instance, always manage to persuade her to open her purse and fork over a dollar or two from her house money, meager fruits borne from his father’s bookkeeping job in a department store. “Love you, Mommy…beautiful Mommy…love you,” and her face would go all soft with love for him, and he knew he was her “sweet, precious boy” and that she would deny him nothing.
His father, on the other hand, was a different story. Almost from the beginning he’d sensed in his son, an only child who’d come to them late in life, something not quite so sunny, so innocent. In fact, sensed something dark—something that frightened him over time, causing the small, gray man to withdraw into himself, becoming a silent phantom in the house.
Until his death when the boy was thirteen. A tragic accident, everyone said. A horrible accident. The small orange plastic radio his father liked to listen to when he was having his bath had fallen into the tub with him—must have caught the cord with his hand, they said— and electrocuted him.
He had seen the boy in the bathroom doorway—saw the radio perched on the edge of the sink—and knew. Perhaps he’d always known. His scream was short. All the lights in the house went out, but the boy managed easily to slip back to his room before he heard his mother’s panicked footsteps bounding up the stairs.
“Call an ambulance,” she’d cried hysterically, as he came running to join her. “My God, call an ambulance.”
His father’s face wavered just beneath a skin of cloudy bath water, his mouth open in a silent scream, his eyes on the boy—wide, staring, accusing.
Tears streaming down his face, the boy ran to obey his mother’s cries. In the beginning, it was his father’s interference in his life that got to him. His father telling him what to do. He couldn’t stand people telling him what to do. After a while the old man gave up and let him be. But it was his eyes that drove the boy nuts—those eyes following him around, watching.
Winding a length of rope about his hand, the man smiled, remembering the time his father had walked in on him and the little girl next door. What was her name? He couldn’t remember. It didn’t matter. They were in his bedroom, and he was holding a pillow over the girl’s face, taking it away, listening to her gasp air back into her lungs. Over her pleas, he would bring it down again, holding it firm with his strong, thin arms, using all his strength, giggling at her helpless, flailing hands, sitting on her legs so she couldn’t kick. It was fun. A game. Until his father had rushed in and whipped the pillow away, barely able to speak his rage and shame, backhanding him so hard he practically flew off the bed.
Well, his father would never hit him again. He’d fixed him.
For good.
The man jammed the brand new coil of one-quarter inch white nylon rope into his pocket, gave a rare thought to his mother, with whom he had lived for the three years following the demise of his father. Until she fell dead on the kitchen floor of a massive stroke.
He was sure his mother guessed things about him toward the end. He really didn’t mind her knowing. From time to time, he would catch a fleeting horror in her eyes as certain thoughts took shape, another piece of the puzzle slipped into place.
Once a neighbor came to the house wailing and complaining that her cat, “poor, dear Fritz,” had been found hanging from a tree behind the school, sweet pink tongue lolling. She’d pointed her fingers straight at him. He stood behind his mother, grinning his mocking grin at the old hag, quickly wiping it off when his mother turned questioning eyes on him.
Then there was the time the new boy on the block suffered a fractured skull delivered by a wielded baseball bat. The cops had come to the house that time. He was fourteen then, his accuser seven. He denied it, of course. Must have been someone who looked like him. Why would he do it? He didn’t even know the
His father, on the other hand, was a different story. Almost from the beginning he’d sensed in his son, an only child who’d come to them late in life, something not quite so sunny, so innocent. In fact, sensed something dark—something that frightened him over time, causing the small, gray man to withdraw into himself, becoming a silent phantom in the house.
Until his death when the boy was thirteen. A tragic accident, everyone said. A horrible accident. The small orange plastic radio his father liked to listen to when he was having his bath had fallen into the tub with him—must have caught the cord with his hand, they said— and electrocuted him.
He had seen the boy in the bathroom doorway—saw the radio perched on the edge of the sink—and knew. Perhaps he’d always known. His scream was short. All the lights in the house went out, but the boy managed easily to slip back to his room before he heard his mother’s panicked footsteps bounding up the stairs.
“Call an ambulance,” she’d cried hysterically, as he came running to join her. “My God, call an ambulance.”
His father’s face wavered just beneath a skin of cloudy bath water, his mouth open in a silent scream, his eyes on the boy—wide, staring, accusing.
Tears streaming down his face, the boy ran to obey his mother’s cries. In the beginning, it was his father’s interference in his life that got to him. His father telling him what to do. He couldn’t stand people telling him what to do. After a while the old man gave up and let him be. But it was his eyes that drove the boy nuts—those eyes following him around, watching.
Winding a length of rope about his hand, the man smiled, remembering the time his father had walked in on him and the little girl next door. What was her name? He couldn’t remember. It didn’t matter. They were in his bedroom, and he was holding a pillow over the girl’s face, taking it away, listening to her gasp air back into her lungs. Over her pleas, he would bring it down again, holding it firm with his strong, thin arms, using all his strength, giggling at her helpless, flailing hands, sitting on her legs so she couldn’t kick. It was fun. A game. Until his father had rushed in and whipped the pillow away, barely able to speak his rage and shame, backhanding him so hard he practically flew off the bed.
Well, his father would never hit him again. He’d fixed him.
For good.
The man jammed the brand new coil of one-quarter inch white nylon rope into his pocket, gave a rare thought to his mother, with whom he had lived for the three years following the demise of his father. Until she fell dead on the kitchen floor of a massive stroke.
He was sure his mother guessed things about him toward the end. He really didn’t mind her knowing. From time to time, he would catch a fleeting horror in her eyes as certain thoughts took shape, another piece of the puzzle slipped into place.
Once a neighbor came to the house wailing and complaining that her cat, “poor, dear Fritz,” had been found hanging from a tree behind the school, sweet pink tongue lolling. She’d pointed her fingers straight at him. He stood behind his mother, grinning his mocking grin at the old hag, quickly wiping it off when his mother turned questioning eyes on him.
Then there was the time the new boy on the block suffered a fractured skull delivered by a wielded baseball bat. The cops had come to the house that time. He was fourteen then, his accuser seven. He denied it, of course. Must have been someone who looked like him. Why would he do it? He didn’t even know the
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