Piercing the Darkness: A Charity Horror Anthology for the Children's Literacy Initiative Page 17

  A red pick-up rumbled by. Fascinated, Daniel watched it pass. God, she thought. To be three again, to be able to let something as simple as a pick-up truck scatter a stressful moment like wind-blown dust. As Daniel watched the red truck recede, she remembered something she’d read about discipline in a parenting magazine: Hit ‘em where it hurts.

  Sarah said, “Do I need to take your fire truck away for you to listen to me?”

  “No, Mommy,” he said, still watching the pick-up’s rusty bumper, the purplish exhaust belching from its rusty muffler.

  “The next time you throw something, I will take it away. Are we understood?”

  “I didn’t throw it,” he said absently.

  Sighing, she straightened and moved toward the house.

  “Come inside,” she said. “It’s nearly lunchtime.”

  But instead of following her, Daniel stood in the yard, alone, and watched the red truck disappear into the forest.

  ««—»»

  Daniel threw two more things while she cooked lunch. A toy bear and the remote control. The battery lid fell off the remote, and when she tried to replace it, she found it wouldn’t slide into place. Lips a thin line, she tossed the remote aside and returned to the macaroni, which was boiling over.

  Sarah reached out to turn off the stove and hissed as steam burned her forearm. “Dammit,” she said and rubbed her throbbing flesh. “Damn, damn, damn.”

  A voice from behind her: “That’s a bad word, Mommy.”

  Sarah bit her lip.

  After lunch it was the same thing, Daniel hurling sand from his sandbox, lobbing an empty cup across the kitchen to clatter against the back door. When he purposely bounced his favorite red ball down the basement steps, she said in a tremulous voice, “Go get it.”

  Daniel paused in the basement doorway, a finger pressed to his lips.

  “I’m not telling you again,” Sarah said, fists balled at her sides. “Get the goddamn ball.”

  A reply, barely audible.

  “What?”

  “The monster will get me.”

  She swept a lock of long brown hair out of her face with an irritated hand. “What are you talking about?”

  “The monster,” he said. “In the basement.”

  Sarah’s eyes widened. She wasn’t a bit surprised Daniel thought there was a monster in their basement. The goddamned place was like a dungeon. She’d gone down to do laundry last week and had discovered a dead mouse at the foot of the stairs. Not only did the thing stink, but the sight of it had been awful. Like it had been gnawed on, the back legs shredded to bloody ribbons. She was sure it had been H.P.—their cat’s name had been her ex-husband’s idea; he loved all kinds of weirdo stories—but she hadn’t seen the cat down there in ages. Like H.P. was even more frightened of the basement than her son was.

  Thinking hard, Sarah moved up next to Daniel. She peered down at the sooty basement stairs, snaked an arm around his narrow shoulders. “I’ll make you a deal,” she said.

  His body tensed, his tone suddenly wary. “What kind of a deal?”

  “I’ll get the ball for you if you promise not to throw things anymore.”

  He scowled. “No.”

  “Alright,” she said lightly. “But the monster won’t be happy.”

  Daniel glanced quickly up at her. “He won’t?”

  “The monster only eats little boys who throw things when they’re not supposed to. That’s why he’s called the Throwing Monster.”

  Real alarm showing in the boy’s face. It tugged at her conscience, but she’d battled with this stupid issue long enough. An opportunity like this might never come again.

  Daniel inched closer to her. “Will he eat me if I stop throwing stuff?”

  “Of course not, honey. He only eats little boys who don’t listen to their mommies.”

  Amazingly, it worked.

  Two days went by, the calmest period she’d had since Daniel began walking. Sarah was certain the problem had been solved when she stepped into his bedroom and caught him chucking matchbox cars at the cat.

  “Uh-oh,” she said, hands on hips.

  Terror flooded his little face. He backpedaled, nearly tripping over H.P. “I didn’t mean to, Mommy. I didn’t mean to.”

  She sighed. “I don’t know…”

  He dashed over to her, fastened himself to her legs. “Please don’t let the monster get me, Mommy! Please!” When he looked up, the tears in his eyes made her question her tactics.

  But only for a moment.

  If letting Daniel endure one nightmare would ensure household serenity, so be it. She’d already lost enough sleep for two lifetimes worrying over when she’d lost control of him.

  “You’ll make him stay in the basement, Mommy?” he asked in a breathless little voice. “Promise?”

  She eyed him. “You won’t throw again?”

  A tear slipped down his cheek. “Uh-uh.”

  “Then you might be safe.”

  ««—»»

  The next morning, Saturday morning, they were in the cramped living room, Sarah on the couch sipping her coffee. Daniel was watching cartoons when he suddenly spat at the television screen. In silence, she watched the saliva crawl down the glass.

  She set the coffee on the stand beside her. “Daniel?”

  “Sorry,” he replied in a toneless voice. In the screen’s reflection she could see his little face and what might have been the ghost of a smile.

  She willed her heartbeat to slow, her jaw to unclench. “You need to get a towel and wipe that off.”

  No answer.

  “Daniel, I mean it. Now.”

  “You do it,” he said.

  “One…,” she said, “…two…”

  In the reflecting screen she could see he was definitely smiling now.

  She sat forward. “…three…four…”

  Daniel yawned. She stood up.

  “Five,” she said.

  But Daniel didn’t even turn around. She glared at his back in mute fury. Then she remembered she hadn’t assigned a consequence to her count. Moron! she thought. She’d done that several times this week, counting like an idiot while her son ignored her.

  Then, she remembered. A wicked grin spread on her face. “Okay, honey. I’ll clean it up for you.” On the way out of the room she added, “But the Spitting Monster won’t like it.”

  Her mental count only reached two before he burst through the doorway after her. “The what?” he asked, panic stitching his voice.

  She kept her tone matter-of-fact. “The Spitting Monster. He lives in the basement with the others.”

  “Others?” he asked in a tiny voice. He glanced toward the basement in dread.

  She hadn’t meant to plant the idea, but she could see her words working on imagination, conjuring ghastly creatures and generally scaring the shit out of him.

  “Yes,” she pressed on. “The Hitting Monster. The Screaming Monster. The Throwing Monster, but you know about him.”

  Daniel nodded, absolute faith and unfathomable terror at war in his big brown eyes.

  Eric’s eyes, she thought.

  As her son thought it over, Sarah gazed down at him and remembered.

  Remembered six months ago when it all crashed down around her, Eric re-entering the picture to claim paternity. Of course it was true, she’d known that all along. But Tom was such a good man, where was the harm in letting him think Daniel was his? Tom was steady and Tom was good. Tom loved Daniel and Tom was shattered when the doctor told him Daniel wasn’t his biological son, the boy had been sired by Eric after all. Then Tom moved out, started the divorce proceedings, and every goddamn person in town turned against her. She hated the women at the supermarket, the ones who cast furtive glances at her in the produce section. Eyeing her like she was Hester Fucking Prynne. Watching her the same way the bastards at the bars did, like she was easy pickings now that Tom was gone. Like she couldn’t survive without a man between her legs.

  She hated hersel
f for humiliating Tom, for letting Eric ruin everything.

  And now, she supposed, she was suffering for her sins.

  “Mommy?” Daniel asked.

  She blinked a moment before answering. “Yes?”

  “You won’t let the monsters get me, will you?”

  A kiss. “Of course not, honey. Not if you behave.”

  ««—»»

  The phone rang that evening around nine.

  It was Eric.

  “Put Danny on,” he said.

  She drew herself up. “Daniel is already in bed.”

  “Jesus,” Eric said, “it’s still light out.”

  She put him at about four drinks, maybe five.

  “His bedtime is eight-thirty,” she said. “He needs his sleep.”

  In the dead air between them she heard a band playing in the background, like he’d stepped into the parking lot to call.

  “So you’re free for a while,” he said and she could almost see him standing there, a horny grin peeking through his black goatee. His shaggy black hair would be pushed back by his sunglasses or a do-rag. He’d be wearing a muscle shirt, his tall sculpted frame like someone on a romance novel cover. Despite herself, she felt the old stirring.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “It’s getting late.”

  Soft laughter. “Make sure the porch light’s on.”

  He arrived a half hour later, the Harley loud enough to shake the house. She tiptoed to her son’s bedroom door and strained to hear movement from within, but he seemed to be sleeping peacefully.

  Hammering on the front door.

  She jogged down the hall to silence it, opened the door and said in a harsh whisper, “Come in before you wake Daniel.”

  No apology. Eric never apologized. It was a point of pride for him.

  He swayed as he moved past, a fog of beer attending him.

  “How many have you had?” she asked.

  Making his way toward the kitchen. “A few. Got any popcorn?”

  “In the cupboard.”

  Instead of going for the popcorn, Eric opened the pantry door and rummaged around. “No booze?”

  Sarah shrugged. “I don’t like whiskey like you do.”

  Sighing, Eric went over, opened the fridge, and peered inside. “Still drinking that fruity shit?” He brought out a wine cooler.

  She knew he wouldn’t get her one, so she reached in and got one herself. They stood in the kitchen drinking a moment before he said, “You’ve lost weight. Everywhere except your tits.”

  She rolled her eyes but was unable to suppress a smile. He moved closer and nuzzled her neck. He smelled like aftershave and beer. His long arms encircled her, reached down and groped her ass. She knew she should be throwing him out, all the trouble he had caused her, but it had been weeks since she’d been with anyone.

  She surrendered to it, the feel of his beard on her neck, her shoulder. He lifted off her shirt and pushed down her bra to lap at her nipples. She took a long, sweet drink of raspberry wine cooler as he reached between her legs and massaged her sex. She helped him get her blue jeans off and somehow they were on the living room floor, Eric thrusting into her so feverishly she had to bite the back of her hand to stifle her cries. God, but the man could make love. Though her heart was with Tom, her body had always been Eric’s. In high school. Fifteen-years-old in the back of his Mustang. On the football field at midnight. In his apartment while Daniel was at the sitter and Tom was at work.

  And now, at twenty-five, here she was on the floor of her living room gripped by that same maddening itch, consumed by that quivering white haze that no one else could conjure. His muscular body tightened, his face a dark mask of lust. Then he slumped on top of her, his warm musky smell drowsing over her.

  They lazed there a moment, Eric going slowly limp inside her. When he got up and went to the fridge for another wine cooler, she lay there naked and sweating.

  Sarah frowned.

  She was suddenly certain she was being watched. Gasping, she fumbled for a throw pillow and covered her breasts with it. She glanced down the hall, sure she’d see Daniel standing there, but her son had apparently slept through her and Eric’s lovemaking.

  Slowly, she exhaled. When Sarah rose and turned toward the kitchen, she realized the basement door was open.

  Funny. She was certain she’d closed it. She strode over and pushed it shut, and as she did she caught a whiff of something rotten. Another dead mouse, maybe. Or moisture seeping through the single dingy window. God, how she hated it down there.

  Frowning, Sarah went to the bathroom to clean up.

  When she stepped out of the bathroom her breath caught in her throat.

  Daniel’s door was open.

  She hurried around the corner hoping the cat had pushed it open, but there was Eric, standing over her son, something approaching tenderness in his face.

  Too bad he wanted nothing to do with the boy when he was sober.

  Careful not to awaken Daniel, she seized Eric’s elbow. “Come on.”

  “He’s got my chin, too.” Eric shook his head. “Goddamn, that’s a handsome boy.”

  Daniel stirred. Despite the murk of the bedroom, she could see how badly her son’s hair needed a trim. For some reason, this added to her anxiety.

  “Come on,” she said, tugging Eric’s arm.

  She half dragged him out of the bedroom and elbowed shut the door.

  “How dare you?” she demanded.

  But Eric had lost interest. He ambled down the hallway and into the kitchen.

  She followed after him, calling, “If you’d pay some child support, you could see Daniel every day.”

  Eric grabbed another wine cooler and left without saying goodbye.

  Sarah closed her eyes, leaned against the kitchen doorjamb, and listened to the Harley’s engine recede. Then she crossed to the fridge and got herself a pair of wine coolers.

  Maybe getting drunk would help her sleep.

  ««—»»

  The next morning Daniel was under her skin from the moment he climbed into her bed at just before six.

  The only time the boy was really affectionate was when she wanted to sleep. Burrowing into her neck, kissing her closed lids. She might have welcomed the closeness had she not been hung over. As it was, his attentions reminded her of a persistent puppy.

  At breakfast Daniel wouldn’t sit still, insisted on getting into the pantry instead. The child lock on the knob had long since disappeared, which meant Daniel had a world of dangers at his disposal: cleaning solutions, bleach, old mops, even a set of steak knives she never used. She needed to carry it all to the basement, where the quarantine pile already included several glass jars, a hammer, rat poison, and a set of andirons Daniel kept using as baseball bats, but she didn’t feel like doing it. She never felt like going to the basement, which was probably why they so rarely had clean clothes.

  She was eating cereal at the kitchen table when everything grew quiet. Sarah waited, her spoon poised above her cereal. Silence was always a bad sign. When Daniel grew silent, he was either pooping or getting into trouble. Since he was mostly potty-trained and had his big boy underpants on, she was betting on trouble.

  “Daniel?”

  Silence from the closet.

  From where she sat, the open door blocked her view of what he was doing. She could see the open basement door across the hall. She pictured her son backing out of the closet with a steak knife, getting closer and closer to the basement stairs until the ground dropped away behind him. He’d tumble into darkness and either break his neck or impale himself.

  And she’d get thrown in jail for neglect.

  Sarah was across the kitchen in a second. She jerked open the door and stared down at her son.

  Sucking on a bottle of window cleaner.

  It wasn’t Sarah slapping the bottle away and seizing Daniel by the shirt. It wasn’t Sarah dragging him bodily to the kitchen sink and hoisting him toward the faucet.

  Daniel scr
eamed and spluttered as she shoved his open mouth under the faucet. He bellowed and slapped at her and thrashed to get away. Several times he nearly flopped out of her hands like a game fish evading capture. Finally, Sarah gave up washing his mouth and started pounding his back, forgetting in her panic one could not dislodge liquid the way one could a solid. When his feet again touched the linoleum floor, Daniel squirmed free of her grip and stumbled away. Sobbing, he bolted down the hall and out the front door.

  She didn’t know whether to pursue him or call poison control.

  She called poison control.

  The woman listened calmly to her story and asked her how much Windex Daniel had imbibed.

  Sarah had no idea.

  “Were you watching him?”

  A beat.

  “Of course I was watching him.”

  “How much did you see him drink?”

  “I didn’t see him drink it.”

  “Where were you when this was happening?”

  “Goddammit, quit grilling me and tell me what to do.”

  “Miss, I can’t help you if you don’t give me specifics.”

  “Damn it.” Covering the phone. “Daniel.”

  “Miss?”

  “He just…I don’t know where he went. Daniel!”

  “If you’re not certain, you better take him to the emergency room.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  Sarah hurled the phone against the wall.

  She exploded through the front door and saw Daniel on the sidewalk looking up at her.

  He retreated a step.

  She said through clenched teeth, “Don’t you run from me.”

  His bottom lip quivered.

  “Daniel Thomas Slover, you come right up these steps so I can talk to you.”

  Daniel didn’t move.

  “Now.”

  Reluctantly, he approached. The old guilt surged through her at the way he flinched as she reached out to draw him closer. She never hit him, but a couple times—okay, a few times—she’d shaken him by the shoulders. If he’d only listen.

  Speaking directly into his wet, red face, she said, “Tell me how much you drank.”