Naked, on the Edge (21 page)

"Now," said Joe, standing by the trunk. " We have one animal here, but we need a second. Where should we find another one?" He stroked his chin. "Let me think."

“You can’t kill Timothy. Joe, are you listening? You can’t kill him!”

"I don't know if I have any more animals,” said Joe. “You've killed them all so far, Hannah. Spider, mouse, guinea pig, another mouse, two birds. A spider is a mouse is a guinea pig is a bird, I suppose."

"I haven't killed a fucking thing!"

“Hmm.”

“Joe, listent to me! Wati! Just listen! Don't kill Timothy!”

Joe put the tote on the floor by his foot and said, "And you killed that little boy in your father's third grade class."

"What? What did you say?"

"As sure as you put a bomb in the school, you killed him." Joe's jaw was tight. His voice hissed. "You and your bleeding heart, idiot, moronic friends."

"Joe, you make no sense."

Joe reached over and slapped Hannah soundly on the cheek. Her head snapped back, reeling.

"He was my little brother, Hannah. You didn't even know his name, did you? Your murder victim. His name was Denny Parrish. The sweetest kid you could ever know. Never to grow up. You bitch.”

“How did you…? I didn't...kill...."

"Oh, shut up and let's get the test finished. One more and you'll be free to go. Now, we have a cat. And," Joe looked down at the trunk. "Yes, we have another animal right here in the trunk, I remember now." He pushed the Afghan off to the floor. "An animal in there. You choose, Hannah. The cat in the hand, or what's behind trunk number one."

"I swear go God, I didn't kill your brother."

"Oops, forgot," said Joe. He went to the television stand and pulled a pistol out from the single drawer. When he came back, and a smile had returned. "Now, then, which animal shall live, my dear teacher?"

I can't let Timothy die, her mind reeled. Whatever dog or cat or groundhog in that trunk isn't as precious as Timothy. I can't let him shoot my cat!

"Don't make me wait," said Joe. "Your father told me you were always such a slow-poke."

"My father?"

"We know each other. I visited my brother's class occasionally. I even went on the field trip to the wildlife center with all those little kids. Your dad talked to me privately, asked if I could bring you to your senses somehow. I said I didn't know. I was a psychology major, but not a shrink yet. I need a few more years on me for that. But that's an aside. Now, pick, Hannah."

"You can't kill Timothy," Hannah growled.

"Fine, then, this shouldn't take long." Joe flipped back the lid on the trunk. He raised the pistol and aimed it inside. Hannah didn't look. It no longer mattered. She had broken her promise to herself. A crow might be a cow but a cat was of more importance to her. She wanted to vomit.

"Oh, before I do this,” said Joe. "Maybe I should just loosen this little gag here."

There was a pause, then the sound of crying. Sobbing.

A child.

There was a child in the trunk.

"Oh, my God," said Hannah.

"Hannah!" shrieked the child.

Allen.

"I followed you all afternoon," said Joe. "To Karla's, to your apartment. To the theater.
 
Allen doesn't talk to strangers, but we saved puppies together, didn't we, Allen? You know me."

"Hannah!" cried Allen.

"I met him at the theater as soon as you left. I told him we were going to surprise you, that we had a party here at my apartment for you and the other animal rescuers. He thought it was a fine idea.”

"Shoot the fucking cat!" screamed Hannah.

"Fine idea," said Joe. He pointed the gun at the tote. Hannah turned away. Joe fired four times, and Hannah felt each one cutting through her mind, searing her brain, tearing up her sanity and spitting it out like a catnip toy.

Joe stepped to the sofa and leaned in to Hannah, his mouth on her ear. "Now, you see there is a difference, don't you, Hannah?"

She said nothing.

“Do you?”

Hannah said nothing.

Joe shook his head and stroked her hair. "Hannah, there is a difference. Admit it."

"Yes."

Joe straightened, sighed, and nodded. " Thank you. Now." He put the gun down and wiped his hands. "That's about it. I'll get little
 
Allen out of this thing and you and your cat are free to go.”

Hannah opened her eyes. She saw Timothy, clearly frightened by the loud noises, cowering in his crate, pupils huge.

“You didn’t kill him!”

“Didn’t really need to. Got the answer I wanted. Besides, I like cats pretty much. A lot more than mice, that’s for sure.”

“Oh, shit…oh, my God…”

“Good psychology test, don't you think? Too bad I won't be able to use it as part of my deviant class research. Some research has to be kept under wraps, don’t you know? But still, it’s all informative.”
 
He chuckled.

A crow is a cat is a cow, Hannah thought, and she began to weep.

"No, don't," said Joe as he put cable cutters to the chain on her ankle. "I know I lied about dinner. But believe me, it's not worth a single tear."

A child is a child is a child is a child.

A promise is a lie is a promise is a lie.

"I can't cook very well." The chain fell away. "You didn't miss much."

(Inspired by an actual, ghostly 1980’s photo taken in the cellar of the Bartlett House in Parkersburg, where Dr. Charles Bartlett’s daughter died in 1879.)

“I feel hot, Mama. I hurt.”

“I know.”

“I don’t like it here.”

“Here is your bed, your washbasin…”

“Let me come back up with you.”

“Shh, now, this is for the best.”

“Mama…”

“Bessie, don’t cry, my love! You’ll upset your father.”

“Please, Mama!”

Mrs. Bartlett shook her head and pried the small, fevered fingers away from her arm. “You are to be quiet, now.
 
Rest. I will return anon.”

“Mama, I hurt!”

“Sleep, daughter.”

“Mama!”
 

The woman gathered her skirts and stepped away from the cot. She dared not kiss her child for fear she would catch the typhoid, too. Without another word, she climbed the wooden stairs out of the cellar.

“Mama!”

C
arol knelt on the scratchy grass and peeked through the cellar window of the empty house on Ann Street. A dusty spider tumbled out of her way as she placed her hands carefully on the sash and pushed. It didn’t budge.

“Well?” said Rachel, who stood behind Carol with her arms crossed. “Can you do it or not?”

Carol scratched her ear. “Hold on.”

Rachel
humphed
, as did her best friend Philly. Carol pushed again, harder, with the heels of her hands. The window remained shut.

“You said you could get in,” said Rachel.

“You did say that,” said Philly. “Liar.”

Carol glanced back over her shoulder at the two frowning girls. Both were eleven, older than Carol by a year. Both were the most popular kids in school. Both had promised to be Carol’s friend if she played Truth or Dare with them.

“I can do it,” said Carol. “Just hold on. Jeez.”

“We don’t think so,” said Rachel. “So we’re back to truth. Tell us, Carol. Why you a foster kid? What happened to your parents?”

Philly snorted laughter. “Yeah, what happened? You kill ‘em or something?”

“I’ll get it open,” said Carol. She turned back to the window. She had to complete the dare. There was no way she would talk about her family.

With another grunt, some pounding with the heel of Carol’s hand, and several shoves, the window squealed open nearly a foot. Carol’s thumbnail bent backward with the effort. She sucked air against the pain.

“Told you,” she muttered under her breath.

“Don’t get snotty with us, orphan,” said Rachel. Carol opened her mouth to beg them not to be mean but snapped it shut again. The last thing she wanted to do was make them angry. She wanted friends more than anything she’d ever wanted in her life.

They squeezed through, Rachel first, followed by Philly and then Carol. Philly whined about the cobwebs and the smell. “It’s like somebody died down here,” she said as she brushed off the knees of her jeans.

The basement floor was littered with old papers, stained towels, and shattered jars. There were several rooms, each with low ceilings, brick walls, and damp, uneven flooring that made Carol feel she was walking on the moon.

“Okay, you got us in,” said Rachel. “Now, we got to mark this place so people’ll know we’ve been here.”

Carol stood back while Rachel and Philly took turns scrawling on the walls with the black Sharpie markers they’d brought along:

Rachel is bitchin’!

School suks!

Gag me with a spoon!

Phillicia Monroe is totaly awsome!

Rachel turned and glared at Carol. “Aren’t you going to write something, orphan?”

Carol reached out for the marker but Rachel shook her head. “Didn’t you bring your own?”

Carol shook her head.

“Well, you aren’t touching mine. You might have some creepy disease you caught at your foster home.”

Philly said, “Hey, don’t boys pee to mark their territory?”

Rachel made a face. “We aren’t boys, now, are we?”

“Duh,” said Philly.

“You a boy, Carol?”

“No.”

“You’re standing there all stupid like a boy,” said Rachel. “You’re ugly and dumb like a boy. And we said we’d be your friends? I don’t think so.”

Carol’s mouth fell open. “But you…”

“But you! But you!” said Philly. “But you better butter your butt!”

“We’re going upstairs,” said Rachel. “Don’t you follow us or we’ll kick you down the steps.”

“Don’t go away!”

With a shriek of laughter, Rachel and Philly bolted up the wooden stairs and slammed through the door at the top.

“M
ama?”

“What, darling?”

“I’m burning hot.”

“You’re sick, honey.”

“Where’s Papa?”

“Working.”

“Can’t he make me better?”

“Shh, now.”

Bessie turned over on the cot, and her stomach cramped violently. Her mother held the bowl up but there was nothing to catch. Bessie had not eaten in days.
       
“Here’s a cool, wet rag.”

“Mama?”

“What, dearest?”

“Will Papa come see me soon?”

“Perhaps. Sleep now.”

“I hurt, Mama.”

“I know. Shh.”

“Don’t go away!”

The wooden steps creaked.

“Mama, I’m so lonely!”

The voice from the top of the steps, “Shh…”

C
arol sat on the cold, lumpy floor, her head down. She could hear Rachel and Philly running around upstairs, marking walls, slamming doors.

The old house had been for sale for a while now, with someone hired to mow the lawn and clip the bushes, though most shrubs around the sides and back had been allowed to grow tall and wild. Carol walked by the house on her way to school, always stopping to stare at the windows, the stone porch, the sloped yard and shadowed front door. There was something in there, pulling at her, wanting her. But she then moved on, afraid of being arrested and thrown in prison like her grandmother, or being locked up in a mental hospital like her mother.