The Fiend by Margaret Millar

charcoal.
    He said, “Careful, Mary Martha. Don’t get burned.”
    â€œI won’t. I often do the cooking at home. Also, I iron.”
    â€œDo you now. In ten years or so you’ll be making some young man a fine wife, won’t you?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œI’m not going to get married.”
    â€œYou’re pretty young to reach such a drastic decision.”
    Mary Martha was staring into the glowing coals as if reading her future. “I’m going to be an animal doctor and adopt ten children and support them all by myself so I don’t have to sit around waiting for a check in the mail.”
    Over her head the Brants exchanged glances, then Ellen said in a firm, decisive voice, “No loafing on the job, you two. Put the corn on and I’ll get the hot dogs. Would you like to stay and eat with us, Mary Martha?”
    â€œNo, thank you. I would like to but my mother will be alone.” And she will have a headache and a rash on her face and her eyes will be swollen, and she’ll call me sweetie-pie and lambikins.
    â€œPerhaps your mother would like to join us,” Ellen said. “Why don’t you call her on the phone and ask her?”
    â€œI can’t. The line’s busy.”
    â€œHow do you know that? You haven’t tried to—”
    â€œShe wouldn’t come, anyway. She has a headache and things.”
    â€œWell,” Ellen said, spreading her hands helplessly. “Well, I’d better get the hot dogs.”
    She went inside and Dave was left alone with Mary Martha. He felt uneasy in her presence, as if, in spite of her friendliness and politeness, she was secretly accusing him of being a man and a villain and he was secretly agreeing with her. He felt heavy with guilt and he wished someone would appear to help him carry it, Jessie or Ellen from the house, Michael from the football field, Virginia and Howard Arlington from next door. But no one came. There was only Mary Martha, small and pale and mute as marble.
    For a long time the only sound was an occasional drop of butter oozing from between the folds of the aluminum foil and sputtering on the coals. Then Mary Martha said, “Do you know anything about birds, Mr. Brant?”
    â€œNo, I’m afraid not. I used to keep a few homing pigeons when I was a boy but that’s about all.”
    â€œYou didn’t keep any owls?”
    â€œNo. I don’t suppose anyone does.”
    â€œMy ex-father has one.”
    â€œDoes he now,” Dave said. “That’s very interesting. What does he feed it?”
    â€œGin.”
    â€œAre you sure? Gin doesn’t sound like a suitable diet for an owl or for anything else, for that matter. Don’t owls usually eat small rodents and birds and things like that?”
    â€œYes, but not this one.”
    â€œWell,” Dave said, with a shrug, “I don’t know much either about owls or about your fath—your ex-father, so I’ll just have to take your word for it. Gin it is.”
    Twin spots of color appeared on Mary Martha’s cheeks, as if she’d been stung by bees or doubts. “I heard my mother telling Mac about it on the telephone. My ex-father has a fat old whore that drinks gin.”
    There was a brief silence. Then Dave said carefully, “I don’t believe your mother was referring to an owl, Mary Martha. The word you used doesn’t mean that.”
    â€œWhat does it mean?”
    â€œIt’s an insulting term, and not one young ladies are supposed to repeat.”
    Mary Martha was aware that he had replied but hadn’t an­swered. The word must mean something so terrible that she could never ask anyone about it. Why had her mother used it then, and what was her father doing with one? She felt a surge of anger against them all, her mother and father, the whore, David, and even Jessie who wasn’t there but who had a real father.
    Inside the