A Deed With No Name

By Jenna Vincent

Rae Vigil stumbles into an ugly case of domestic violence with a young child caught in the middle. The parents are very powerful and the police are powerless. Torn between saving the child and professional confidentiality, every instinct tells her not to get involved, but sometimes instincts are wrong.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bywater Press
• Release date: Oct 20, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311610270

Jenna Vincent

Jenna Vincent lives in Colorado. She shares a friendly household with her family and a very loud pussycat who tries to help her write.

Book preview

I worship my pills. They slither between my fingers and blend into the jumble of colors on the dust covered linoleum floor, driving me to my hands and knees, tapping the floor, licking up dusty particles, the bitterness searing the tender insides of my cheeks, coating my throat with sand, ritual turned into religion. For eighteen days the phone rang shrill and piercing like an accusation. Taunting me, my eyelids felt covered in sandpaper, my throat ached. Shivering, I wrapped my threadbare faded green chenille robe tighter around me. The television set made a buzzing sound that grew louder and more insistent. I began to finger comb my long unwashed hair. I swung my legs onto the floor. As I sat up the room began to spin. The sound was not coming from the television. It was a scratching at the front door. I lifted my hand to unlock the deadbolt then stopped. How long had it been since I had been outside? I cracked the door open and peered into the darkness, seeing only clear soundless night. The air was hot and thick, an August night too humid to sleep. The city filled with restless tension. I closed the door and sat down in the last piece of furniture left in the living room, a cracked and faded tan faux leather recliner. The living room looked like a thief had been caught in the act and fled. Deep indentations in the green shag carpet where the couch had been. The built in bookshelves half empty with open books on their sides. Smudged outlines where pictures had clung to the walls.

I walked upstairs and peered into the bathroom mirror, unnerved by my reflection. I looked every minute of my 38 years. My green eyes were rimmed with red, the bags beneath them the pale purplish blue of bruises before they begin to fade. My long rust colored hair is my best feature. It is unruly so I usually wear it in a ponytail fastened in a silver barrette at the nape of my neck. The silver barrette is inlayed with a spiral Celtic pattern. It was the last gift from my father, before he died eleven years ago.

My hair was so dirty and matted it had lost its curl and stuck in clumps all over my head. My normally pale skin was dull and chalky. Small red pimples lined the bottom of my chin. While the bath water was warming I pulled my ratty flannel nightgown over my head. I don’t look as puffy as I usually do. I had lost weight. I had stopped taking the fertility drugs the day Paul left.

For eight years all methods of tracking time ceased to exist, my monthly period became my prime meridian. Life was lived month by month, with every month the same. First, the hoping that this month would be THE month. Then the daily injections of Lupron, then the bloating, the crankiness, the weeping for no reason, the silent prayers that these were symptoms of success. Always finding the inevitable crimson stain in my underwear.

I stepped into the shower. The warm water felt like an elixir. I washed the mats out of my hair, combed conditioner through the tangles and put it in a ponytail fastened with my silver barrette. I put on my favorite outfit: blue jeans and a white blouse. I had nowhere to go at 11:13 p.m, but, I needed the feel of clothes on my skin.

I went downstairs to the kitchen and began sorting through my mail. I laid the bills to one side. For the last eight years all cash had been spent on fertility treatments and decorating the baby’s room. The baby’s room, painted in soft yellow with a white crib, mobiles, stuffed animals. The rocking chair I had refinished sat in the corner. While I was sanding it and applying coat after coat of varnish, I imagined nursing my newborn, all pink and small and helpless.

I needed to get out of the house. What would be open now that I was wide-awake? Finally, dressed for the first time in days? Weeks? I didn’t know where I was going but I had to go somewhere. The Saturn took a while to turn over. I pulled out of the driveway into the narrow street. It was eerily quiet and I felt somehow guilty for being up and out at this time of night. When I got to the corner, I looked both ways stalling for time. But I knew where I was going. The 7-11 was deserted; the clerk was reading a Mad magazine.

A pack of Marlboros.

Golds? Hardbox?

Yes.

I slid the $3.25 over the counter, he stared at me.

Been a while, huh?

What do you mean?

It’s $5.75 a pack.

I dug in my purse for the rest, and placed it on the counter. He thrust a book of matches at me. Yeah, it had been a while; it had been a bitch to give up smoking. The first in a long line of things I had given up when Paul and I had begun our crusade. Cigarettes, coffee, spontaneous sex, wine and god knows what else, the list was so long I couldn’t remember, simple everyday indulgences replaced by pills and shots and probing indignities. All for nothing.

I walked outside and leaned against the brick wall inhaling spilled beer, gasoline and urine. I tore the cellophane off the pack. It rustled and crunched in my fingers. I slid my fingernail under the gold paper and lifted. Eight years since I had inhaled a cigarette, I believed the cravings were long gone. But like a lover you never quite get over, the craving was just waiting for me to remember and call it back. One cigarette slid out, long, white, and thin. The memory in my fingers jumped alive with anticipation. I put it between my lips, fumbling several times lighting the match. Finally I pulled the lit match toward my lips and hesitated. A threshold I was afraid to cross, a dark chasm with no light. A place I did not want to go, but there was nowhere else to go. I lowered the match to the cigarette and succumbed, sucking the smoke into my lungs. I refused to let myself cough, I leaned my head back against the wall and blew out a long steady stream of smoke, no negotiation, absolute, total surrender.

I decided I wanted a job. So, three days later, I had a job interview. I have a B.A. in Business Administration from U.C.L.A. I last worked as a pharmaceutical rep for Amgen, I was laid off three years ago. Paul had been promoted at Janus and since we were sure I would get pregnant any minute there seemed no reason to find another job. I didn’t want anything in sales, I wasn’t ready for the pressure of a quota, but I wanted a reason to get dressed and out of the house.

I rummaged in the closet for my black suit, thank god it was clean. As I slipped on the straight skirt, I noticed that it was bagging in the back. A safety pin would probably hold it for now. The jacket still fit but the sleeves hung down below my wrists, as though I had shrunk. I braided my hair, which was starting to come back to life now that I put conditioner on it every morning. I put on a light sweep of mascara over my top lashes and a touch of nude lipstick. Even nude lipstick seemed too bright as though my face had faded. I picked up the premarin and the empty vials and the syringes and the pill cutters and the vitamins. I tossed the prepregnancy paraphernalia into the wastebasket where it overflowed onto the bathroom floor. I just left it all there, a scattered disorganized mess.

I didn’t expect much from this interview, just a way to practice smiling and answering stupid questions. I arrived five minutes before our scheduled time. I had a Rolling Stones t-shirt from the 78 world tour that was older than the debutante interviewing me. She had fluffy blonde hair framing her round face, the style popular and unattractive. She wore a severe cut beige linen dress I guessed to be Anne Taylor. It made her look as though she had raided her mother’s closet to play dress up. Her ears held slender gold hoops, which disappeared into her mass of hair. She led me down a beige hall to a small room with an oblong table and two chairs. I sat in the plastic chair at the far end of the table.

She clutched her clipboard tightly and went down her list of questions with the precision of a drill sergeant. Why did I want to work for CMC? Was I available to work nights and weekends? Would I have a problem finding childcare? All roads led to the children I do not have.

She kept turning over her thick wrist to look at her watch and didn’t bother listening to my answers. Suddenly she looked me straight in the eye.

If you were going to be an animal what kind of animal would you be?

How could I possibly answer a question this absurd? I stared out the window where a light snow had begun to fall. I would be a hippopotamus.

She smiled, her teeth showing, perfectly straightened, two shades over whitened. She checked a final box on her form and reached over to shake my hand. Smiled. Welcome to CMC, we are glad to have you on our team. She looked down at her clipboard. Rae.

Thank you for the opportunity.

Report to training at 8:00 next Wednesday. The green room just down the hall. she pointed a red lacquered bitten index finger.

Where is the nearest place to get a bite to eat?

Down the street on the left hand side is a diner. Lazy Jane’s, it’s very popular.

Thanks again. She hurried off to find out what kind of animal the next applicant wanted to be.

I wandered to my car and peeled off my wool blazer. Despite the snow, I felt both itchy and sweaty. I glanced down the street. The diner had a green neon sign with the letters Z and E burnt out; it announced La-y, Jan-s, but the blinking on the s was sporadic, soon it would read La-y Jan, inspiring god knows how many jokes. The huge round clock over the sign on the front door said 9:48. My stomach was growling so I walked down the street. I forgot how much I hated high heels, I was glad I made it without falling on my ass. Pulling open the heavy glass door, I was hit by a blast of overheated air.

Lazy Jane’s looked like every other diner, a long counter with round red leather seats on top of silver stands. Silver coat rack just inside the door. Jukebox in the corner. I always wonder about the people who have to work in restaurants with a jukebox. Is there a 12-year old that comes in with a roll of quarters and plays her favorite song over and over and over? The song is always something mind-numbing with a chorus like we had joy, we had fun, we had seasons in the sun. Do the employees want to run screaming out of the restaurant after the third repeat or does it all mingle together as background noise of the day?

My eyes wandered over the posters of James Dean and Marilyn Monroe. Red leather booths with graffiti scratched into the backs of the wooden headrests. Crude heart shapes. David loves Jennifer 1963, Steve sucks, and Crips rule, stop the war. Which war was never mentioned. 10,000 breakfasts, countless cups of spilt black coffee, one hundred birthday celebrations over pie, lingering lunches with a side of gossip, bus riders desperate for a place to escape a surprise downpour. Insomniacs, refusing to face another night staring at the ceiling. The ghosts of Lazy Jane’s.

In the photograph on the wall above the counter a black and white photo of the original owner, balding, smiling, sweeping his arm across the expanse of counter as if to say look: this is all mine. Lazy Jane’s had been open 24 hours since 12:00 am January 1, 1918, age seeped through her walls and bleeding onto the chipped linoleum floor. We are always here, a place you can count on when you are hungry, lonely, tired or sad, serving coffee and pie.

It was the lull between the breakfast rush and lunch. One old man sat in a back booth, studying the racing form, the chewed up stub of a pencil behind his ear. His brown eyes darting back and forth, searching for the long shot in the fifth he was sure would change his life forever. I slid onto the stool at the counter and kicked my high heels off. Before I could even drop my purse on the floor, she appeared, pad poised. Her worn nametag said Muriel. The L almost completely rubbed away. She looked like a Muriel, odd because the name is given to infants. I can’t fathom a mother looking at a newborn baby girl, all rosy cheeked and thinking, you look like a Muriel. Muriel is a name for someone who is sixty, you can’t envision someone named Muriel being six with two front teeth missing, twelve with braids playing on the monkey bars. And girls named Muriel never grow up to be Miss America or movie stars. Those girls are always named Amber or Kelly or Jennifer. If your mother names you Muriel it is because she thinks you were born looking weary.

Her face is small and wrinkled; her pink polyester waitress uniform just hangs on her stocky frame. Her hair has faded and is a nondescript shade which defies you to guess the original color. Age has stolen the luster from her once blue eyes but not the mischief.

I will start with a cup of black coffee. Behind me was the glass booth filled with pies; lemon meringue, chocolate silk, apple crumb. No more sacrifice, I would rekindle my love affair with refined sugar.

I am celebrating. Which pie do you recommend?

She sniffed. They are all good.

Then she leaned on an elbow and said, but I am partial to the chocolate silk. The straining button across her belly was confirmation of this fact.

Okay, I’ll try it.

She turned to the pie cabinet.

What are you celebrating? She asked cutting me a generous slice of pie.

I just got a job.

Do you want it a la mode?

It’s 10:00 o clock in the morning.

Yeah, you look like one of those people who live their life by the rules.

When had I become so transparent and dull?

Okay, I will take two scoops, one chocolate and one vanilla.

Really going for broke. she grinned. The back tooth on the right side was gold. Is the new job at CMC? She jerked a thumb pointing across the street

Yes. I am going to respond to security alarms.

Oh she responded noncommittally.

I haven’t worked in a while, I have been trying to have a baby for 8 years and my husband just left me and ... I couldn’t stop talking. What is it about waitress in diners that make you want to tell them your life story?

Instead of raising bored eyes to heaven as though this was a story she had heard too many times to count, she shoved my pie in front of me, poured herself a cup of coffee and walked around the counter and sat down on the stool next to me. She put her elbows on the counter gulping a mouthful of coffee in one swift motion.

Somehow they always leave, she stared right at me. Don’t they?, she said as if this was an accepted scientific fact. Who knows? You might be better off without him, she shrugged.

Could be. I took a bite of pie, the chocolate melted in my mouth. I reached over to my left and unrolled a place setting, handed her a fork. Celebrate with me.

No, I couldn’t. She shook her head.

It is bad for business to let me celebrate alone.

Well, just a bit. she acquiesced, taking a generous forkful.

Do you have a dog? I asked her for no reason. Words just seemed to keep spilling out of my mouth.

No, I live in an apartment a few blocks from here, can’t have animals there.

Must be nice to be able to walk to work.

Except for a few terrible days in February it isn’t too bad. Never learned to drive.

How come?

My family couldn’t afford a car when I was younger, and then the years went by and hell, I don’t know, I just didn’t.

I am thinking about getting a dog. I always wanted one, but Paul would never let me have one. The mess and all that.

She helped herself to another forkful of pie.

The way I see it, he isn’t around anymore so it doesn’t matter what he wants. If you always wanted a dog, go over to that animal friend’s thing…

Dumb Friends League.

That’s it, just go get yourself a dog.

I might.

We worked on the ice cream and pie in companionable silence until three new customers walked in. She placed her fork next to my plate. Duty calls. she said and went to hand out menus. I finished the pie and washed it down with coffee. I paid my check, slipped my feet into my heels and stepped outside. The snow was heavier and the wind had picked up. I sloshed through the snow to the car. I thought about going home but the double infusion of caffeine and sugar was buzzing through my brain.

So I went and got myself a dog. A German Shepherd. On the smallish side, chocolate brown with black patches, he had German Shepherd ears but they hadn’t grown long enough so they kept flopping over. He was seven months old. His tail was too long for his body. I wondered if he would grow into it. When I put him into the car, he wagged his tail so hard his whole body shook. Your name is Bogart, okay? He was so happy to leave the Dumb Friends League that he didn’t complain. He curled up on the front seat as I backed out of my space. He opened his brown eyes wide as if to ask What in the hell took you so long to find me?

When we got home, I carried him into the house and let him down gently; he took off like a rocket to explore his new home. I rifled through the pantry. It had been weeks since I went to the market. On the bottom shelf behind an ancient box of reduced fat biscuit mix that was never going to get used, I found a can of corned beef hash. Blowing the dust off the can, I opened it and plopped it into the bowl in one huge lump, it was pink chunks with white speckles of something. The smell excited Bogart. He came bounding down the stairs so fast, he missed a few steps and stumbled. I put the bowl on the floor.

He devoured the entire can without taking a breath. Then looked up at me and cocked his head. I put down a bowl of water. He drank in big long noisy laps. I scratched him behind the ears. He walked over and started to sniff at the sliding glass door. I let him out and he went to explore my big barren backyard. For the rest of the night we played the let me in, then let me back out game. He went everywhere from 0 to 60 in 0.4 seconds. About 10:00 he exhausted himself and nestled beside me on the couch. I turned on the T.V. looking for Humphrey Bogart. I didn’t find him so we watched the evening news till we fell asleep.

The next morning, I woke stiff from the couch. I ground some coffee beans and brewed an entire pot of Peaberry Mocha