… That House Cannot Stand

Content: Familial Violence. Sex-worker–related stuff.

Author's Note: 7th written in a series of stand-alones. Takes place after "… Gang Aft Agley."

I peer through the lenses of the standard-issue Bushnells at base-level 7x magnification. My cruiser sits in a parking lot, and the binoculars focus on the building at 500 Spring Garden, about five hundred feet away. “Unit 19 to Dispatch. Dark, 842. In position under Freeman Mill Overpass. Target location in sight. Notify Ramirez.” I glanced at my watch; it was 3:30 pm on a Tuesday in October of 2006.

The radio crackles in response. “Dispatch to Unit 19. Copy.”

Then another voice. “You could just tell me directly, Dark.”

I sigh. “Dispatch, please remind Ramirez that he’s supposed to be undercover.”

He broadcasts his laughter. “Dark, are you always this by the book?”

Not always. “Ten-four. What’s your twenty-six?”

“Dark, switch to four-two-four. Out.”

Sigh. I’ve been a sworn officer of the Greensboro Police Department for less than a year and am aware that I still have some wrinkles to be ironed out. And sometimes the other officers act like children. I turn the dial to the requested frequency. “Dark to Ramirez. Where are you?”

About that time I see a blue Honda Accord pull into the lot and park at the side of the building next to the only other vehicle present, a black Lexus GX 470. “Arriving now.”

“Cute car. This is my first time on this detail; can you please go over it one last time?”

“Sure. Plainclothes officer—me—enters the business and requests standard service. Said officer makes any observations necessary to identify the potential target. Any variations on the standard service—including but not limited to outright pandering or intimate touching—are noted in said officer’s filed report. Build up enough, the DA authorizes a raid.”

I shake my head. “Yeah, but what about the people running it?”

“What about them? The targets are the ones breaking the laws.”

I take a deep breath and bite my tongue. “So what do I do?”

“You’re there in case something goes hinky. I have my panic button.”

“And I have the other end. So why can’t you monitor and I go undercover?”

“Because as much as you may wish otherwise, Dark, these places only take male customers.”

“Yeah, well, remind me to file a grievance with the hooker union.”

“Roger that. See you in sixty. Ten-twenty-three, ten-three.”

“Ten-four.” I return the mic to its cradle. A middle-aged Hispanic male climbs out of the Honda, adjusting his pants. He glances around briefly, then walks around to the front of the building, where a simple neon sign reading “SPA” flickers over a double-glass door. He tests the right-hand door, which is unlocked, then disappears inside. I set a timer on my watch for an hour, because that’s how long he anticipates being out of sight.

* * * * *

The older officers say that, at one point in the nineties, Greensboro unofficially had the largest sex industry per capita. Strip clubs, adult bookstores, massage parlors, the whole nine yards. They could be completely above-board—my live-in girlfriend, Cynthia, retired her heels and g-string in exchange for nurse’s scrubs six months ago, matriculating from the lifestyle completely free from both drugs and criminal history. However, there’s always the dark side to the sex business and, because of its presence on the wrong side of the taboo line, many operations are corrupt.

However, from my point of view—admittedly biased, given my relationship with Cyn—we were going after low-hanging fruit instead of those running things behind the scenes. When told I’d be on this assignment, I spoke with Lt. Brendan Kelly—my mentor, Lieu—and tried to express my concerns. His response: “Yes, Joan, I understand completely. But this is how the department has been handling it since forever. Handle nuisance situations immediately; build cases against the rest. It takes time and police work. On the plus side, you won’t have to testify unless something goes south.”

Of course, he didn’t mention the dirty little secret of police work: laws are so convoluted and over-stuffed with out-dated and over-broad legal chaos that almost anything could be considered illegal. If an officer wants to arrest you, they will. The charges might not stick, but….

He further said it was actually a good thing I was on this assignment. “Women are usually excluded because the businesses in question don’t cater to y’all. Which means that you, Joan, are getting experience the others aren’t.”

“That’s me, the lucky lesbian,” I growled. Talking about things like that still felt uncomfortable, but I was getting better about opening up.

One of the things that police, more than other professions, need to keep on file are accurate in-case-of-emergency contacts: the people who are notified if you’re taken to the hospital or… well, when they need to talk to someone. After Cyn and I moved in together last year, I updated mine, taking my parents off and putting her on. Which led to one of my closest-guarded secrets being outed to the department, because men gossip more than women and nothing in the department is a secret.

I grew up in rural Mocksville, outside of Winston-Salem. In the country, homosexuals were mostly despised, considered worse than witches. I wasn’t alone—I attended the alternative school, where I became acquainted with a handful of others—but I didn’t advertise. I didn’t date, didn’t hang out, no social life at all. Cyn and I met on my twenty-first birthday—some co-workers were pranking me by taking me to a nudie-bar—and since then I was so down-low that I’d been subterranean.

When my secret came out to the other officers, I expected that sort of treatment. What I didn’t take into account: the Quakers of Guilford County. They settled Greensboro in the colonial days. Prior to the Civil War, it was a major stop of the Underground Railroad. In the sixties, the city was among the early adopters for civil rights; during the seventies and eighties it was considered a safe haven for sexual freedoms. Hence all the sex-industry stuff; the bad with the good.

So instead of being excluded, I was accepted as a “brother.” I get congratulated on having an ex-stripper as a girlfriend—some of the guys even remember her as a performer. I haven’t had to put up with the “honey” and “sweetheart” bull that the other female officers deal with on a day-to-day basis. The other women tend not to like me, though I am always careful to be respectful to them and stand up for them when I can. But painted with the same brush, I suppose.

* * * * *

My timer dips below seven minutes remaining as Ramirez reappears from the door. There’s a bounce to his step as he returns to his vehicle. I turn it back to the private channel. “Dark to Ramirez. We good?”

There’s a long silence, drawn out. I’m about to rebroadcast when the static bursts briefly. “Ten-twenty-four. It was ten-ten.”

I frown. “Nothing?”

“Nada. Maybe she made me. Maybe she had a headache.”

“Maybe she couldn’t find it.”

“Funny girl. I’m headed back to get changed. You going forty-one?”

I glance at the time. “Yeah, there’s enough time until shift change. I’ll make my notes and then head on patrol.”

“Happy hunting. Be safe.”

I pull out my notepad and finish recording the information. It had been a quiet watch, so only start and end times to note, in addition to the usual date, weather, et cetera. As I set the pad back on the passenger seat, a blue pickup pulls in to the same exact spot that Ramirez had abandoned just minutes before. I grab the binoculars. Something about the truck looks familiar. It’s an ancient step-side Chevy.

I zoom to maximum magnification when the driver clambers out. I’m not sure how long until I remember to breathe. I close and reopen my eyes, refocus, and make sure I’m right.

I pick up the mic. “Unit 19 to Dispatch. Dark, 842. Ten-twenty-four from previous. Ten-sixty now.”

“Dispatch to Unit 19. Confirm ten-sixty. Request backup?”

“No. But I’ll let you know if I confront.”

“Ten-four.”

I do the watch timer thing again. He reappears after a little more than thirty minutes. He climbs back into the pickup then turns onto Spring Garden, away from me. My Crown Vic pulls onto the street behind him, catching him up quickly, then I wait a few blocks. He turns onto Tate, then onto Lee, back toward the highway. I immediately turn on my lights without the siren. He taps his brakes briefly, but continues to roll forward, until he reaches the gas station at the next corner and pulls into a parking spot. I stop the cruiser immediately behind the Chevy, blocking it in. No movement detected from the truck.

I call in to Dispatch, claiming a meal break, then leave my weaponry on the console. I climb out slowly, lock it, and circle around to the passenger side of the truck. The old man’s hands are on the steering wheel, staring straight ahead. He’s wearing jeans and a plaid long-sleeve button-up. His buzz-cut hair is still black after all these years.

I open the door. “Hey, Pa. I think we need to talk.”

* * * * *

I haven’t seen him in person in two years, ever since he made a surprise visit and met Cynthia. I haven’t seen my mother either, mostly because of him. My older brother Junior and I have coffee about once a month, over in High Point. Beyond that, I stay in Greensboro, and they come no further than Winston-Salem. Or so I thought.

I’ve climbed up into the passenger side and pulled the door shut. He still hasn’t said a word. “Can’t say what I’m more surprised about. Seeing you in Greensboro, or seeing you at Rosie’s.”

He grunts but nothing more.

“You know how it is. Talk now or talk later. Your choice.” My voice is quiet, a lot quieter than I think it could be. He retired as a Davie County deputy earlier this year, according to Junior. Last I’d heard, he still hadn’t switched his sleep schedule to nighttime. “Maybe it’ll be easier for you in interrogation?”

“Jezebel.” He still wasn’t looking at me. But he was at least talking.

“This ain’t the first time, is it?” I look out the windshield, at the convenience store ahead of us. I can’t look at him. Not now. “Does Junior know? Does… does Mama?” In the window of the shop, there’s a neon sign that reads, “Jesus Saves.”

“Go to hell, harlot.”

“Don’t you ever call me that again, you selfish son of a bitch.”

He doesn’t even look at me, but his hand flies up from his lap toward my face. I grab him by the wrist, expecting the strike, one of his signature moves.

We sit like that for I don’t know how long. He tries to pull his hand back, but I won’t let it go. I realize that this is the first time I’ve ever thought of him as weak. At least, weaker than me. Eventually, I release him.

And that’s when I remember…

* * * * *

…a Sunday afternoon when I was nine years old, sitting in this very seat of this very truck.

Every week, we attended Mocksville Holiness Church for Sunday service. It began at ten in the morning and ended by one in the afternoon. We would then go home, skipping the community potluck, since Pa would have to get sleep before work. We would go in the Caprice wagon, the only vehicle Ma drove and the only vehicle Pa would ride passenger in.

During the service, the elementary-aged children would go to a Bible study class. We would be taught hymns, given Biblical scenes to color, and have the Bible and Jesus explained to us. While it was the two of us, Junior would help me stay settled. This was well and good until Junior got baptized and left me alone in there.

My problem was I was too curious for my own good. For everyone else’s good, too. Nothing causes a room full of kids to cry faster than demanding an explanation for why their pets aren’t going to Heaven. When I tried to dig into why the tongues that everyone spoke sounded completely different to each other or why it mattered how we dress since it wasn’t a problem until Adam’s transgression, they would look at me oddly. The final straw was when I back-talked the youth leader who suggested that I might be a good candidate for an exorcism; all I had done was ask why Sister Ruth and Sister Rebecca couldn’t be pastors, when they each knew tons more about the Scripture than young Pastor Douglas. That was the day I was expelled from Sunday school.

The family went back home in silence, afterward. Then Pa and I climbed into the blue Chevy step-side pickup truck, and he drove. He did the whole not-talking thing. I tried to apologize, repeatedly, but he had none of it. We ended up back at the church, sitting in the parking lot, just the two of us.

“You need to learn to keep that mouth of yours shut.” He stared through the windshield at the church in front of us.

“But Pa, it don’t make no sense. We’re—”

His hand flew across the cab, striking me in the mouth. I could taste blood.

“Joan Temperance Dark, what did I just tell you?”

I whimpered, “To keep my mouth shut.” I dared not wipe my lip. Do not show weakness.

“Young lady, you need to pray to the Lord that He help you tame that willfulness before I have to whoop it out of you.” He still hadn’t looked at me.

I almost responded but didn’t, proving I could learn new tricks.

“You won’t go to Sunday school any more. They think you know it well enough as is, and are a bad influence on the little ones.”

I was not disappointed to hear that news. But I kept my face straight and nodded solemnly.

“When you’re ready to accept Jesus, let your mother know, so we can get you baptized. Then maybe Jesus can help sanctify some of your sins out of you. Or the Spirit can gift you and prove you’ve been saved.”

My face fell. “You won’t accept me unless that happens?”

He shrugged. “Ain’t up to me, that’s the Lord’s plan.”

“But Papa….” But he’d had enough. The engine turned over abruptly, and he drove back home.

* * * * *

That memory has stuck with me for the thirteen years since. I was baptized a year later; I accepted that Jesus loved me even if my own father couldn’t. But I was never gifted by the Holy Spirit. And I never felt sanctified by Jesus. I could have made up either—or both—for the others in the church to leave me be, but what would be the point? Lying to them? I had enough trouble dealing with my omissions as I got older and figured myself out. I didn’t need direct lies on my conscience.

But that gets me to reflecting, while I’m staring forward through the windshield at the Kangaroo Express. About the whole sanctification thing. “In all those years, I remember Ma going up to the altar, to have Him take away her rebelliousness. I remember Junior going up, to take away his anger. And I remember the times you shunned and punished me for not going up because you thought I needed fixing. Not once do I recall you up there.”

I turn and look at him. He’s still in the exact same position, sitting there, staring ahead. He’s not reacting to me anymore. Frankly, I don’t want him to.

“I also remember, thinking on it now, about all the errands you’d help do for the neighbors. Brother Bruce and Sister Faith’s plumbing. Brother Peter and Sister Catherine’s fencing. Brother Saul and Sister Mary-Beth’s tractor. Among others.” I suck on my bottom lip, watching his reaction, as his face has started blossoming like a rose. “All those wives, their husbands off at work.”

He tries to hit me again.

This time I don’t let go. “For twenty-three years, I have tried to honor you as my father. I have tried to make you proud. Tried to do right by you. Tried everything I fuck—” he tries to wrench his arm out of my grasp and fails “—everything I fucking can to get you to love me, your daughter. Jesus loves me, you fucking hypocrite. Why can’t you?”

He isn’t talking, but I can hear a whine at the back of his throat, as his right arm starts trembling from the strain.

I shove it away from me, and grab the door handle. “I don’t want to see you ever again. You keep your filthy fucking lecherous cheating self out of my fucking life. You hear me?”

He nods and grunts, but his tone is weak now, emasculated.

“And if you’re ever caught whoring again, I will make God-damned sure that you have the book thrown at you. Understand?”

He nods. No sound.

“I won’t say a word to Junior. And definitely not to Mama. My lips are sealed, as far as they go. But I’m done. You hear me, Steven Thomas Dark? Done.”

One last nod. Silence.

I slam the door, return to my cruiser, and pull out of his way. The Chevy burns rubber getting back on the street, but I don’t bother. Instead, I’m looking in the mirror, wondering why there aren’t any tears on my cheeks or in my eyes. I feel cold. I feel dead.

Fuck it, I need a drink.