9. Some People Shouldn’t Have Children
On Thursday, I entered the Hungry Hen Diner at exactly noon. Two rows of booths lined the walls on either side of a U-shaped counter. In the far left booth sat a man sipping from a cup of coffee.“Philip Harper?”
“That would be me.” He wore a long-sleeved white shirt with dark spots under his arms and a faded blue and white tie. His graying hair was cut short, military style. His thick glasses, held by black frames, gave him an owlish look.
I shook his small, dry hand and sat down opposite him. “Thanks for meeting me.”
“Not a problem. But I only have an hour. I have to come up with an editorial about this ridiculous sewer issue.”
“I didn’t know there was a sewer issue.”
“There’s always a sewer issue,” he said, enigmatically.
A waitress with pendulous arm flab took my order of root beer and French fries.
Harper’s eyebrows shot up. “You’re a fitness nut, I see.” He ordered a tuna sandwich, hold the potato chips. Then, after the waitress waddled off: “So, what can I do for you?”
“Well, like I told you on the phone, my family and I have recently moved into 49 Love Lane, and we heard this story about the baby…”
“Jane Bingham.”
“Jane?”
“The baby. We kept the names of minors out of the paper in those days.”
My spine went all icy. “My daughter’s middle name is Jane.”
“How old?” he asked.
“Fourteen months.”
“That’s more or less how old Jane was. Cute kid. I saw pictures.”
“You saw pictures of Daisy?
“Who’s Daisy?”
My thoughts were scattered like playing cards in a game of 52 Pick-Up. I had a vague impression of the waitress bringing my soda.
“Never mind,” I said. “What else can you tell me that wasn’t in the articles?”
“There’s not a whole lot.”
“Were they married? Annette Bingham and Taylor?”
“No.”
“Everyone says they were.”
“Well, Jane had her mom’s name, so…”
“Was Taylor the baby’s father?”
“That’s what they claimed. I heard rumors to the contrary, but nothing solid. They didn’t perform any blood tests or anything.”
“Rumors from neighbors?”
“I’d have to look at my notes again. I talked to everyone I could.”
“Because our neighbor, Mrs. Schwinn—“
“Across the road?” Harper asked.
“She told me that ‘strange things’ had gone on in the house.”
“I heard similar things. I remember the lady had a husband—“
“Mr. Schwinn.”
“Right. He said something about Satanism.”
Now it was my turn to hoist my eyebrows.
Harper chuckled. “Nothing solid. I think he was a religious nut or something.”
The waitress brought our food, but I’d lost my appetite. Harper picked up his sandwich—daintily, with both hands—and took a huge bite.
“What happened to Taylor?” I asked, trying to ignore his loud, open-mouthed chewing.
“Pled guilty,” Harper said, showing a maw-ful of tuna. “Got ten to twenty-five, or something like that.”
“So he’s out.”
“Unless he got into more trouble.”
“Did you ever speak to him?”
“Nope.”
“And the mother?” I asked.
“Refused to talk. Then she moved away with the boy.”
“Bill?”
“Bill. Or Billy. They went down south, I think.”
“I wonder whatever happened to them.”
Harper took another big bite. “I felt sorry for the boy. To grow up in a house like that.” He shook his head as he chewed. “You should’ve seen the place.”
“You went inside?”
“When I took the photo of the house. The door was unlocked.”
“You saw the crime scene?”
He nodded.
“The bedroom?”
“Yeah. Right off the hall there, as I recall. Jeez, I can still picture it pretty clearly. There was a blood stain on the far wall.”
“Across from the doorway?” That was where Abby had hung a portrait of her parents.
“Worse than the blood, though: the plaster was dented. There wasn’t much blood, actually. I think I expected more.”
“Small head.”
“Uh huh.”
I was growing physically sick at the sound of his lips smacking.
“What about the rest of the house?” I asked.
“A shit hole. Annette just up and left the place, maybe took some clothes, that’s all. Dirty diapers on the floor, junk everywhere, crappy furniture. Very white trash.”
I had a hard time picturing the house in such a state—Abby was obsessively neat. Though in the past few days I’d noticed she was letting some things slide: Daisy’s toys didn’t get put away as quickly, dishes lay in the sink all afternoon.
“Maybe I’m being unfair,” he said. “The guy had lost his job. She didn’t work. I’m sure there was a lot of pressure.”
“Still,” I said.
“You’re right. Still.”
I picked up a french fry but didn’t eat it. “Why did you ask about the house?”
“Hm?” Harper had finished his sandwich and was poking at a small paper cup of cole slaw with his fork.
“On the phone. You asked how the house was.”
“Just curious. Something like that happens in a house, you never know.” He shoveled some slaw into his mouth. “Have a lot of people lived there in the past twenty-five years?” he asked.
“Quite a few. Why?”
“Sometimes that’s a sign. People move in, don’t stay for long.”
“A sign of what?”
Harper took up a napkin and wiped his lips. “The place my ex and I got married—down south? It was an old plantation. Every single person who came to the wedding, including myself, as we were driving up this very long drive to the house we saw a couple of old black ladies working out in the field with their hoes. I didn’t think anything of it, but when someone asked the caretaker about it, he said those were the slaves. ‘Slaves?’ we said. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Those two ladies have been out there more than a hundred and fifty years.’”
“So you think my house is haunted?”
He shrugged. “If there’s a house that would be haunted, it would be yours.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t believe in that kind of thing.”
“Neither do I, actually.”
“What about those slaves?”
“I think that old guy was pulling our legs. So who told you about little Jane’s murder, anyway?”
“Our lawn guy. He said he was there when it happened.”
“That’s right. There was another kid there. A friend of the boy’s. What’s this lawn guy’s name?” Harper took out a pad and a pencil. I was relieved that he’d finally stopped eating.
“Anders Lehigh,” I said. “You shouldn’t have any problem with him. He seems to enjoy talking about it.”
Harper wrote down the name. “Excellent. Maybe he’ll have more on this Satanism angle.”
“You think there could be something to that?”
“You’d be surprised how many people are into burning black candles and sacrificing small animals. It’s a fad, like bowling. I mean, these are not rocket scientists we’re talking about. Some people shouldn’t have children.”
“I think you’re right,” I said.
The waitress stopped by and dropped the tab on the table. Harper started to pull out his wallet, but I put up my hand. “It’s on me. Thanks for your help.”
“Thank you.” He stood up. “This story’s got my juices flowing again. I’ll do some checking around, make some calls. In the meantime, let me know if you find out anything else.”
“Same here.”
“You got it.” We shook hands.
“Hey,” I said, as he was starting off. “Do you have any job openings over at the newspaper?”
“Looking for work?”
“Sort of.”
He shook his head. “We don’t need anyone at the moment. Unless you want to deliver papers.”
Sadly, I considered it for a moment.
“There’s only three full-time staffers,” he said. “And the pay stinks.”
“Just thought I’d ask.”
“Sorry. I’ll see you, Carl.”
As he left I noticed a familiar looking man sitting at the counter. Dark hair, meticulously parted. He looked over and smiled. Was it a neighbor? I waved a french fry, then ate it. It was cold.
*
That night, I told myself on the way home, I would confess to Abby about getting fired. I’d tell her it had just happened, that there were layoffs due to low enrollment, and as the teacher with the least seniority I’d been cut loose. She would not be pleased, obviously, but maybe I could avoid the blame.
When I got home she announced we were going out for dinner to celebrate.
“Celebrate what?”
“Everything,” she said. “Our new home, your new job. All of it.”
“But—“
“Frannie told me about a nice little place in town. Very romantic. Monica’s going to babysit.”
“Monica?”
“She’s been doing it for years. I called two of her references and they adore her.”
“But you really want Monica looking after Daisy?”
Abby walked right up to me and, before I had a chance to react, snaked her arms around my neck.
“We haven’t been out on a proper date since Daisy was born. Let’s just have some fun, relax, and be thankful for everything.”
This probably would have been the time to break the news about losing my job—before we went out to celebrate our good fortune—but her face was just inches from mine and I worried that the horrible truth would draw flames from her eyes.
“Sounds great,” I said.
Monica showed up at 6:30 dressed in a bright yellow tank top, sans bra, a short denim skirt and flip flops.
“Hi Carl,” she said at the screen door. I should have told her to please call me “Mr. Hammond,” but her flapping long lashes weakened my resolve. Thirty seconds later she was calling Abby “Mrs. Hammond” while noting a list of emergency phone numbers. Then she scooped Daisy up from the floor and pressed her into her perky breasts.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “Well be fine. Won’t we, Daze?”
Daisy grinned and wiggled. Monica took the baby’s wrist and waved her little arm. “Say b’bye.”
“Baby,” Daisy said.
As she climbed in behind the wheel, Abby sighed. “Thank God. One more minute with that baby and I was gonna blow.”
“Was she being bad? I hadn’t noticed.”
“It’s not her. It’s me. Sometimes I just can’t deal with the demands, you know?”
She tore out of the driveway onto Love Lane, tires squealing.
“In a hurry?”
“I’m just excited. It’s so nice, just the two of us, celebrating.”
Moments later, without slowing or using the turn signal, she careened into the restaurant parking lot. I pressed my feet into the floor and clutched at the armrest.
“Since when are you such a wuss?” Abby laughed.
“Since when are you a Nascar mom?”
Well into dinner I was still contemplating the idea of telling her about losing my job. She was in such a good mood I thought the news might land easier, but every time I revved myself up to say something I backed down at the thought of shattering her spirits.
“Here’s to us,” she said, raising a glass of pinot noir. She’d ordered an entire bottle, along with some fancy appetizers, and I couldn’t help but add up the numbers in my head. Each dollar was like a pin jammed into my ankle.
“So I was thinking.” She smiled, revealing wine-stained teeth. “Maybe we should have another baby.”
“What?” The wine nearly erupted from my nose.
“Seriously. By that time Daisy will be about two, which is perfect.”
When I had stopped coughing I said, “Don’t you think we should wait?”
“What for?”
“I haven’t even…” I was going to say I hadn’t started my job, but I couldn’t get the words past my lips.
“I know, I know,” she said. “But we’re not getting any younger, and we can make it work. Don’t you want another?”
“Sure. I’m just surprised is all.”
“Frankly, so am I. I thought Daisy would be enough, but I don’t know… I guess seeing Frannie’s kids has something to do with it. It seems nice to have two. Maybe we’d have a boy this time.”
I pictured Monica and Ellis Johnston at the dinner table: the seductive older sister, the odd little brother. The image must have made me grimace because Abby looked hurt.
“Is the thought of it so horrible?”
“Of course not. It’s just that, the Johnston kids, for me, don’t exactly inspire thoughts of procreation.”
Our entrees arrived, and again I calculated the bill. On top of that I added another two hundred grand for Carl, Jr.
“They’re sweet kids,” Abby said.
“Monica?”
“Did you see how Daisy took to her?”
I couldn’t believe that Abby was overlooking that night we watched Monica and Arnie—or whoever that was—in the back yard.
“I’m just saying,” she continued, “it would be nice for Daisy to have a little brother or sister. It’s tough on an only child.”
I poked at my food, waiting for this discussion to float away.
“Just think about it, okay?”
She’d always been a dainty eater but tonight she went at it like a famished trucker, jabbing at her Steak au Poivre and ripping it with her teeth. Her enthusiasm—for the food, for another baby, for our new life—made me angry. I moved my Chicken Paillard around my plate and drank several glasses of wine. The time to tell her about Berk and the job had long passed. Maybe tomorrow, I thought.
The drive home was even more adventurous than the ride out. I’d have taken the wheel but I was more drunk than Abby. She squealed out of the parking lot and had gone three blocks before I had to remind her to switch on the headlights.
“Oh, yeah,” she giggled.
“Are you okay?”
She accelerated through a yellow traffic light as it changed to red. In the intermittent glow of streetlamps I watched her face. I got the sense she could see me watching her but she just stared straight ahead, her eyes squeezed into slits, her jaw muscles twitching.
The headlights played over trees and shrubs as the road snaked away from town. At one point I thought I saw a pair of red eyes in the bushes.
“Watch out for deer,” I said.
At night they could often be seen grazing at the edge of the woods, or loping across the road in search of food. The engine revved.
“Abby.”
“Stop nagging, will you.”
As we turned onto Love Lane, she said, “See? No one was killed, were they?”
She pulled into the driveway and the headlights swept across the yard.
“Did you see that?” I asked. Something, or someone, had disappeared into the shrubs dividing our yard from Jerry Winters’s yard.
“See what?”
“Was that Jerry?”
“Oh my God, Carl. You drank too much wine.”
I couldn’t argue with that. My tongue had swelled in my mouth, my brain felt soggy.
As we walked up the steps from the driveway, Abby asked, “How much cash do you have on you?”
“Maybe a twenty. Why?”
“We need to pay Monica.”
She was waiting for us at the kitchen door.
“I hate to tell you this,” she began.
“What is it?” we both asked. I moved into the house looking for Daisy.
“There’s a bat in the house.”
“Where’s the baby?” I asked.
“Asleep in her room.”
I went into the living room. Daisy’s door was shut. I was about to open it when, out of the corner of my eye I detected movement, as if a fly were buzzing around my head. I turned to see the bat flutter up near the ceiling. It was small, with fragile-looking wings, and clearly disoriented.
“Carl,” Abby moaned from the doorway.
“I didn’t know what to do,” Monica said.
The bat zipped across the room straight toward me. I ducked.
“How’d it get in?” I asked.
“I opened the deck door and it flew right in.”
I went to the hall closet and got a broom.
“Was Daisy awake?”
“She was in bed already.”
“Be careful,” Abby said, still crouching in the doorway. “You should cover your hair.”
“That’s an old wives’ tale,” I said. The bat flitted from one end of the living room to the other. I positioned myself in the middle, broom raised. “Go check on the baby.”
Abby didn’t move.
“Can I go now?” Monica asked.
I opened the deck door.
“Carl—what if another one flies in?”
“Unlikely. I need to force this one out.”
The bat zig-zagged from one corner to another, up near the ceiling. I approached and tried to force it toward the door. I swung and missed, and the bat streaked over Abby and Monica’s heads into the hall. Abby shrieked and kneeled with her arms over her head.
“You can pay me later,” Monica said, disappearing into the kitchen. A second later, the screen door slammed.
“Where’d it go?” I asked.
Seizing the chance, Abby staggered through the living room and into Daisy’s bedroom. “Call me when it’s gone.” She pulled the door shut behind her.
I checked the kitchen: empty. Same with the dining room. I switched on the bathroom light. No bat. That left the bedroom. I could hear the soft flutter of wings and a barely perceptible squeaking in the dark room. I reached around the corner and switched on the light. The bat fluttered, butterfly-like, in the far corner.
I shut the door behind me. “C’mon, motherfucker.”
I had very little room to maneuver. Every time the bat flew from one side of the room to the other I had to walk around the bed. I also had to be careful when I swung the broom so as not to knock over a lamp. I got in a few good licks but the bat was unfazed. Then I remembered how easily the window screen had popped out. I poked it with the broom and the screen tumbled to the ground outside.
“Go on. Fly away.”
I tried to grab it with the broom head, lacrosse-style, and fling it out, but the thing was too jittery to get a hold of. Finally I just started swinging, no longer caring about lamps and all the crap on top of the bureaus. With the door shut there was no air in the room. Sweat stung my eyes. Cicadas shrieked out in the yard. I leapt on the bed in my shoes and flailed.
“You fucking fucker!”
The bat hovered for a second in the middle of the room. That was all I needed. I whacked it solidly with the fat head of the broom and the bat bounced off the portrait of Abby’s parents and slid onto the floor. It lay there, twitching. Breathing heavily, I grabbed a magazine from the bedside table and positioned it next to the bat. With the broom I nudged the bat onto the magazine. The bat’s wings fluttered, but it could not fly. For the first time I got frightened. All this time I’d been adrenalized, but now I worried that the bat might recover and lash out and bite me as I carried the magazine to the window. I stood over it for a moment, watching the thing writhe. It was so small, probably a baby or a juvenile. I knew it was as frightened as I was—even more so—but still this tiny creature had all this power over me.
“Carl?” Abby called from the living room.
“It’s okay.”
“Is it gone?” She was on the other side of the door now.
“One more minute.”
The bat had stopped moving. I figured it was either dead of just resting, gathering its strength. I could sense Abby just outside the door, waiting, and beyond her, Daisy asleep in her crib.
“Alright,” I said. “Be cool.”
I grabbed the edge of the magazine and lifted. The bat lay still as I moved quickly to the window and tossed it out, magazine and all. Then I shut the window tight.
10. Doll
The following morning, the bat was gone. The magazine lay on the grass, open to a two-page ad for a brassiere with advanced underwire something-or-other.
“Sorry I ran off.”
Monica lay sunbathing in her bikini on the folding lounge chair in the Johnstons’ back yard. She sat up, leaning a little forward so that her breasts hung like small melons from a vine.
“Did you kill it?” she asked.
“It was right here,” I said, searching the immediate area, but the bat was nowhere to be found.
“Maybe a cat ate it,” Monica said. “Or a raccoon.”
“Or maybe it flew away.”
“Ooh. A happy ending for everybody.”
The pre-noon sun saturated the colors: the green grass and leaves, the blue metal swing set, Monica’s fluorescent orange bikini. Her impenetrable sunglasses unnerved me—I couldn’t tell where she was looking.
“We owe you money,” I said.
“Oh, right.”
I pulled out my wallet. “How much?”
“Whatever.”
“Didn’t you work out a price with Abby?”
“I’m not that organized.”
I didn’t know the going rate for babysitters. “How’s twenty sound?”
“I guess that’s alright.”
“That’s ten an hour. Is that fair?”
She shrugged.
“It’s all I’ve got right now.” I stood at the fence and held out the money.
“Well, if that’s all you’ve got.”
She didn’t make a move, just sat there grinning, a good twenty-five feet away.
“You want it?” I asked, flapping the bill.
“Definitely.”
She still didn’t move. For some reason, I laughed, and immediately regretted it. She could tell I was nervous.
“Monica?” I said.
“Carl,” she answered with a grin.
“That reminds me: Don’t you think you should call me ‘Mr. Hammond’?”
“Why?”
“Out of respect?”
I felt odd conducting this conversation from so far away, but Monica didn’t seem to mind.
“But I call Jerry by his first name.”
I remembered the night before: Jerry, or somebody, running from our yard into his own. The top of my head went from warm to cold. I thought back to the night we saw Monica having sex in the yard. Could that have been Jerry?
“I’m not Jerry,” I said.
“Monica!”
Frannie appeared on the deck in nothing but a fluffy beige towel that covered her from chest to thighs. Her long legs were wet.
“Oh, hi, Carl.” She smiled, unconcerned about her lack of clothing. Like daughter, like mother. “How was your special evening?”
“Fine, thank you. I was just trying to pay your daughter for her fine service.” I waved the twenty.
“Oh, that’s awful generous of you. Monica—don’t be rude, sweetie. Take Mr. Hammond’s money and then come inside. You’ve had enough sun this morning.”
Monica stared up at the sky as if waiting for a bolt of lightning to strike her mother.
“Monica.”
The girl stood and swaggered over to the fence. I wished she weren’t wearing those goddamn sunglasses. I had the feeling she was judging me—the paunch, the thinning hair, the jowly evidence of gravity. She grabbed the bill with two fingers and muttered, “Thanks.” As she walked away she wiggled her curvy ass and added, “Carl.”
“These kids today,” Frannie called out. “Am I right? But then you’d know all about that already. When does school start, anyway?”
I had been so primed to get this question from Abby that I was caught on my heels. I stammered a while before saying, “Don’t ask. I don’t want to think about it.”
Frannie laughed. “Can’t say as I blame you.” She slapped Monica’s ass as the girl passed her on the deck. It sounded like two hands clapping. Before entering the house, Monica turned and grinned.
“Well, see you around,” Frannie said before following the girl inside.
I carried the screen into the bedroom and popped it back into place. The room was a mess. I’d knocked some items off the bureau the night before, and one of the lampshades hung crookedly. Also, a pile of Abby’s clothes lay on the floor. She used to be so tidy. Out in the living room children’s books littered the floor along with toys and stray baby shoes and sun hats. I thought of Philip Harper’s description of the house in the days after the murder. Were we turning into white trash? I’d just started cleaning up when I heard Abby call from Daisy’s room.
“Carl? Did you give this to her?”
“Give her what?” I lay on the floor reaching for a stuffed rabbit beneath the sofa.
“This creepy doll.”
I grabbed the rabbit by one ear and carried it into Daisy’s room. The baby sat in her crib wearing only a diaper. A glob of snot bubbled from her nostril.
“Let’s wipe that nose, shall we?” I said, aiming the comment at Abby, who should have cleaned Daisy’s face already.
That’s when I saw in Daisy’s arms what looked like an antique baby doll. Its delicate face was carved from wood and painted a natural pinkish skin tone except for the cheeks, which were a cheap rouge color. The tip of the doll’s nose had chipped off, and one of its moving eyelids drooped so that it seemed to be half blind.
“Where the hell did that come from?” I asked.
“That’s what I was wondering. I thought maybe you gave it to her.”
“Hell no. Dolls creep me out. Especially old ones.”
The doll’s hair had thinned on top, giving it a sickly quality. Its stained, formerly white dress hung limply to faded pink knees.
“Where’d you get this, sweetie?” Abby asked.
“Baby,” Daisy said in a croaky voice.
“She has a cold,” I said.
“Really? I hadn’t noticed.”
Abby attempted to take the doll from Daisy. “Can I see your dolly?” Daisy screeched and wrapped her pudgy arms around it.
“Let her hold it,” I said.
“But, Carl. It looks filthy.”
“I’ll get it from her later. Right now I’d like to know where she got it.”
“It was in her crib this morning, but the weird thing is I didn’t notice it there last night. Of course it was dark and I was more concerned about that bat.”
“Monica?”
“What—you think she gave it to Daisy?”
“Who else? She was here.”
“That’s so odd. Why wouldn’t she say something?”
“She was pretty freaked out about the bat, too.”
Daisy held the doll like a doting mother, cradling it and stroking its stringy hair. I could hear her wheezing through her nose.
“Then again,” I said, “I didn’t notice her carrying it when she got here.” I remembered Monica’s appearance at the kitchen door, her hands in her back pockets, her chest thrust out at me.
“I’ll give her a call,” Abby said.
I wiped Daisy’s nose with a tissue. She looked up and smiled.
“Baby.”
*
Dear Daisy,
Today was a very special day: we finally visited your new pediatrician, Dr. Bob. Your father didn’t want me to take you—he said it’s just a summer cold, though the real reason is that our insurance coverage hasn’t kicked in yet—but your runny nose and cough got me worried and I figured we’d put it off long enough. Someday you’ll understand that health is more important than money. (The visit cost $115 but we won’t tell him, will we?) Dr. Bob is a tall, round man who wears his pants up high, his belt bisecting his egglike shape, like Humpty Dumpty. He entered the room a little lopsidedly, as if his left pants pocket were full of lead. “Well now,” he said in a surprisingly high-pitched voice, “What’s your doll’s name, young lady?” You did not seem to like him. Maybe it was the prickly hairs in his ears or the odor of nicotine that rolled off his clothes. But he has a kind smile and when he listened to your dolly’s heart with his stethoscope you began to warm up a little. “She’s a little congested,” he said after moving the stethoscope around your back. He then weighted and measured you. I can’t believe you are almost 20 lbs., Daisy, and are 30 inches long, with a head circumference of 18 inches! As you lay on the table in just your diaper, he poked and prodded you like you were a lump of dough. You seemed so fragile beneath his fat hands. “What’s this?” he asked while examining your neck. “What’s what?” I asked. He pointed to a red streak on your skin. “These marks here.” “I don’t know,” I said. He looked at me over his glasses. “I’ve never noticed those marks” I said. “What are they from?” He poked a small light into your ears and nose while he spoke: “Maybe someone was rough-housing with your daughter. Maybe it was fun and games, but it’s the kind of thing that gives me pause.” My stomach went cold, Daisy. “Well, I certainly haven’t been rough-housing with her.” “And her father?” I had never understood the phrase That got my back up until this moment, when my spine seemed to elongate. “My husband wouldn’t do that,” I said. “Of course not,” the doctor said. “You can dress her now.” As I pulled your top on over your head I stroked your neck and kissed your hair. The red spot seemed barely noticeable to me. “Could it be a rash?” I asked. “With rashes the skin is typically raised, bumpy.” I tried to think of instances when you’d fallen, or when I may have applied pressure to your neck, like when I lifted you into your car seat. But nothing made sense. “There’s not much to be done about the congestion,” he said as he made notes on a chart. “Do you have a vaporizer? You can pick one up at a pharmacy. Put it by her crib at night. Otherwise, lots of fluids.” He finished writing and shut the chart folder. “I’ve made a note of the marks on your daughter’s neck. If we see more of that we may have to take steps.” “Steps?” “I’m bound by law to alert child services. Understand?” I thought, If I say yes, he’ll assume I hurt you. “I honestly don’t know how those marks got there, doctor.” He nodded, then opened the folder again and started asking questions: “Does she sleep through the night? How long does she nap? Is she still nursing? Can she drink from a cup? Water? Milk? Formula? Any solid food? Does she walk? Crawl? Does she talk?” No matter my answer, I felt it was the wrong one. Dr. Bob just nodded and took notes. “So it says here you’re passing on the one year vaccines—the, uh, Comvan, the Prevnar, the ProQuad and the Hep A. Is that right?” “It’s an insurance issue,” I said. “Next time we’ll—” “Fine,” he said. He stood and headed for the door. “But we do have to test for lead levels. State law. The nurse will be in shortly.” He opened the door and paused. “Come back for those vaccines as soon as that insurance kicks in.” He wobbled out and pulled the door shut behind him. I had just put your shoes back on when the nurse came in and said she needed to take blood from your foot. I think the doctor had said something to her because, though she had a kind, round face, she was not very friendly. I removed your right shoe and sock and held you in my lap as the nurse sat in front of us with your foot in her hand. Before I could ask what was going to happen she pricked your heel and while you squirmed and cried she tried to gather the blood using a small, straw-like tube. It seemed terribly primitive. I had to turn away when I saw your blood—a deep, dark red, almost black. “Hold on,” the nurse said as she squeezed more blood from your heel. You hollered and kicked and I couldn’t blame you. The tube emptied into a vial that was now only about one-third full. You hiccupped for air and looked up at me with pleading eyes. “How much blood do you need?” “I know. It takes forever.” By now I was sort of fascinated. The blood oozed like syrup from a maple tree. I just kept telling myself you won’t remember these painful moments but something tells me you will, we all do, we bury them but they’re still there causing resentment and fear. “Just a little more,” the nurse said, and you answered with another bellow. “Okay, okay,” she said. “Got it.” She put a cap on the vial and stretched a small bandage across your heel. “All done.”
11. The Eleven Satanic Rules of the Earth
This whole time—that summer at 49 Love Lane—we had no cable service, meaning no television and no internet. We’d agreed to hold off until the fall, when my paychecks were to start coming in, not just to save money but also to see if we could live without these modern conveniences. And for the most part we were surviving quite nicely. I didn’t miss the TV much, though it could have afforded more opportunities to avoid Abby. There’s nothing like a baseball game to keep the wife at a distance.
Every week I went to the library to check my scant email and browse the web—and hunt for jobs. My new plan was to present Abby with good news instead of bad, something along the lines of, “Guess what! I found a new, even better job! What—that crappy teaching gig at Pfister? That’s for chumps, baby. Check this out…” and I would go on to detail my impressive new position.
Except there were no impressive jobs to be found, at least none I was qualified for. I nixed any teaching positions, since I’d have to list my now-notorious tenure at St. Lucy’s. I found plenty of low-paying starting positions for recent graduates, and if I were an occupational therapist I’d have had my pick. I even considered driving trucks cross-country.
One day, as I considered going back to grad school—law? MBA?—I typed in the search engine: “Arliss Taylor.”
There were thirteen hits, all of them sports related:
AZ league recap…ball behind the blocks of Chester Dixon, Nicholas Varchaver, Arliss Taylor…
Track & Field results…Arliss Taylor took 3rd place in the 100 meter…
District 7 scores…Arliss Taylor over James Junker 6-4, 6-3, 6-1…
Et cetera. All were dated within the last two years out of Tucson, Arizona. There was no way my Arliss Taylor, who must have been in his fifties or sixties, was running the hundred yard dash in Arizona.
So, just for kicks, I did a search for “Satanism.” This time I got 1,370,000 hits, including Church of Satan: The Official Website, Joy of Satan and SATANISM: Real or Imaginary?
I browsed among some of these sites with one eye on the old sweater-clad information librarian who sat a few feet away at her hyper-organized desk. She kept looking over at me as if I were trolling for pornography. I smiled and hummed an innocuous tune while reading some reasonable defenses of “Black Magick” and even some moving stories of lonely people finding solace in certain benign rituals. I couldn’t see any real harm in lighting candles and incense, or even reciting prayers for the “destruction of enemies,” as long as it was purely symbolic and helped shed the destructive effects of fear and anger in the process. Who would I pray against, I wondered. Berk? Okay Peterson? Tad Greff? Maybe some “Inferno Incense” would help me relax and stop worrying about my situation for a while.
I was going over the Church of Satan’s Eleven Satanic Rules of the Earth™, as dictated by church founder Anton LaVey, when the librarian tapped me on the shoulder.
“I’m sorry, sir. But that’s not appropriate material for the library.”
“Really?”
Rule #5: Do not make sexual advances unless you are given the mating signal.
“It’s just that there are children here,” the librarian said.
“I’m not looking at anything graphic. This is an important research project I’m working on.”
Rule #9: Do not harm little children.
“Perhaps you can do your research at home?”
“But my computer is down at home.”
“Well, I’m sorry, you’ll have to stop.”
Rule #11: When walking in open territory, bother no one. If someone bothers you, ask him to stop. If he does not stop, destroy him.
“Could you stop bothering me, please?” I asked.
“Excuse me?”
“Could you leave me be? I’m minding my own business here, now why don’t you do the same?”
Her face pinched up like she’d eaten a turd. When she spoke she left behind that soft, old lady voice in favor of something more metallic: “You must leave, sir, or I will call security.”
I smiled up at her. She pulled her wool sweater tight around her neck and did not smile back.
“Now,” she said through puckered lips.
Several people were watching this, I now saw. A little boy at another computer, a woman with her two kids at a nearby table. They were not on my side.
“Okay. I’m leaving.” I stood up. “And here I thought this was the United States of America.”
I walked to the exit, feeling the librarian’s sharp little eyes tossing darts at my back the whole way.
*
When I arrived home later that day, Abby sat tapping her toes on the slate steps by the driveway.
“Where have you been?” she asked as I climbed from the car.
“I had to check my emails.”
“For two hours?”
I sat down beside her. “Where’s Daisy?”
“Napping.” She stood up. “I need to go for a walk or something.”
“Go. Walk.”
“I think I will.”
Before heading off she turned and said, “Can you cut her fingernails, please? She won’t let me.”
“Yup.”
As she bounded toward the lake I observed how scrawny she looked in jeans and a tank top. She hadn’t gained an ounce of weight since the move, and in fact may have lost some. One of these days I was going to wake up next to a pile of bones.
From the open window in the baby’s room I heard some whimpering. Daisy would be waking in a moment, but I couldn’t bring myself to go inside yet. Autumn was still a month off but I felt its fingers in the crisp air. High overhead a bird trilled. Two squirrels chased each other across the road. This would be a perfect day, I thought, if everything wasn’t going straight to hell.
After leaving the library I’d stopped by a local internet café to continue my research. I knew I should go home and relieve Abby but the librarian had provoked in me an urge to look deeper into the dark side. If I’d known any of those “destruction of enemies” prayers I’d have said one for her.
Among the information I uncovered were some grisly rituals practiced by the more extreme factions of the Satanist movement. In one case a coven forced the early birth of an infant only to stab her in the belly, drink the blood, and place the tiny corpse in the open cavity of a disemboweled dog. Then they burned the bodies and saved the ashes in a silver urn. I didn’t know whether to believe this story or not. Nor could I imagine even a loser like Arliss Taylor going to such gruesome and elaborate lengths. It was one thing to get wasted and lose control when your kid won’t stop crying, and quite another to cold-bloodedly sacrifice a newborn and swallow its blood.
Daisy was shouting now, sharp guttural yelps that signaled hunger and irritation.
“Okay, okay,” I griped as I stood and headed inside.
She had pulled herself up into a sitting position in the crib, with the baby doll cradled in her lap.
“Bay-bee!” she squealed when she saw me.
“Yes,” I said. “Creepy, scary baby.”
A layer of snot had crusted on Daisy’s nose and upper lip. When she breathed the oxygen rattled through her nostrils like pebbles in a pipe.
I picked her up and set her on the changing table, having smelled the unmistakable odor of baby shit. That even an innocent babe like my daughter could produce such a foul byproduct sometimes aroused in me a sense of existential dread. Human beings do nothing but consume, I thought, and this is what we leave behind.
With the stripped-off diaper I attempted to wipe away as much of the clumpy brown mass as possible.
“Sweet Jesus, Daze. What did you eat?”
The stuff was like nuclear waste; I could feel my cells frying. I swabbed her ass and labia with a dozen wet baby wipes while Daisy laughed and wiggled and clutched that awful doll.
Abby had called Monica to ask about the doll but she’d been out and had not called back. Frannie claimed to know nothing about it. Meanwhile, Daisy would not part with the thing. The night before I’d had to yank it from her clutches in order to give her a bath. Daisy had wailed like I’d pulled out a fingernail, and when I tried to set her in the tub she swatted me with surprising strength on the nose. It stung so bad I nearly dropped her. “Baby! Baby!” she kept screaming as I held her in the water with one hand and ran a wash cloth over her with the other. If I’d had a third hand I’d have been tempted to smack her in the nose in return. I was ashamed of this impulse but also felt some gratification from it. Now, as I applied a clean diaper, and remembering how Daisy had looked at me from the tub with such hatred, I reminded myself that even the founder of the Church of Satan did not believe in harming children.
An hour later, after a meal of pureed peas and carrots, and while I was reading The Wacky Penguin Runs Amok for the eighth time, Abby came roaring in from the deck.
“Is it me,” I said, “or do children’s books just suck?”
She marched over in a way that I recognized from previous battles and tossed a newspaper at me.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
“Look at the front page.” She glared down on me with flaming eyes, ignoring Daisy’s outstretched arms.
I picked up the newspaper. On the front page were two photographs side by side, one in black and white, the other in color. The house in the photos looked familiar. FEAR AND CURIOSITY ON 30TH ANNIVERSARY OF MURDER, the headline blared. The byline: “By Philip Harper.”
“What the fuck?” Abby said, and she never cursed in front of the baby.
“When did he take that picture?” I wondered, looking closely at the more recent photo, where I could see Daisy’s stroller in the empty driveway.
“Did you really talk to this guy?”
“A little.”
“Cause you’re quoted in there.”
“I am?”
She grabbed the paper from me and snapped it in her hands, causing Daisy to jump and whimper.
“‘The current resident of 49 Love Lane, Carl Hammond, has been looking into the murder, having heard rumors of strange occurrences in the decades since that fateful night.’ ‘Strange occurrences?’ ‘Looking into the murder?’”
“You know I’m interested in the story.”
She continued reading. “‘Mr. Hammond, currently unemployed, is concerned that the house, possibly haunted, or cursed, may have some negative effect on his family.’”
I heard nothing past the phrase “currently unemployed.” Crap, I thought. Here it comes. This was the moment when I’d have to tell her all about it.
“‘Haunted?’” she said. “‘Cursed?’”
“Uh…”
Was that all she was angry about? I felt the noose loosening around my neck.
“I never said it was haunted,” I said.
“What kind of negative effect on your family?”
“I never said that.”
“And what’s this about being unemployed?”
I reached down into my guts and tried to pull up some truth but it was like pulling the innards from a pumpkin—stringy and slippery and stuck to the slimy walls.
“How are we supposed to believe anything in this article if the guy can’t even get that straight?” she said.
“Huh?”
“If the guy gets that simple detail wrong, what else did he get wrong?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Right.”
The noose was off my neck entirely now, but I could feel it wrapping around my ankle, and at the other end was an anchor.
“I can’t believe you talked to this guy. He’s just trying to sell papers.”
“Let me see that again.”
She threw the newspaper at me, narrowly missing Daisy’s head.
“Baby!” Daisy cried, and Abby, as if she’d just noticed her, plucked her up off the chair beside me and sat on the sofa with Daisy—and the doll—on her lap..
I looked at the photo again. Something about it bothered me. Maybe I just felt violated that Harper had come by and taken it without telling me.
The article recounted the story of little Jane Bingham’s murder (this time Harper mentioned her name), including details supplied by Anders Lehigh. “I would never in a million years live in that house,” Lehigh was quoted as saying.
The story went on:
Arliss Taylor was released from prison with time off for good behavior eighteen years ago, and is rumored to have moved out of state. Annette Bingham moved to Florida with her young son shortly after the murder. Her daughter, who would be thirty-one had she lived, is buried beneath a small, simple grave marker in St. Mary’s Cemetery.
“Can I see your dolly?” Abby asked, taking the doll by its waist.
“Awwwwwwww!” Daisy howled. She pulled the doll to her chest with that look of unassailable hatred.
“Please?”
I stared down at the two photographs. As Lehigh had mentioned, there was no deck thirty years ago. Some of the shrubbery looked different, but otherwise the structure itself had changed little. Peering closer at the newer photo, I thought I could make out something in the front window—Daisy’s window. A face? Or just a reflection from outside? Could one of us have been looking out the window at the very moment Harper took the shot? Holding the newspaper up to the light, I squinted. Was that Daisy in the window? I tried to think of a situation where I or Abby would happen to be holding her at that angle by the window. There was none.
I turned to the older photo.
“Ouch!”
In the window: the same image. Eyes. Face.
“Goddamit!”
Both photographs, thirty years apart. It had to be a reflection, but of what?
“Carl!”
No. It was a face. A child’s face, in both shots.
“Carl!”
Abby was standing with her hand covering her face. Daisy remained on the sofa, holding her doll.
“She scratched me,” Abby said. “The little bitch!” She pulled her hand away, revealing a long, red mark on her cheek. “I’m bleeding.”
“Baby,” Daisy said, softly. “Baby.”
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