The Wrong Family(25)
Juno dashed for the front door. Aches and pains forgotten, she moved like twenty years had just fallen off her limbs. She’d moved like this once before, when she’d stolen a block of cheese from the corner store; the cashier had spotted her sliding it into the pocket of her hoodie. The front door faced the park, so if she walked out casually enough, maybe no one would notice her.
She was five steps away; she could see the stained-glass windows that flanked the door when the handle started rattling. Juno skidded to a stop, balancing on her heels, quite certain she was having a heart attack. There was movement on the other side of the stained glass. Was it normal for a heart to beat side to side, up and down, side to side, up and down? Juno had always been fast on her feet—she’d spent her sixties being homeless, which had certainly improved her survival skills—and in that moment, her instincts told her to move. As a key fitted into the lock, she reached for a different door handle—was it the coat closet or the junk closet? She couldn’t remember; without pause she backed herself into what she thought was the junk closet—the one with the golf clubs and the snowboards leaning against the back wall. What else...what else had there been in here when she’d looked? She remembered a crate of tennis balls, old textbooks...nothing they would need, she hoped. She let a jagged breath out through her nose; she was trying very hard to hold still, but her body was shaking.
The front door opened; Juno held her breath. She held still, everything so still. There was suddenly a whoosh of noise as traffic and other outside sounds filtered into the Crouch house, into the closet where Juno was hiding. She thought she could feel a breeze on her ankles from under the door, but then it was gone as the door slammed closed. The sound of footsteps moving away from the closet and Juno. Light footsteps, she noted—Winnie. Had she come home to check the progress the men were making? Clearly she’d surprised them, too, as they’d been scrambling to collect whatever they’d left in the house.
She strained to hear. If Winnie was in the kitchen looking out at the work, then Juno could slip out of the closet and make the three steps to the front door. And what if someone does see you, one of the workers, or a cop—can you outrun them? Juno flexed one of her feet and felt pain roll up to her hip. Movement equaled pain, and while some days were better than others, it seemed that the exertion of reaching the closet would now prevent her from being able to run from it. She reached one hand behind her to the wall and leaned her weight there as she tried to catch her breath. Goddamn if this wasn’t the most foolish, ass-hearted plan. She hadn’t been thinking straight, a lapse in judgment. Juno felt like she couldn’t breathe. But you can, she told herself. She said it in the same authoritative voice she used on her patients. She placed a hand over her heart and counted the beats, counted her breathing. Her vision swayed in and out of focus. Juno focused on the hand that wasn’t on her heart, the one that was still braced against the back of the closet wall. Feel it, she told herself, it’s rough and warm. Count your breathing.
When it was over and the worst had passed, she hugged her arms around herself, shaking now from exhaustion and cold. She was clear of mind and furious at herself, but, though she was thirsty and light-headed, she could do nothing but wait. Winnie had the front door open, and for a moment Juno thought she would leave, but then the sound of more voices joined her, children’s voices.
“Sorry about all the construction.” This was Winnie’s voice, calling this to someone outside the door. Juno flinched as feet pounded into the house and up the stairs. Another voice—female—said something to Winnie from a distance, and Winnie laughed. Juno couldn’t see it, but she could picture it: a parent idling on the curb in their car. Parking was impossible on the slanted streets of the city.
“Yeah, if you text me, I can send him out tomorrow, so you don’t have to try to park.” There was a response Juno couldn’t hear, and then the door slammed shut. Winnie’s heels began to clack away, and Juno tensed her body, ready to sprint if she got the chance. Two minutes later the doorbell rang again, and this time the voice was right outside the door.
“Roman, take off your filthy sneakers! Don’t! No, leave that with me...” And then, after a swift goodbye, more clattering of feet on the stairs above Juno’s head. The voice came back, this time without the parental lilt; this was the voice of a woman who’d seen too little time for herself. “God, you’re a saint for having them over. What time tomorrow...?”
Winnie laughed stiffly. “Ten. I’ll feed them breakfast.”
“Perfect,” the voice said. “See you then.”
It was a sleepover. As Juno realized this, she slid quietly to the floor. Her pelvis was throbbing—her pelvis! Oh, the places you’ll throb! They never read that story to her as a child.
To her left were the golf clubs in their big leather bag. Juno could smell the leather. She was thirsty. Leaning her head sideways against the inside of the doorframe, she closed her eyes.
She didn’t know what time it was when she woke up. It was dark then, and it was dark now. Juno pulled her shoulders away from the wall, tilting her head back in an attempt at a stretch. She could hear the noises of boys in the living room. They were playing video games, and every few seconds there would be a burst of gunfire followed by cheering and donkey-like guffaws. You should just stand up, walk out like it’s nothing, she told herself. You’d probably get away with it.