chip in for the babysitter. Clarissa said they’d help offset the cost, and then they didn’t. It’s not about the money. Had they invited us over for a quick drink and introductions, I would have let it go. Been totally fine with it. But they didn’t even do that and it infuriates me.
Clay comes over and puts his arm around me in a curious manner, swiping a misplaced hair out of my eye. His breath repulses me and I turn slightly away from him. I have no intention of making love to him tonight, if that’s what he’s after. I’m angry, sad, and confused. I’m a good person. I can’t believe the Gaineses are having a party next door without us.
“What?” Clay says.
“I’m not in the mood for that.”
“Mood for what?”
“You know.”
“What’s the matter with you?”
“A girl has gone missing, is possibly dead, and our next-door neighbors are having a party. Doesn’t that strike you as odd?”
“They’re colleagues and sharing some stories about her.”
“They didn’t even pitch in for the sitter.”
“You’re going to make a stink over a lousy twenty bucks?”
“They make way more money than you do.”
“Do you know how much Russell and his friends spend at the brewery?” He removes his arm from my shoulder. “He takes his staff and colleagues there every Friday afternoon for beers.”
“God, I’m so sick of hearing about your stupid brewery. Could you please put me first just this once?”
I stomp up to my room, forcing him to put the children to bed by himself. Besides, I know he’s right and that I’m being petty and selfish. I can’t tell him the real reason I’m so mad. He doesn’t understand how lonely I’ve been or how much I want to move back home. Or how badly I want Clarissa to be my close confidante and friend. What is it about her that’s causing me such turmoil? Why do I so want to please her? If she only took the time to know me, to know my family, I’m sure that we could become good friends.
Once under the blanket, I bury my head in the pillow and try to muffle my sobs. Tomorrow will be a new day. A better day, I hope. It has to be. I realize that I need to learn more about the missing girl if I want to become friends with Clarissa. I need to do a little digging around and see what I can find out about this mysterious Mycah Jones.
LEAH
Tuesday, October 13, 7:45 a.m.
IT’S A GLORIOUS FALL MORNING AND THE SUN’S RAYS POUR THROUGH the wood shutters. Clay’s side of the bed is empty. He’s been going into the brewery before dawn each morning in order to get a jump start on the day.
I wake my blue-eyed monsters and tell them to get ready for school. I’m not angry anymore. Clarissa’s slight only makes me more determined to show her my worthiness. It may take some time, but she’ll eventually come around and see what a good person I am. She’ll understand my commitment to progressive causes and racial equality.
I prepare breakfast and make school lunches. Mr. Shady’s bowl is empty, so I fill it with pellets. I brew up a fresh pot of coffee, take out my favorite “World’s Best Mom” cup, and pour it to the top along with some cream and sugar. I stop for a moment and stare out the window. All is quiet in the neighborhood. The guests have long gone and the unfinished development returns to its bleak denouement.
The colors along the nearby hills are deepening. I move to the sliding door, expecting to see the starlings, but to my disappointment they’re nowhere in sight. As I step onto the deck, my breath lingers in the brisk fall air. The sky is baby blue and laced with ribbed clouds. To my delight, three deer prance around in the field behind us. But I miss the starlings and their twisty transports. They feel like an integral part of me now, connecting me as much to this town as they do to something greater in the universe.
I glance over at the Gaineses’ deck. Clarissa is nowhere to be seen. She’s probably inside, getting the kids ready for school. I wonder if she knows that I’m out here and is too embarrassed to face me.
Zack comes down, his hair sticking out in every direction. I wet it down with water and gel so that it will lie flat. I run a comb through it, flipping the bangs up so that he looks somewhat stylish, but he quickly flattens it back down with his hands. Zadie sits quietly at the kitchen table, dressed in a blue skirt and blouse, her long blond hair combed into a neat ponytail. I’m always awed at how beautiful my children are. It’s incredible to think that they came out of this body.
The twins eat their breakfast, gather their backpacks, and the three of us walk silently down to the bus stop.
It still amazes me that I had twins after two years of fruitlessly trying to have children. We’d always discussed having children, and we both agreed that two would be our limit. Then we tried, whenever we could, and failed for nearly two frustrating years. I nearly gave up when
the startling news came that I was pregnant. And twins at that. In one fell swoop we had an entire family. I wept with joy. It meant that Clay and I could stop pressing and relax. The news came at a very good time in our marriage. The strain of trying to produce a child had begun to tear at the frayed edges of our relationship. The twins changed everything. I didn’t feel compelled to have as much sex after they were born, and I believed Clay shared these feelings.
Twins beget twins, they say. It runs in the family. A long time ago I had a twin, but I try not to think about her so much these days. Or I hadn’t thought about her until that mysterious letter arrived yesterday. It forced me to think about poor Annie again. The doctors claimed she had the mind of a two-year-old, but I never believed that silly diagnosis. I intuited that she was far more intelligent than she let on. Was I the only person who could see this? Who understood her?
The twins and I stand like statues until the bus arrives. I kiss them good-bye and then watch as it motors off with its precious cargo. As soon as they’re gone, I realize how abysmally lonely I am and how much I miss human contact. Alone, I cease being Leah the dutiful mother and wife. When I’m alone I become the other Leah. The Leah from a long time ago whom I’ve been trying to forget.
I often wonder about what part of me I’m trying to forget. Is it the sad little girl who was too overprotective of her twin sister? The teenage Leah forced to live with relatives who clearly didn’t want her? Maybe the young adult Leah who found it difficult to make friends and spent much of her college years holed up in the library and studying.
There are things I did that I’m certainly not proud of, and I hope Annie didn’t hold it against me. If she could only see me now she’d know that I’m a good mother and person. Family life has changed me for the better. My experience with my own children has convinced me that I would never be like my parents. I would raise my kids differently and tell them every day how much I loved them. Not a day would pass when they’d doubt my love for them. Never would they question their love for one another or experience the turmoil that Annie and I had to go through.
I turn toward the deserted cul-de-sac and head backup the hill. I know I should go home and take Mr. Shady out for a walk, but instead I head over to the Gaineses’ house. All the cars are gone, the kids shipped off to school. Alone again, my mind stirs with theories about the missing girl.
I look back one last time to make sure no one is watching. Certain that I’m by myself, I climb the stairs until I’m standing on their porch. Oddly, this never gets old. The door opens as usual and a sense of excitement fills me as I slip inside their house. What I’m doing is so wrong, yet I can’t seem to help myself. I can’t help being that Leah from a long time ago.
Everything looks exactly as it did yesterday except for the missing figurine. After being snubbed last night, I’m glad I took it. I walk around the living room, brushing my hands over metal sculptures and African tribal masks. Her taste is so refined that it nearly makes me cry. I walk over to the kitchen island and swipe my hand across the smooth granite countertop. I peek into their oversized fridge. Every shelf is filled with meats, cheeses, and expensive treats. I grab a nearly full bottle of Pinot Grigio, remove the cork, and take a long, delicious swig. It’s way too early to start in on the wine, but I don’t care now. Getting slighted by her last night still stings and I will do whatever I want, when I want.
I sit at the kitchen island for a few minutes and enjoy more of their wine.
Sometime later, up the stairs I go. I’ve never explored the second floor. The kids’ rooms are neat and orderly. I slip into the master bedroom. A tinge of jealousy fills me at first glance. It’s much bigger than ours and has an attached full bathroom with a hot tub. It’s spotless and classy. There are family photos hung along the walls. Camping in the woods. Hiking up a mountain trail. At the beach. I open a few drawers but find only clothes. It thrills me to be going through Clarissa’s things. She deserves such shabby treatment after the terrible way she snubbed me last night.
And then I find it, and it gives me the biggest thrill to date. A white dildo lies under her clothes and along the bottom of the drawer. I laugh hysterically. I’m no prude, not much of one anyway, but this really surprises me. I’ve heard about women who use such things, but up until now have never actually met one. I run my fingers along the rubber shaft, wondering how someone could possibly insert such a device into their body. I’m trembling with excitement knowing that I’m holding something taboo and so intimately connected to Clarissa. Does her husband know she keeps a white dildo instead of a black one? What does owning a white dildo say about her? That she prefers white men to black? Maybe the store was sold out of black ones. The irony causes me to laugh as I place it back under the folded clothes where I discovered it.
What else can I find? I snoop inside her nightstand until I come across an even bigger prize: a diary. It’s clearly Clarissa’s, judging by the pink color. I hold it in my hand as the first effects of the wine begin to worm deep into my cerebral cortex. Titillation fills me. I want badly to read it, but the darn thing is locked. How I’d love to know all her fears and innermost thoughts. If only I could open it, then maybe I could understand what makes her tick.
I shake it in frustration, but it fails to budge. I search frantically for the key, moving all the clothes aside in order to find it, but it is nowhere to be seen. I move to the drawers and search inside. As I’m doing this, the sound of a car door slams outside, causing me to freeze. This is not supposed to happen. I move to the window and see Clarissa’s car parked in the driveway. I can’t believe she’s come home so early, the one day I chose to snoop around. In all the time I’ve been watching her, she’s never returned at this hour.
What am I going to do?
The front door opens and closes. Panicked, I scramble around, trying desperately to put everything back in its place. I hope she won’t come up to the bedroom.
I hear her voice downstairs and realize that she’s talking to someone on the phone. Kneeling next to the bed, I remain perfectly still. But then the sound of her footsteps coming up the stairs fills me with dread. Her voice becomes louder the higher she climbs. I search for a place to hide. It’s then that I notice that the top drawer of her nightstand is open. Darn. It’s too late for me to close it without being seen. I slip under the bed and slide to the middle of the floor.
The mattress sags once Clarissa sits on it. She’s crying. Her words are muffled, but I can tell that she’s involved in a heated discussion. What’s wrong? She stops sobbing and stands next to the bed. Her high heels come off. Then her dress and shirt fall to the carpet. Her bra and underwear come off next until I presume she’s naked. Is she going to take a shower?
She says she misses someone. But who?
I realize I have to pee. Oh God. The coffee and wine have caught up to me, and I squirm in discomfort. Clarissa moves to the dresser and opens one of the drawers. She removes something that I cannot see. I try to look over my extended toes, but instead I tap my forehead against the overhead board. Ouch. Something lands on the floor to my right. I turn and see the long white head of the dildo pointing toward me. She leans over to pick it up but accidentally kicks it further under the bed until the dildo is resting against my arm.
Clarissa falls to her knees and I can clearly hear the sound of her voice. The words coming out of her mouth are dirty and sexually provocative. Her hand feels along the floor for the dildo. I grab it by the head and push it within reach of her hand. Her long nails tap along the oak floor and I notice that she has taken off her wedding ring. It takes a few seconds, but then she finds it and jumps back onto the bed.
Safe for now.
My bladder is pulsating and I’m afraid I might let go. Above me the mattress is bouncing inches from my face. Clarissa moans loudly, shouting that she’s a nasty whore and a dirty ho. A nigger bitch in need of a lesson. It pains me to hear such foul language coming out of her mouth.
I want to pee so bad it hur
ts, yet I’m also dispirited by her dirty little secret. Clarissa pleasures herself just above me, and for whatever reason, I can’t conform this behavior to my perception of her. I’ve never before used a dildo and have no intention to ever start. Clay and I make love twice a month, scheduled on the calendar and in a darkened room. He’s pleaded with me to try other positions, other “acts,” but I keep telling him that I’m not ready for it. The one time I tried to please him, he came too early and I gagged and ran out of the room. He apologized profusely, but I stomped out of the bedroom, humiliated and sick to my stomach, swearing to never attempt that “act” again. I showered and gargled for over an hour, trying to get that taste out of my mouth. I didn’t speak to Clay for three days, and it took quite a long time before he won back my trust.
Clarissa moans and finally lets out a shrill scream. Then there is silence. The silence seems far stranger than her loud cries of pleasure, and I imagine her sex toy lying on the bed next to her, glistening with bodily unguents and fluids. But it doesn’t last. She goes into the bathroom. I hear the shower running and in less than five minutes she’s back in the room and getting dressed. Her phone rings and she picks up, strapping on her high heels as she talks. I slide over, trying to make out what she is saying, but realize that she’s speaking in hushed tones.
Once she’s put on her heels, Clarissa stands and faces the bed. She ends the call and walks around to the other side. I’m so engrossed in her movements that I momentarily forget that I have to pee. She faces the nightstand and makes a strange noise that sounds like a gasp. She stands there for nearly a minute before slamming shut the top drawer that I’d failed to close. A few minutes later I hear the front door close. The Mercedes roars to life and then races out of the cul-de-sac. The sound of the motor eventually fades into the background.
Shaking with fear, I stay under the bed until I’m sure she’s gone. Part of me still thinks she’s inside the house, waiting to lash out at me for spying on her. Or maybe she parked down the road and is in hiding, hoping to ensnare me once I slip out the front door.
