Black Dahlia White Rose: Stories Page 4

  All this while Lisette had been waiting, for Nowicki to be distracted. The beer-buzz was fading, she was beginning to lose her nerve. Passing a lipstick-kiss to J-C. like saying All right if you screw me, fuck me—whatever. Hey here I am.

  Except maybe it was just a joke—so many things were jokes—you’d have to negotiate the more precise meaning, later.

  If there was a later. Lisette wasn’t into thinking too seriously about later.

  Wiped her eyes with her fingertips like she wasn’t supposed to do since the surgery—Your fingers are dirty Lisette you must not touch your eyes with your dirty fingers there is the risk of infection—oh God she hated how both her eyes filled with tears in cold months and in bright light like this damn fluorescent light in all the school rooms and corridors so her mother had got permission for Lisette to wear dark-purple-tinted sunglasses to school, that made her look—like, cool—like she’s in high school not middle school, sixteen or seventeen not thirteen.

  Hell you’re not thirteen—are you? You?

  One of her mother’s man friends eyeing her suspiciously. Like, why’d she want to play some trick about her age?

  He’d been mostly an asshole, this friend of her mother’s. Chester—“Chet.” But kind of nice, he’d lent Momma some part of the money she’d needed for Lisette’s eye doctor.

  Now Lisette was as tall as her mother. It was hard to get used to seeing Momma just her height—a look of, like, fright in Momma’s face, that her daughter was catching up with her, fast.

  They’d said she was slow. Slow learner. They’d said mild dyslexia. But with glasses, she could read better up close. Except if her eyes watered and she had to keep blinking and blinking and sometimes that didn’t even help.

  That morning she’d had to get up by herself. Get her own breakfast—sugar-glaze Wheaties—eating in front of the TV—and she hated morning-TV, cartoons and crap or worse yet “news”—she’d slept in her clothes for the third night—black T-shirt, underwear, wool socks—dragged on her jeans, a scuzzy black-wool sweater of her mother’s with TAJ embossed on the back in turquoise satin. And her boots.

  Checked the phone messages but there were none new.

  Friday night 9 P.M. her mother had called, Lisette had seen the caller ID and hadn’t picked up. Fuck you going away, why the fuck should I talk to you.

  Later, feeling kind of scared hearing loud voices out in the street she’d tried to call her mother’s cell phone number. But the call didn’t go through.

  Fuck you I hate you anyway. Hate hate hate you!

  Unless Momma brought her back something nice—like when she and Lisette’s father went to Fort Lauderdale for their second honeymoon and Momma brought Lisette back a pink-coral-colored outfit—tunic top, pants.

  Even with all that went wrong in Fort Lauderdale, Momma remembered to bring Lisette a gift.

  Now it happened—and it happened fast.

  Nowicki went to the door—classroom door—where someone was knocking and quick!—with a pounding heart Lisette leaned over to hand the wadded Kleenex-note to Keisha who tossed it onto J-C’s desk like it was a hot coal—and J-C blinked at the note like it was some weird beetle that had fallen from the ceiling—and without glancing over at Keisha, or at Lisette peering at him through the dark-purple-tinted glasses, with a gesture like shrugging his shoulders—J-C was so cool—all he did was shut the wadded Kleenex in his fist and shove it into a pocket of his jeans.

  Any other guy, he’d open the note to see what it was. But not Jimmy Chang. Like J-C was so accustomed to girls tossing him notes in class, he hadn’t much curiosity what it was the snarl-haired girl in the dark glasses had sent him, or maybe he had a good idea what it was. Kiss-kiss. Kiss-kiss-kiss. The main thing was, J-C hadn’t just laughed and crumpled it up like trash.

  By now Lisette’s mouth was dry like cotton. This was the first time she’d passed such a note to J-C—or to any boy. And the beer-buzz that had made her feel so happy and hopeful was rapidly fading.

  Like frothy surf withdrawing with the tide, the beach is left littered with pathetic putrid crap like desiccated jellyfish, fish heads and bones, hypodermic needles from what the newspapers called medical waste dumped in the ocean off New York City, borne to the New Jersey coast.

  Voices scolded but were mostly admiring, envious—Y’know Lisette Mueller—she’s hot.

  She’d had a half-beer, maybe. Swilling it down outside in the parking lot behind where the buses parked and fouled the air with exhaust stinging the eyes but the guys didn’t seem to notice loud-talking and loud-laughing and she could see, the way they looked at her sometimes, Lisette Mueller was hot.

  Except: she’d spilled beer on her jacket. Beer stains on the dark-green corduroy her mother would detect, if she sniffed at it. When Momma returned home probably that night.

  This Monday, in January—it was January—she’d lost track of the actual date like what the fuck’d she do with the little piece of paper her mother’d given her, from the eye doctor, pres-ciption it’s called, for the drugstore, for the eyedrops. This her mother’d given her last week last time she’d seen Momma, maybe Thursday morning. Or Wednesday. And this was some kind of steroid-solution she needed for her eye after the surgery but the damn pres-ciption she couldn’t find now not in any pocket in her jacket or backpack or in the kitchen at home, or in her bedroom, or—like on the floor by the boots—in the hall where they hung their coats—not anywhere.

  Nowicki was at the door now turned looking at—who?—Lisette?—like a bad dream where you’re singled out—some stranger, and this looked like a cop, coming to your classroom to ask for you.

  “Lisette? Can you step out into the hall with us, please.”

  Next to Nowicki was a woman, in a uniform—had to be Atlantic City PD—Hispanic features and skin-color and dark hair drawn back tight and sleek in a knot; and everybody in the classroom riveted now, awake and staring and poor Lisette in her seat like she’s paralyzed, stunned—“Lis-sette Muel-ler? Will you step out in the hall with us, please”—like waking from a dream Lisette tried to stand, biting at her lip trying to stand, fuck her feet were tangled in her backpack straps, a roaring in her ears through which the female cop’s voice penetrated—repeating what she’d said in a sharper voice and adding personal possessions, please—meaning that Lisette should take her things with her—she was going to be taken out of school—wouldn’t be returning to the classroom.

  So scared, she belched beer. Sour-vomity-beer taste in her mouth and—oh Christ!—what if the female cop smelled her breath.

  And in the corridor a worse roaring in her ears as in a tunnel in which sounds are amplified so loud you can’t distinguish anything clearly—out of the Hispanic woman’s lips came bizarre sounds eiii-dee—if you are Lisette Mueller—come with me.

  Eiii-dee—eiii-dee—like a gull’s cry borne on the wind rising and snatched-away even as you strained desperately to hear.

  *

  Turned out, there were two cops who’d come for her.

  If you are Lis-ette Mueller. Come with us!

  Now her head was clearing a little, she began to hear I.D.

  The Hispanic policewoman introduced herself—Officer Molina. Like, Lisette was going to remember this name, let alone use it—Officer Molina! That had to be a joke.

  The other cop was a man—a little younger than the Hispanic woman—his skin so acne-scarred and smudged-looking you’d be hard put to say he was white.

  Both of them looking at Lisette like—what? Like they felt sorry for her, or were disgusted with her, or—what? She saw the male cop’s eyes drop to her tight-fitting jeans with a red-rag-patch at the knee, then up again to her blank scared face.

  It wouldn’t be note-passing in math class, they’d come to arrest her for. Maybe at the Rite Aid—the other day—plastic lipstick tubes marked down to sixty-nine cents in a bin—almost, Lisette’s fingers had snatched three of them up, and into her pocket, without her knowing what she did . . .

&nb
sp; “You are—‘Lisette Mueller’—daughter of ‘Yvette Mueller’—yes?”

  Numbly Lisette nodded—yes.

  “Resident of—‘2991 North Seventh Street, Atlantic City’—yes?”

  Numbly Lisette nodded—yes.

  Officer Molina did the talking. Lisette’s heart was beating hard and quick. She was too frightened to react when Molina took hold of her arm at the elbow—not forcibly but firmly—as a female relation might; walking Lisette to the stairs, and down the stairs, talking to her in a calm kindly matter-of-fact voice signaling You will be all right. This will be all right. Just come with us, you will be all right.

  “How recently did you see your mother, Lisette? Or speak with your mother? Was it—today?”

  Today? What was today? Lisette couldn’t remember.

  “Has your mother been away, Lisette? And did she call you?”

  Numbly Lisette shook her head—no.

  “Your mother isn’t away? But she isn’t at home—is she?”

  Lisette tried to think. What was the right answer. A weird scared smile made her mouth twist in the way that pissed her mother who mistook the smile for something else.

  They’d been to the house, maybe. They’d been to the house looking for Yvette Mueller and knew she wasn’t there. Molina said:

  “When did you speak with your mother last, Lisette?”

  This was hard to determine. It wouldn’t be the right answer, Lisette reasoned, to say that her mother had called and left a phone message—would it?

  Shyly Lisette mumbled she didn’t know.

  “But not this morning? Before you went to school?”

  “No. Not—this morning.” Lisette shook her head grateful for something to say that was definite.

  They were outside, at the rear of the school. A police cruiser was parked in the fire lane. Lisette felt a taste of panic—were they taking her to the cruiser? She was being arrested, taken to juvie court. The boys in J-C’s posse joked about juvie court, fam’ly court.

  In the cold wet air smelling of the ocean Lisette felt the last of the beer-buzz evaporate. She hated it how the cops—both cops—were staring at her like they’d never seen anything so sad, so pathetic, maybe disgusting before—like some sniveling little mangy dog. They could see her pimply skin at her hairline and every snarl in her dirt-colored frizz-hair she hadn’t taken the time to comb, or run a brush through, let alone shampoo for four, five days. And she hadn’t had a shower, either.

  That long, her mother had been away.

  Away for the weekend with—who?—that was one of Momma’s secrets. Could be a new friend—“Exciting new friend” Yvette always described them on the phone—some man she’d met at the casino probably—there were lots of roving unattached men in Atlantic City—if they won in the casino they needed to celebrate with someone, and if they lost in the casino they needed to be cheered up by someone—Yvette Mueller was the one!—honey-colored hair not dirt-colored (which was her natural hair color) in waves to her shoulder, sparkly eyes, a quick nice soothing laugh that was what a man wanted to hear, not something sharp and ice-picky driving him up the wall.

  Lisette had asked her mother who this was she was going away for the weekend with and Momma’d said nobody you know; but some way she’d smiled, not at Lisette but to herself, some unfathomable look like the expression of the face of one about to step into mid-air—step off the diving board, or into the (empty) elevator shaft—made Lisette think suddenly—Daddy?

  She knew that her mother was still in contact with her father. Some way she knew this, though Momma would not have told her. Even after the divorce which had been a nasty divorce, they’d been in contact.

  That was because—(as Daddy had explained to her)—she would always be his daughter.

  All else might be changed, like where Daddy lived, and if Daddy and Mommy were married—but not that. Not ever.

  So Lisette persisted asking her mother was it Daddy she was going away with, was it Daddy, was it?—nagging at Momma until Momma laughed saying Hell no! No way I’m seeing that asshole again.

  But something in the way her mother laughed, some slide of her eyes like she was excited, and feeling good about it, and reckless-seeming, like she’d been drinking though Lisette didn’t think she had been, just then—something made Lisette think Daddy!

  Lisette mumbled she wasn’t sure—when she’d seen her mother last.

  “I guess—maybe—Saturday . . .”

  It hadn’t been Saturday. More like Thursday. But she was thinking—with a part of her mind almost calmly thinking—that there might be some New Jersey state law, an adult parent could not leave an underage child alone and unsupervised for more than a day or two—maybe even a single day—and she did not want her mother to get into trouble.

  Sure she hated Momma sometimes, she was pissed at Momma lots of times but she did not want Momma to get into trouble with the cops.

  They were staring at her now guiltily faltering, fumbling, “—could’ve been, like, just yesterday—or—day before—”

  Her heart thumped in her chest like a crazed sparrow throwing itself against a window like she’d seen in a garage once, the little brown bird trapped inside the garage up by the ceiling beating its wings and exhausting itself.

  Yvette Mueller was in trouble with the law—was that it?

  In trouble with the law—again?

  Christmas before last Lisette’s mother had been ticketed for DWI—driving while intoxicated—and for failing to have her auto registration and insurance in the car.

  Earlier, when Lisette was a little girl, there’d been some other charges, too. Whatever came of these, Lisette never knew.

  The only court Lisette had been in, with her mother, was Ocean County Family Court. Here, the judge had awarded custody to Yvette Mueller and visitation privileges to Duane Mueller. If something happened to Yvette Mueller now, Lisette would be removed from their rented house and placed in a foster home. It wasn’t possible for Lisette to live with her father who was now a sergeant in the U.S. Army and last she’d heard was about to be deployed to Iraq for the third time.

  Deployed was a strange word—a strange sound. De-ployed.

  Daddy hadn’t meant to hurt her, she knew. Even Momma believed this which was why she hadn’t called 911. And when the doctor at the ER asked Lisette how her face had been so bruised, the temporal bone broken, her nose and eye socket broken, she’d said it was an accident on the stairs, she’d been running, and she fell.

  Which was true. She’d been running, and she fell. And Daddy shouting behind her, swiping with his fists—not meaning to hit her, or to hurt her. But he’d been pissed.

  And all the things Daddy said afterward were what you wanted to hear, what made you cry, you wanted so badly to hear. Though knowing even as you were hearing them that Daddy was going away soon again—de-ployed. And so it would not matter whether the things that Daddy promised were true or not-so-true.

  “And your father? Have you seen your father, Lisette? How recently have you seen your father?”

  So she could wear dark-purple-tinted glasses at school. And Momma had let her pick out the frames she’d wanted. And J-C had an older brother paralyzed from the waist down, victim of a drive-by shooting, so J-C was cool with people looking freaky, if anything this would call J-C’s attention to the snarl-haired girl who gazed at him like a lovestruck puppy and who blushed red when he caught her.

  Pain like gulls picking at something alive, in her repaired face. But it was worth it, if J-C took notice. If any of the guys took notice. Liz-ette!

  Liz-zzzette!

  Her mother had gone away for the weekend—“I can trust you, Lisette—right?”—and Lisette said sure, sure you can.

  Alone in the house meant that Lisette could stay up as late as she wanted watching TV. And she could watch as much TV as she wanted. And any channel she wanted. And lie sprawled on the sofa talking on her cell phone as much as she wanted.

  It was a short walk to the
minimall—Kentucky Fried Chicken, Vito’s Pizzeria, Taco Bell. Though alone in the house it was easier just to defrost frozen suppers in the microwave and eat in the living room watching TV.

  The first night, Friday, Yvette was gone just a few hours when Lisette’s friend Keisha came over. The girls watched a DVD Keisha brought over and ate what they could find in the refrigerator.

  “It’s cool, your mother gone away. Where’s she gone?”

  Lisette shrugged. Philadelphia, New York—who gave a damn?

  “Wow! New York?” Keisha was impressed. “Who’d she go with?”

  Lisette thought. Possibly, her mother had gone to Vegas after all. With her man friend, or whoever. This time of year, depressing-cold and wet by the ocean, the smartest place you’d want to go would be Vegas.

  “She’s got lots of friends there, from the casino. She’s welcome to go out there, anytime. She’d have taken me except for damn, dumb school.”

  In the cruiser, the male cop drove. Molina sat in the passenger’s seat turned to look at Lisette. Her cherry-red lips were bright in her face like something on a billboard that was otherwise weatherworn and raddled. The sleek black hair shone like a seal’s coat, the sharp dark eyes shone with a strange unknowable unspeakable knowledge. It was a look Lisette had seen often in the faces of women—usually, women older than her mother—when they looked at you not in disgust or disapproval but sudden sympathy seeing you.

  Lisette was uneasy with that look. She’d seen it in Nowicki’s face, too. Better was the look of quick disgust, dismay—the woman seeing the girl like somebody she’d never been, or could even remember.