When Gerald stepped out of the chicken coop, he heard Stacey’s screams. The sounds escaped through the high narrow window set into the rear of his and Irene’s bedroom. He thought the woman was louder and shriller than ever, so he ran to the back door and charged into the house. Irene was in the kitchen, cooking dinner. He realized the radio was so loud she couldn’t have heard the screams. She looked up from her pie crust curiously, but he didn’t stop to explain. Instead, he continued on, taking the stairs two steps at a time.
Stacey stopped the moment Gerald appeared in the doorway. He looked explosive. His upper body rose and fell with every gasp of breath and his face was colored red from the effort. It had the effect of widening his nostrils and eyes, making him look gargantuan. She felt as though she was looking through a magnifying glass.
Indeed everything looked distorted to her now. She had the distinct impression she was dwindling, sinking deeper and deeper into the bed. Soon she would disappear completely. She embraced herself tightly, hoping to hold herself together. Actually she was still screaming, but the sounds no longer left her body. Instead they echoed back into her, down the long corridors of her mind, reverberating deeper and deeper into her subconscious. She trembled from the vibrations.
Her mouth opened and closed. She tried to swallow and gagged on the small guttural noises that escaped. She closed her eyes, but she couldn’t prevent her head from moving side to side. She was going into shock and the shock was taking the form of a fit. Her head movements increased in intensity and speed. Finally, a sound began to emerge. It was a long, deep vowel sound, an “a” that rose in pitch.
Gerald was more amazed than angered by the scene enacted before him. He stepped into the room to study the woman more closely. She looked like some mad animal in the throes of death. He expected that at any moment all movement and sound would end and she would keel over to the side, a wide-eyed corpse.
An image flashed into his mind, a vision of Marlene doing exactly the same thing after they’d pulled her girl from the Bad Box where Shirley had put her for punishment and not told anyone. The little girl had suffocated overnight. Marlene had gone mad when she’d stumbled on Gerald carrying the girl out, forcing Gerald to do something to quell her hysteria…but this woman would be okay.
As though to confirm his theory, Stacey stopped making the sound, closed her eyes, went into a quick shudder, and then swooned, falling backward on the bed. He walked to the bed and looked down at her. She was staring up at the ceiling, but he knew she was in shock.
She was spared Marlene’s hysteria, or the coma Irene had moved in and out of after their son Arthur’s death, even though Death itself had been his only real playmate since the day the boy was born. He was born to die. What a cruel joke, Gerald thought. It was a form of torture really. Death toyed with them. It moved in and out of this house freely, teasing, tormenting, hovering in the shadows and smiling gleefully at them.
Gerald got so he could feel Death standing right behind him those years that ended mercifully several months before he’d had to kidnap the previous mother-daughter pair to cheer up Irene with. But before then, sometimes at night, after Irene had gone up to be with Arthur, he would go outside to whisper in the shadows.
“I know you’re here,” he’d say. “I know you’ve made this your home and that you embrace my son freely. But you don’t frighten me. You hear, you don’t frighten me.”
He would wait for a reply. The wind would thread itself through the branches of the trees and clouds would block out the stars. In the distance a stray dog would howl about its loneliness and the bats would come out from under the eaves of the old barn and flicker, sometimes coming so close he could feel the breeze fanned by their webbed wings.
Death said nothing, but he felt its presence. He would turn and look up at the lighted window of Arthur’s bedroom where Irene held their child in her arms and rocked back and forth hopefully. But the boy already had the face of an old man. His body was drying up right before their eyes. He was deflating like a balloon, the life force escaping from him.
“Why don’t you take him? Take him tonight,” he said. “Torment us no longer. Take him!” he screamed. His voice pierced the darkness and then came to rest somewhere in the shadows. He made no response, but he felt Death smiling. It was no use. His father and Death had become allies, and his father was right—he couldn’t let it go on. He had to go upstairs and put out the light in Arthur’s room forever.
He waited for Irene to go to sleep and then he went into Arthur’s room. His father’s lips were so close to his ears as he walked through the hall. He could feel the breath as he whispered, “End it. End the torment. End it.”
Arthur was tossing about in his crib. Even in his sleep, he moaned. It disgusted him that this sickly, fragile thing was his son, the fruit of his sperm.
“Plow it over,” his father whispered from the dark beyond, “plow it over like a bad crop.”
He reached down and took the small pillow out from under Arthur’s head and then, after only a moment’s hesitation, he brought it down over his face. The resistance was so slight it was as if he had caught a baby robin in his hands and closed his fist around it. Life trickled out and the twisted creature he had called his son seemed to evaporate.
These memories gave him a chill even as he looked down at the crazed woman. She had a face somewhat like Irene’s used to be: soft, small features, features that were almost childlike. Her skin looked so smooth; he had to reach down and run his callused fingers over her cheeks and down to her jawbone. She didn’t stir; she didn’t blink. She couldn’t feel him touching her.
All of a sudden that realization excited him. It had been so long since he and Irene made love the way they used to before Arthur died almost two and a half years ago. Now, whenever he attempted to touch her affectionately, she whimpered. Even when she submitted to his advances, she behaved more like it was painful than pleasurable. The passion was gone. He was making love to a memory. He had to close his eyes and imagine her the way she was.
He let his fingers slide down over the woman’s neck to the collar of her dress. There he hesitated for a moment and looked toward the open doorway. Irene was still downstairs in the kitchen and the kids were in the basement.
He unbuttoned the top button and then the next and the next until the cleavage created by the firmness of her breasts and the tightness of her bra was clearly visible. He took a deep breath of appreciation and brought his fingers to where the rise of her bosom began. There his fingers seemed to take their own path. He looked down at their movement as though they were separate from the rest of him.
They pushed the material of the bra upward, pressing it away from her soft and appealing flesh until the nipple came into view. His fingers closed around her breast and he closed his eyes and brought his head back. The excitement traveled up through his fingers and arm to spread through the rest of him. He succumbed to the euphoria as his fingers explored her.
All the while Stacey didn’t blink, didn’t shudder, didn’t moan. When he opened his eyes again, her silence and total helplessness quickened his heartbeat. He felt himself losing control and he began to kneel to bring his lips to her exposed breast.
It was then that he heard the loud knocking at the front door. The sound was amplified through the walls of the house. Because all of his senses had been heightened, to him it seemed as if there was a minor earthquake. He pulled his hand away from Stacey quickly and stood up, listening. The knocking at the door continued.
“Gerald?” Irene called up to him. “Gerald. Someone’s at the door. Gerald?”
“All right. Don’t go near it,” he shouted. He looked down at Stacey again, covered her up, and then rushed out of the room. He ran down the stairs, but instead of going directly to the door, he went to the sitting room and pulled the curtain back from the window to peer out at the doorstep.
He couldn’t control an involuntary start when he saw who stood there.
“Who is it?” Irene said as she came to the sitting room door. She held a bowl in her arm and pressed it against her body as she stirred the batter within.
“Shh. Go back to the kitchen. Go back.”
“Who is it, Gerald?”
He thought for a moment.
“It’s the man, coming for Arthur again.”
Irene stopped stirring and looked at the door. There was another series of knocks.
“I said go back to the kitchen. I’ll take care of it,” he said. She turned around and retreated slowly. After she was gone, he went to the door.
David looked behind him after he knocked the first and second times. There was an eerie silence about this place that made him uneasy. The initial regret he had felt after he had begun to knock on the door intensified until he became very anxious. He considered it an irrational fear and attributed all of it to the difficulties and frustrations he was experiencing. Nevertheless, the absence of people and noise annoyed him. It made him feel terribly alone. No one but him cared that his wife and daughter were missing.
He practically jumped back when the front door was finally opened because it flew open so abruptly. For a long moment, both he and the big man within wrestled one another’s gaze in an unfriendly silence. The obvious lack of any basic courtesy on the farmer’s part left David speechless. He sensed that he was an unwanted intruder, someone who had disturbed the peace.
“What is it?” Gerald asked. He stepped forward, making David retreat a few steps on the porch so he could close the door behind him.
“I…ran into a little trouble down the road. Maybe you remember me. I was here a little while ago asking about—”
“Yeah, I remember you. What trouble?”
“My car…I took a side road, a path actually, and I’m hung up.” Gerald continued to stare at him. The intensity of his smoldering eyes, embedded in such an expressionless face, was unnerving. David couldn’t help feeling threatened, even though he had no idea why that should be. “In other words, I’m stuck,” he added. Maybe the man’s plain stupid, he thought.
“There’s a garage not far.” Gerald said after a pause. His huge, muscled frame towered over David menacingly.
“I know, but I was hoping that maybe…you have a tractor. I’d be glad to pay you.” Again, the farmer simply stared. “It wouldn’t take that long. It’s the road down on this side, about a half a mile.”
“I know the road.”
“Well, I was…can you help me?”
Gerald looked back at the front door. In his mind’s eye, he could see Irene. She had gone back to the kitchen, but he knew she wouldn’t continue her work. She was probably sitting at the table, trembling with fear, reliving the horror. They had wanted Arthur’s body. There was the need for the death certificate and an autopsy before the county allowed a burial. Who buried their family members on their own land in this day and age? Wasn’t that what the government man said? He was sorry he had called Doctor Stanley in when Arthur died, but Irene wouldn’t accept his death, and he had hoped the doctor would convince her. Instead, he ended up bringing them all that trouble. The autopsy revealed nothing unnatural. They had gone on with a funeral—without Irene. And when everyone had forgotten, he had reburied Arthur.
Now Arthur lay out back in an unmarked grave and only he knew where. Irene didn’t even know. She didn’t want to know. From time to time, her mind played tricks on her and she would believe Arthur was still alive, lying up in his room, waiting for her attention. Shirley would carry on the illusion, saying she was going to play with Arthur. It was terrible for him when they did that. The only time they let Arthur sink into oblivion was when Shirley had a playmate. He knew what she was thinking then. Arthur would have made a wonderful playmate for both girls.
“All right,” he said, turning back to the man, “we’ll go around back and get my tractor and the chains.”
“Thanks. I really appreciate this. I really screwed things up on top of everything else,” he said, talking rapidly out of both nervousness and gratitude. He hoped the man would soften and sympathize with his plight, but he just stalked past him and down the front steps. David hurried behind. “I’m David, David Oberman,” he said. The man didn’t hesitate. He continued to walk toward the rear of the house.
Suddenly, just before they reached the basement window, David heard the sound of a child’s laugh. The big man heard it, too, and turned around. The way he looked toward the basement window and then at David piqued David’s interest.
“You have children?”
“Yeah. Let’s get moving if you want my help. I have my own chores to do.”
“Right. Sorry.” David gazed down at the basement window as they walked on. He heard the laugh again, but he didn’t stop. When they rounded the rear of the building, he spotted the tractor parked to the left of the barn.
“Wait here,” the farmer said as he went into the barn, making sure to close the door behind him. David turned around slowly; he had the strange sensation he wasn’t alone. Sure enough, when he looked at the rear of the house, he saw a woman’s face peering out at him from between the parted curtains of a small window. He didn’t see much of her, but what he saw sent a chill through him; she looked like a rodent watching fearfully, her eyes small, her face drawn, the curtains pressed against her cheeks. As soon as she realized he had spotted her, she pulled back and let the curtains close over the window.
He heard the sound of chains being lifted off a wall in the barn and turned back in anticipation of the farmer’s appearance. He opened the barn door slightly, almost as though he wanted to sneak out of it.
“All right,” he said. He started for the tractor and David began to follow, but not before turning back to scan the house for the woman’s face again. It was then that his gaze shifted to the floor of the back porch, next to the back door as if drawn magnetically. He squinted against the sunlight and took a few steps toward the house. It looked like…
He continued toward the house, walking faster as the object became clearer and more distinct. When he was about ten feet from the steps of the porch, he broke into a run.
On the porch, he sank to his knees and cupped the Cabbage Patch doll to his chest gingerly, as though it were fragile. Of course there must be a million of these dolls, he thought, but he was positive this one was Sooey. In fact, as he lifted it again he could almost hear his daughter pronouncing the name.
The discovery flooded him with excitement. The odd feelings he had had earlier must have been on target. Almost on cue, he heard the sound of a child’s laughter chime out again. Sensing someone nearby, he looked up and saw the woman’s face in the window again. Her look of terror and fear alerted him to his own danger, but far too late to avert events.
The chain flew down over his head and was tightened around his neck before he could offer any resistance. The doll seemed to jump out of his hands. He remembered reaching out for it and thinking Sooey as he was jerked backward and dragged down the porch steps. The links of the chain cut into his neck under his chin. He reached up in vain to relieve some of the pressure but by the time he took a secure hold of the metal, he was already on the threshold of unconsciousness.
Gerald was not happy about having to tow the car into the woods, even though he had successfully maneuvered it into place behind the blue Ford. In the fall, with the trees leafless, both vehicles would be quite visible to anyone who ventured off the road and over the knoll. Granted, hardly anyone but hunters would penetrate this far into the countryside, but even so, he didn’t like the cars being there. One was okay. Trespassing hunters would think it was an abandoned stolen car left by teenagers, and then forget about it after they’d finished their sport. But two might be puzzling—and memorable. He would have to figure some other way to conceal them. It occurred to him that he could bring the backhoe out and dig a pit. Of course, he would have to do it at night. One of his nosy neighbors would be sure to come around if he did such work during daylight hours.
As he drove his tractor back to the house, however, he felt cocooned by a sense of contentment that was akin to security. When the man looking for the woman and child had first pulled up he couldn’t help being afraid for Irene. There was always the chance the man would circle back; there was always the danger of discovery. Now the possibility of discovery seemed quite remote.
All this made him hungry and he thought about the good meal Irene had been working on all day long. He was sure that when he got back to the house, the scent of her apple pie would be strong. His stomach churned in anticipation.
There were so many good things about Irene. She was certainly a great cook, a perfectionist when it came to following his mother’s old recipes. And she was so neat and organized as she busied herself with the task of feeding him. She kept the recipes on lined two-by-four cards in a small file cabinet in the cupboard above the sink. She had her appetizers, entrees, and desserts separated by tabbed index cards.
She did their books the same way, employing her abilities for meticulous detail to add up household expenses to the penny. Pa never appreciated her for that. He didn’t set much store by those things. He was wrong, Gerald thought defiantly, feeling safe within the confines of his own thoughts. Of course, it was always easier to be critical of his father when he was away from the house. It was difficult, if not impossible, to do so inside. There were too many reminders, too many of his father’s possessions lying about, staring him in the face, threatening him.
Pa often could be like Uncle Harry: ridiculously stubborn. How many times did his mother tell them the story of Uncle Harry’s refusal to use indoor bathroom facilities? “The outhouse was good enough for my father; it’s good enough for me,” he would proclaim. Eventually he gave in, of course, but what was the point of the resistance in the first place?
“He had to grow into it,” his mother explained when as a young boy he probed her. “Just like your father, he had to grow into everything that wasn’t there before. They trust only what they know. Don’t you be like that. Don’t you be a stubborn old fool.”
He missed his mother often these days. He missed their talks; he missed her witticisms and homespun philosophy. At least there was some chatter in the house and you weren’t haunted by the echo of your own voice. Or worse, by Pa’s voice, babbling away, screaming accusations, acting erratic, volatile…
He felt sorry for Irene in those last days, in the early years of his marriage, but what could he do? He couldn’t throw the old man out of the house that had been his, could he? She’d slap her hands over her ears and grimace and beg Gerald to make his father stop. “Do what he wants; give him what he wants,” she’d cry.
Sometimes he did; sometimes he quieted him down. But most of the time, the old man wanted things that were impossible to give or to get. He, Gerald, couldn’t muscle the farm back to the way it was, could he? Not by himself.
He cut these thoughts short when the house came into view and he let his mind drift back to the woman upstairs. The memory of those erotic moments brought a flush to his face. He had a greater hunger, one he knew would become all-consuming. There was really nothing to prevent him from satisfying it, and that knowledge brought him the kind of excitement he had almost forgotten existed. It filled him with joy and optimism. There were going to be good days ahead. Shirley had her playmate; Irene had her peace of mind and happiness; and he…he would have his distractions.
Marlene had almost been a distraction. She was darker, not as pretty as this woman, but somehow more compliant. She had tried to seduce her way out from their grip, being weaker in spirit than the new woman, who constantly resisted and probed for means of escape. But Gerald was more repelled than attracted to Marlene, so he hadn’t done anything when she tried to foist herself on him, dressed in sheer gowns, calling to him when Irene was cooking and he was passing through the hallway. He’d clamped chains on her just to keep her in line. Still, it hurt him to have to do away with her. He couldn’t have Irene see her that way, crying and screaming.
An image flashed into his mind: Marlene’s head caving in as he struck her again and again with the shovel, mounds of hay behind them in the barn where he’d taken her…
He gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles whitened, then he shook his head to free it of the image. He was good at this kind of control, and soon the image sank back into the dark corners from where it had stirred.
Gerald sighed, then parked the tractor beside the barn and carried the chains back to the barn. When he came out, he squinted into the light from the west. The weakened rays of the departing sun left a glow in the thick green foliage. Shadows had begun to swell into large pools of darkness, looking to him like creatures of night emerging to cannibalize the daylight. Somewhere on the highway to the southeast a car horn sounded and then died.
Even though he and Irene now spent most of their time on the farm, he was always vaguely conscious of the world that lay just beyond the four acres of forest bordering their property on the south and east. He knew that in that world darkness neither dropped so quickly nor so securely around the homes. Streetlights held the shadows at bay and there was nowhere near as much silence.
People seemed afraid of the silence. They surrounded themselves with as much noise as possible. They couldn’t work without radios playing; they couldn’t eat without talking. He had a theory that they were afraid of their own thoughts.
Irene never complained about the farm’s isolation. She was a shy person from the start. Why, she hadn’t even gone out on one real date before he had met her. In school, she was a loner just like he was. Ironically, though, she was afraid of her children being alone.
“I don’t want them to be like I was,” she told him. “It’s no good to have only yourself, Gerald. Loneliness is the worst thing. It makes you…it makes you shrivel up inside.”
She was thinking of Arthur, of course; but he knew it was ridiculous to blame what happened to him on his having no companionship. If anything, companionship would have frustrated him. He wouldn’t have been able to do the same things his playmate could do and he would have cried out of frustration.
But Shirley was a different problem. In regards to her it was easier to accept Irene’s theories. Shirley wasn’t learning anything or learning fast enough. It was important for her to be around other people. Her little brother, Arthur, hadn’t been much help, though she inflicted herself on the paper-thin, ailing boy who cried whenever she was around.
“You know, when kids play,” Irene said, “they don’t just play; they teach each other things. That’s why it’s so important that they get a chance to play.”
Her theory made sense, he thought. Shirley hung around him a great deal, but he couldn’t teach her anything she needed to know. During the school year, other kids didn’t want to come around and none of them ever invited Shirley to their houses. She was always alone. It wasn’t fair; it wasn’t right. But most of all, it made Irene terribly unhappy.
He started for the house, but she was at the back door before he reached out to open it.
“What happened to the man?” she asked. He stared over her shoulder.
“I’m starving,” he said. “Wow, does that pie smell good.”
“Gerald? She stepped back when he glared at her. “What happened to the man?” she repeated in a softer voice.
“I don’t want to talk about him now. There’s time for that later. Just don’t worry. Where are the children?”
“I have Shirley running the bath. Donna is filthy. They were playing savages.”
“What about…what about Marlene?”
“Oh, she’s resting comfortably,” Irene said. “The poor thing is so tired. She tried to undress herself and stopped in the middle.” Irene had apparently stumbled on the woman in the half-dressed state Gerald had left her in.
“What did you do?”
“I undressed her and tucked her into bed. Later tonight, I think I’d better help her take a bath, don’t you think?”
“Yes,” he said. “I’ll go check on the children.”
“Oh, would you? Thank you, Gerald. I was about to set the table.”
“The kids should be helping you.”
“Oh, they will; they will. Tomorrow night. Shirley is just so excited about having a playmate.”
“Still, they have to learn to do their chores.”
“I know, Gerald. Don’t start. I know.”
He stared at her for a moment. He could see she was waiting for him to soften, but his stern expression remained. His father’s coffee mug glared at him from the small shelf above the stove. It was a large, dark brown ceramic cup used by his father for years. He had been tempted to use it at times, but never could get himself to do it.
“I’m hungry,” he repeated.
“As soon as the kids are ready, we’ll eat.”
“Then I’ll move them along.”
He went on through the house and up the stairs, pausing at the woman’s doorway. He looked in and saw her head turned to the right, the covers tucked snugly around her body and up to her chin. Shirley’s shout from the bathroom pulled his attention away.
She had the little girl in the tub. The water was coming out of the faucet full force and the girl was crying and struggling to get out. He pulled Shirley away roughly and felt the water.
“This is too damn hot,” he said. “Can’t you tell that?”
“Mommy said to make it hot.”
“Not this hot. You want to scald her? You want to hurt her and not have a playmate?”
“No.” Shirley looked down at the floor. She was naked, too, and he saw where she had painted black circles around her budding breasts.
“What the hell…why’d you do that for?”
“What?”
“Paint yourself and her there?”
“I saw it in a magazine. Want me to get it?”
“No, damn it. Just get into this tub,” he commanded and turned the faucet on cold until the water cooled to lukewarm. He helped them into the tub, then handed the little girl a washrag and another one to Shirley. “Scrub off that shit,” he said. “And make it fast. I want to eat.”
Tami looked up at him, her face wrinkled with fear and pain. She kept herself from bawling aloud, but she couldn’t keep her chin from trembling.
“I want my…mother,” she said.
“Get clean first. You can’t let your mother see you like this, can you?”
“She did before,” Shirley said.
“What do you mean?”
“We heard her calling and went to the door and she asked me to get Donna, and so I did.”
“Then what happened?”
“She started to scream so I pulled Donna ’way and we went to the basement.” She had forced the bawling Tami into the Bad Box again as further punishment, closing the lid with the leash hanging out. But after several moments, she had grown bored and set her free again—neglecting to mention this to her father now.
“So that’s what happened. All right, clean up,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”
“Gerald,” Irene called from the foot of the steps. “Should I come up to help them?”
“No. It’s all right. I’ve got this under control. Just get dinner ready.”
“Okay,” she said. He heard her walk back to the kitchen. He hesitated a moment and then went to Stacey’s room. The only light within was the light that came from the hallway. He flicked on the switch and walked to the bed. He waited a moment, but she didn’t move. He pushed her shoulder. He heard her groan, but she didn’t turn his way.
Slowly, he lowered the cover down over her body. Irene had told the truth. She had stripped the woman nude. He stared down, feeling the excitement build within him. He wanted to do something, but he wasn’t sure what. He sat on the bed and ran the palm of his hand up her leg to her buttocks, where he stopped to prod her soft parts. Then he followed the small of her back to her shoulders. His fingers gripped the back of her neck as he lost himself in fantasy, punctured when Shirley began to call.
He unfolded the cover back over Stacey’s body, tucking it in the way he had found her. He went back to the children. Tami stood awkwardly as Shirley wiped her body roughly with the bath towel.
“Not so hard,” he said. “Do you have to be rough about everything you do?”
She backed away quickly and began to wipe herself. Tami looked up at him fearfully. He studied the child for a few moments. He could see that she would grow to be soft and beautiful like her mother. The differences between her and Shirley were emphatic. Shirley was big-boned and wide in the back and waist. He doubted that she would ever have a woman’s gentle curves. Her thighs were already too heavy, and her ankles and wrists were thick like a boy’s should be. There were marks of beauty on her—like the high cheekbones—but those distortions of her features erased whatever effect they might have had. Sadness engulfed him.
“Come on, let’s get her dressed,” he said.
He pulled the dress over Tami’s head and then told her to put on her own shoes and socks. Shirley watched stupidly until he reprimanded her. When they were finished, he herded them out of the bathroom. Tami stopped tentatively in front of Stacey’s room, but she didn’t attempt to enter. Gerald scooped her up into his arms.
“Carry me, too; carry me, too,” Shirley cried.
“Just walk,” he said. She grimaced and then glared at Tami with an expression mixed with envy and hate.
Tami nearly lost her breath when Gerald picked her up so abruptly. Again she wanted to cry out and again she recognized that it was dangerous to do so. Gerald’s grip was too firm; his fingers pressed into her thigh. He had grasped her under the skirt of the dress, brushing her private parts, and the roughness of his hands chafed her tender skin. But she didn’t struggle against him. She held her breath and bit her lower lip, bracing herself in subconscious anticipation of what was yet to come.