Things We Do in the Dark(30)

“Gorgeous,” he said. “You are a beautiful girl. You’re going to give your mama a run for her money in the next few years.” He winked. But not at Ruby, at her.

Her mother’s smile flickered, but remained.

The next morning, Joey woke up to a quiet apartment. When she came out of her bedroom, her mother was sitting at the dining room table, still in her nightie, hair in disarray, looking out the window at the park across the street. She was smoking yet another cigarette. If Charles had spent the night, he was gone now; his shoes weren’t by the door.

“So, you think you can flirt with my boyfriend, do you?” Ruby turned away from the window and stared at her daughter. “You little slut.”

“What?” Joey said, still half awake.

It was just one word, and a benign word at that. But the minute it slipped out of her mouth, she knew it was a mistake. She had dared to speak, and that was all it took. Ruby was out of her chair, and before Joey could react, her mother’s lit cigarette pressed into her neck just above her collarbone, a centimeter away from the chain of her new necklace. She cried out, the heat from the Marlboro searing and intense. Then Ruby spat in her face, her warm, tobacco-scented saliva spraying across Joey’s eyes and cheeks.

“Mama, please—” Joey said, but before she could finish, her mother backhanded her across the face.

Then Ruby hit her again, and again, and again, until finally, blessedly, everything went black.

When Joey came to—one minute later? Ten minutes later?—she was lying near the sofa in the living room, the cigarette inches away from her face on the scratched parquet floor. Someone was rapping at the door, and judging from the volume and pace, they’d been knocking for a while.

Her eyesight cleared a little, and she watched as Ruby stomped toward the door to fling it open.

It was Mrs. Finch, their neighbor at the end of the hall. Her body was partially obscured by Ruby standing in the doorway, but her pale green housecoat and matching slippers were easily recognizable. She was on her way to the garbage chute; she had a stuffed white trash bag in one hand.

“What do you want?” Ruby snapped at the woman. “Has it ever occurred to you that if someone doesn’t answer their door after five minutes, then maybe they don’t want to?”

Ruby’s tone was aggressive, and from her vantage point on the floor, Joey saw Mrs. Finch’s slippered feet back up a step. “I … I heard…”

“You heard what?”

The neighbor took another step back, but not before she glanced past Ruby to see Joey lying on the floor. They locked eyes briefly, and while Joey could have tried to signal for help, she didn’t.

It never worked. Nobody ever helped. It only made things worse.

Instead, Joey tried to smile, to reassure Mrs. Finch that she was fine, that it was just a silly accident, no big deal. If she could have actually said those words, she would have, but her brain was too fuzzy to form a coherent sentence. At least she didn’t have the wind knocked out of her this time. While she knew now that a punch to the gut could trigger a spasm in her diaphragm that felt terrible but wouldn’t kill her (don’t be ridiculous, you’re always so fucking dramatic), not being able to breathe for a few seconds always made her feel like she might die.

“Is she all right?” Mrs. Finch blurted. “Your daughter?”

Ruby’s body turned rigid, and while Joey couldn’t see her mother’s face, she could imagine it. When Ruby answered, her voice was cool. “She’s fine. She tripped.”

The neighbor backed up another step, and now Joey couldn’t see the woman at all. “She … she doesn’t look well,” she heard Mrs. Finch stammer from the hallway. “You should help her.”

“Are you telling me how to parent my daughter, Mrs. Finch?” Ruby’s voice dropped to a low growl.

Not a good sign. Mrs. Finch needed to leave. Right away.

“Just … keep it down, please,” the neighbor said. It sounded like a weak imitation of someone trying to sound authoritative. But she did not sound authoritative. She sounded nervous, and scared. “I could hear screaming from the hallway.”

“That was the TV,” Ruby said. “And I would suggest you mind your own damn business. How many cats do you and your loser son have in your apartment now, Mrs. Finch? Is it three? Or four? From what I remember when I signed the lease, we’re only allowed one pet. Be a shame if you got evicted.”

No response.

“See?” Ruby sounded warmer now, almost cheerful, her voice back to its regular volume. “Isn’t it annoying when people butt into what you’re doing inside your own home?”

The door slammed shut. And then Ruby turned around, put her hands on her hips, and appraised her daughter.

Joey forced herself to sit up. Slowly, she leaned back against the sofa, clutching her stomach. It ached like she had just done a thousand sit-ups. Her head was pounding, and she could feel her lips swelling.

Ruby crouched down and cupped her chin so they were looking directly at each other. “Anything broken?”

Joey shook her head.

“Feel like you’re going to throw up?”

“No.” The word came out a squeak.

“That’s my girl.” Ruby patted her on the shoulder, one of the few places on Joey’s body that didn’t hurt. “Let’s not fight anymore, okay? I’m exhausted. Charles was a beast last night.”