The Hearts of Our Enemies

86 t is the little piece of folded paper Frankie found in the back pocket of Margot’s favorite pair of jeans six weeks ago that calls for a cigarette and this extra pluck of courage. She lights up, willing the smoke to hotbox the car, to consume her. For this next act, she must feel hidden. The cedar-­ like smell seeps into the cloth seats and settles on her. Lingers. She doesn’t smoke the cigarette, just lets it burn, and it is a relief to be bathed in its secondhand qualities. Her husband—and he still is her husband—­ would be pissed to know she does this, and that knowledge is almost as good as any nicotine. fiction The Hearts of Our Enemies Dantiel W. Moniz I The Hearts of Our Enemies | 87 It feels so good that as soon as the first goes out, she lights another. Frankie looks out on to the tidy, duplex-­ lined street named for a flower. Women push babies up the sidewalk, clothed in name-­ brand workout jackets and CrossFit trainers, dog leashes wrapped around their miniature wrists and the padded handles of strollers . She watches them park in the driveways, bring in mail, brown paper bags of groceries, more children sticky with peacekeeping candy bars, their husbands’ dry cleaning. These women with their endless arms. A small thrashing part of her congratulates them on keeping it all together when they could just as soon let those bags fall to the ground—purple cabbage bumping its way down the hill, the dozen eggs blinking open on the concrete—and walk away. They could let slip the leashes, watch the babies go the way of the cabbage. Sitting there, Frankie tries to hold on to a self that she still knows: mother, ex-­ smoker, lover of all shades of blue and the rare luxury of freshly churned butter, but there are newer, darker aspects she can’t yet identify, layered with grief, guilt, and rage. To sift them out and individualize them would unravel the known elements , so she lets the mess lie. And in the lying, a flicker. Her own bare flesh stippled in sunlight. Hands not her husband’s, the press of the fingers against her mouth. Their ridges and salt. She isn’t careful. Ash floats from the cigarette and lands on the seat. Frankie licks her thumb and wipes at it, smearing a gray streak across the tan fabric. The car is barely a year old, and she still has so many payments left that she will now make alone. Her eyes flit back outside. Nothing stays new, she wants to tell the women, though she’s sure they already know. Not their cars or clothes or bodies, not their children, fat and smiling, still happy. Still in want of them. six weeks ago, she had crept into Margot’s room, pulling the door open with the knob twisted far to the right so that the catch wouldn’t click and alert her daughter or the friend who’d slept over. 88 | Dantiel W. Moniz Every surface was covered with something—fashion scarves and mislaid jackets. Scattered textbooks. Lip stain in shades Frankie would not have been allowed to wear at her daughter’s age, one the gleaming crimson of newly plucked cranberry. Margot slept beautifully, of course, flung wide over the small bed—covers tangled between legs and one brown arm trailing over the edge, the other resting across her friend’s stomach. Marissa was long and dark and beautiful too, wrapped in a yellow gossamer gown Frankie wasn’t aware girls still wore for sleep. Margot wore an oversized T-­ shirt and a pair of her father’s old briefs, ignoring years of camisoles and matching pajama sets crammed at the back of her nightstand. She snored, her face half-­ buried in her pillow, mouth open in a ring of moisture. Her one visible eyelid fluttered, crusted with sleep that hinted of late-­ night talks. Frankie remembered what it was like: whispering about the pros and cons of false eyelashes and girls at school with false faces and how many sit-­ ups equaled one slice of cafeteria...