609 Wicker Street

609 Wicker Street. It still looks the same, so domestic and shabby. Every house has a rickety Victorian-style porch and a lawn just barely big enough for a plastic pool and a token potted plant. But of course, Angie’s house doesn’t even have that. It’s the one at the end on the corner, with only one car parked in the driveway and a patchy brown lawn. No greenery, no potted plant, no pool. No furniture on the porch either. It’s 90 degrees today, so the lack of decoration on the porch is even more jarring. Nobody sane is sitting inside right now. Of course, it’s no surprise though, Max wouldn’t allow that sort of thing. He could care less about his front yard, and about his wife. That’s why I’m visiting her today. 

I used to live in a house like that, with Jude. We were so happy before he went off to fight in the war, living peacefully in our tiny house. Our lawn was always freshly watered and we had beautiful woven chairs on our porch with little cushions I sewed myself. Only months after he left, I had Angie. I still remember taking a taxi to the hospital alone and how tiny she was when she was born. They had to keep her in the ICU for a while, she was born a few weeks early and they were worried she wasn’t fully developed yet. But my little Angie, my sweet Angie, pulled through. She always did. 

Jude got shot. Angie was only one year old at the time, so she doesn’t remember when the letter arrived at our house. I can still vividly picture my shaking hands as I read the note telling me he was dead. I’ve never cried harder in my life. It was straight into his chest, he bled out in minutes. He had no chance of recovering. They had a fancy funeral for him, with the flag and the officers and everything. I don’t remember much of it, and I didn’t have enough money to make it a nice ceremony like he deserved, so I try not to think about it. I don’t blame them, the Army, I just wish Jude could have met his daughter. I wish he could have been able to spend more of his life with me, as my husband. But it’s been years now. And I have bigger problems to worry about. 

I walk up the drive, and I pause at the bottom of the porch steps. My hand goes to my phone, and I dial the house number. I hear the mellow brrrrrrring from inside the front door, and then the line clicks as she picks up. “Mom?” 

“Angie? I’m outside.”

I hear her rummage through a drawer. “He’s not here, he left a few minutes ago. We should be good for at least an hour.” 

“Okay, I’m coming up.” I step up onto the porch and wait. The line goes dead as she hangs up, and then I hear the locks clicking on the front door. After several rounds of deadbolts sliding back, the door finally swings open. 

Angie is only 21, but she looks older. Her hair is short and pulled up into a messy ponytail, and her clothes are clean but very used and ragged. She’s skinny, skinnier than she was the last time I saw her. Her cheekbones are too prominent and her eyes are sunken. She’s wearing a nursing bra under her disheveled T-shirt, and there’s a wet stain on her left side. She must have been feeding Esmee. 

“Come in, Mom, and don’t say anything.”

I obey, stepping over the threshold and keeping my mouth shut. 

The house is small, and messy, but only in certain rooms. The kitchen looked like it had been struck by a tornado, and the stairs leading up were covered in clothes and empty bags and bottles. The sitting room, however, is spotless. So is the bathroom and the hallway. Only the spaces Max would use are clean. The furniture is ratty and stained, and everything has a fowl odor to it. The smell of stale beer and sweat. 

I hear a sound from the kitchen. “Is that Esmee?” 

Angie nods, and leads me down the hall and into the dark little kitchen. In one corner, the only clear space in the room, a tiny baby is laying flat on the counter, surrounded by blankets and extra shirts to keep her from rolling around. She’s barely a few weeks old, and she’s wearing a stained onesie and a cloth diaper. She’s the spitting image of Angie herself, although I would never say it. 

“Angie, she’s beautiful.” I glance at her before she nods, and I reach down and lift Esmee into my arms. She barely weighs anything and she doesn’t even cry when she settles against my chest. “You’ve done well with her. I know how hard this is, you’ve done so well.” 

Angie’s look hardens. “But you don’t. You don’t know.”

My lips press together to prevent me from answering. 

She sighs. “I’m sorry, that wasn’t fair. I’m just…” She trails off. When she finally meets my eyes again, they’re wet. “I’m at my breaking point. I can’t do this anymore.” 

I freeze. “Do what?” I ask cautiously. 

She turns away and paces the kitchen, what little open floor space there is. Her fists are clenched tight at her sides. “I’m exhausted. I’m hungry. I thought I could do this, but I can’t. Esmee isn’t gaining weight like she’s supposed to because I’m not eating enough to lactate properly. He doesn’t give me enough money for anything. I can’t afford food when I have to buy so much alcohol and junk for him. He keeps the car keys, so I can’t go anywhere. I can’t sleep at night because I don’t trust him with me or Esmee. Especially when he’s drunk.” 

She turns around and gently puts her hand on the top of Esmee’s head. “I’m terrified he’ll hurt her. He’s gotten so much worse ever since she was born. He claims I love her more than him.” The tears are gone from her eyes now. “And he’s right. I do love her more. How could I not?” 

I’m still frozen. I haven’t moved since she started speaking. I’ve known Max was bad, but this was the first time in years that she’s opened up to me. I’m not an idiot, I could tell from her phone calls and very occasional visits that she wasn’t ok. The few times I’d met Max, I hadn’t liked him at all, and I could see their relationship declining. But this was the very first time she said anything about what he did to her. Confirming my suspicions was something I had hoped she would do eventually, but at the same time, I wanted to be wrong. I desperately wished that maybe her relationship with him would change. But now, it’s too late for that. 

“Has he hit you? Angie, what else does he do?”

“Not often, but sometimes.” She hangs her head. “He hasn’t touched Esmee. I don’t let him. He held her once at the hospital in front of the doctors, and after we came home he’s never showed interest in her since. Which has been both a blessing and a curse.” She takes Esmee from my arms. I almost wish I could keep holding her forever, because it means Angie can’t kick me out like all the other times. I’ve visited her and told her she needed to leave Max, and she would send me away. With Esmee, she can’t do that. 

“Angie, come home with me. Right now. We’ll take Esmee and go.” I’m praying she doesn’t kick me out. I can’t leave her here like this, it would kill me. 

She’s staring at the floor forlornly. “He’ll find me. He always does.”

“Even if he does, I’m taking this to the police. We can get a restraining order and divorce lawyers faster than he can find you. He doesn’t have my address.” 

Angie’s face is unreadable. “He won’t ever agree to a divorce.” 

“Not right now, but in a few months, he’ll have no choice.” I walk up to her and put a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Do it for Esmee. I know this is terrifying, I’m scared too. Do it for her. I’ll help you.”

She’s scared now, I can see it in her face. Maybe that’s good, it means she’s actually considering my plan. “H-How? I don’t-” 

“Do you have anything here you want to take with you?” 

“Right now? We’re doing this right now?” Now she’s shocked AND scared. 

“Do you want to get anything? My car is a half-block away.” She blinks a few times, then gives Esmee to me. I hold her wordlessly as Angie disappears up the stairs. 

Esmee hasn’t cried once, the whole time. She’s been silently looking at me. She gives me a little smile and grabs my hair in her tiny fist. 

Angie comes back down. She’s holding a bag with something small and heavy in it. In her other hand is a makeshift diaper bag, with a blanket, bottles, and diapers for Esmee. 

“That’s all?” 

She nods. She takes Esmee again and puts a blanket over her head, hiding her against her chest. I take her bags from her, and I lead the way to the front door that still hangs open. The four deadbolts above the knob are unlocked, and the peephole is covered in black tape. I pull out my car key and go down the steps, turning on the small sidewalk towards where my car is parked. I can tell she’s not following me though, and as I turn I see her on the porch, frozen. 

I walk back to her, holding out my hand. “Come on, Angie. We’re doing this together.”

She’s white with fear, but she takes my hand. 

In the car, I help her sit in the passenger seat and adjust Esmee on her lap. I put her bags under her feet, then walk around to the driver’s side and start the car. She doesn’t look back at the house once. 

At the first stoplight, she reaches down and grabs the small bag. She pulls out a picture frame, small and dusty, and clutches it tightly with white knuckles. Her eyes are glued to the road ahead as if she is counting every mile as we get farther away. 

I’d recognize that frame anywhere. 

It’s a picture of me, holding baby Angie. It’s the photo I gave her when she got married. 

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. It was one I’d been holding for years. 

And 609 Wicker Street disappeared on the next turn.