Things We Do in the Dark(23)

PART TWO


What a life to take, what a bond to break, I’ll be missing you

—PUFF DADDY AND FAITH EVANS, FEATURING 112





CHAPTER TEN





RUBY REYES, #METOO VICTIM, HAS BEEN GRANTED PAROLE AFTER SERVING 25 YEARS FOR MURDER


Drew Malcolm assumed the article was a joke at first, because it sounds like something written for a satire news outlet like The Onion. But it’s not a prank, it’s really happening, and the headline is so absurd that he has to read it several times before it finally sinks in.

The Ice Queen, a victim? If it wasn’t such an insult to actual #MeToo victims, Drew might have laughed. But there is nothing funny about Joey Reyes’s mother getting out of prison. And he’s so mad about it, he’s decided he’s finally going to break the vow he made to himself after he landed his first real job as a journalist, not long after Joey died.

He’s going to talk about the Ice Queen on his podcast. Ruby Reyes may be getting out of prison, but if Drew has anything at all to say about it, she will never be free. Because not only is the woman a murderer, she was an absolute horror of a mother.

Fuck that psychopathic bitch.



* * *



They arrested Ruby Reyes on a hot, sticky June night in 1992.

It was a quiet affair, even with the two police cars, the ambulance, and the woman from child protective services. The flashing rays of red and blue from the first-responder vehicles cut through the darkness, lighting up the trees in the lakeside park across the way, illuminating the dirty brick exterior of the run-down low-rise apartment building where Ruby and her thirteen-year-old daughter, Joey, lived.

The neighbors stepped out onto their balconies to see what was going on. Police vehicles in this neighborhood were common, but usually they were called because of the activities that took place in Willow Park after dark. Drug deals. Sexual transactions. Teenagers doing what teenagers do when they’re out past curfew. Fights between homeless people with nowhere else to go.

This, in comparison, was tame. Ruby didn’t protest or struggle. If anything, she seemed inconvenienced as she was led out of the building’s lobby in handcuffs, as if being arrested was a minor misunderstanding that would all be rectified soon.

“Mama,” Joey said, leaping down from the back of the ambulance where a paramedic was tending to a cut above her eyebrow. It didn’t hurt too much, but her ribs were sore, and she knew from experience that her torso would be blue and purple in the morning. She ran to Ruby and threw her arms around her waist, pressing her face into her mother’s chest. “Mama, I’m sorry.”

The social worker who was standing behind Joey removed her gently. Ruby glanced down at her daughter, the lights flashing across her face. Even in her old, stained nightgown, with her hair stringy and unwashed, Ruby was beautiful.

“Oh, Joey.” Her voice was soft, almost tender. But behind her dark eyes, there was nothing. They were two black holes, sucking in the light, sucking in everything. “What have you done?”

The officers escorting her tugged Ruby’s arm, and Joey’s mother continued on, chin up, head high, somehow managing to look magnificent despite the circumstances. One of the officers placed a hand on her head, and she sank into the back seat of the police car as gracefully as anyone could.

Deborah Jackson, the social worker assigned to the case, managed to catch Joey just as her knees buckled. Strong arms wrapped around the young girl as her whole body began to shake. It wasn’t because Joey was cold. There was a heat wave in Toronto that week, and even here by the lake at eleven at night, it was 30 degrees Celsius, with a humidity index of 37. Worse, the heat felt grimy. This part of Lake Ontario always stank in the summer, the heat trapping the smells of shit and garbage and pollution from the factories not far away.

The social worker wasn’t strong enough to hold Joey back. As the police car pulled away with her mother inside it, Joey wriggled out of the woman’s sweaty grasp to chase after it in her bare feet, screaming for Ruby all the way down Willow Avenue until the car and the lights and her mother disappeared.

The newspapers would report the scene as heartbreaking. But for the residents who lived at 42 Willow Avenue, it wasn’t exactly surprising. They’d known for a long time that something wasn’t right. They’d seen the bruises and the hollowed-out look in the girl’s eyes as she stood next to them in the elevator. They’d heard the shouting and the sounds of things crashing from inside Ruby’s apartment at all times of the day.

“Well, it wasn’t every day,” Mr. Malinowski was overheard saying to the police the night of Ruby’s arrest. He was the building superintendent who lived on the first floor. “I mean, was she skinny? Sure, but a lot of girls are at that age. Did I once see a bruise on her cheek? Sure, but she’s a kid. Did I ask if she was all right? Of course I did, and her mother said she fell off her bike. What was I supposed to do, accuse her of lying?”

Except Joey didn’t have a bike. Nor did she have a skateboard, or Rollerblades, or any of the other things that had supposedly caused the purple welts that occasionally popped up in different places on her face and body.

“She did have a bandage around her arm once,” said Mrs. Finch, who lived down the hall from them with her unemployed adult son. She was eager to talk to the police since she was the one who had finally called them. “The girl looked embarrassed, said she tripped and fell, that she was a klutz. I always knew something wasn’t right. But I never actually saw her mother do anything, so what could I do? And besides, it was none of my business. Okay, fine, I admit I never liked the woman much. She was a floozy, always wearing those short skirts and high heels, her tatas up to here, and every few months a different boyfriend. But the girl is what, twelve? Thirteen? If something was going on, she should have said so, or how else is anyone supposed to know?”