by Victor Allen
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Jean had brought Lance into her room for the night. She had pulled up a chair and a book while Lance lay in bed with a coloring book. He scribbled madly for a while, shading a tree orange and the clouds black. At least he had gotten the sky right. It was a pale blue, warm and calming.
“Do you like it, mom?”
“It’s beautiful, Lance,” she said, looking up from her book.
One way or the other, Jean thought, it would end tonight. She would either vanquish Ruby or spend the rest of her life in a straitjacket. Just let the hateful old bitch call her tonight. She would get an earful. And if she decided to take the express elevator up from the hell she so richly deserved and make a visit? Well, she would at least know she had been in a fight.
“Do you want to go to sleep now?”
“I guess so.” Lance looked at his mom. “Why am I staying in here tonight?”
“I just wanted you close to me because I love you.” Could any reason be more true?
“Oh,” he said in his tiny voice. “I love you, too, mom.” He closed his eyes, then opened them.
“Mom? Are you scared?”
“No, Lance. I’m not scared. I just wanted to be with you.”
“Oh,” he said again. “That’s good. It seems like you’ve had a bad day. Is there something bad about today?” He was getting very sleepy.
Jean recalled how happy she had been on this day five years ago. Next time I’ll know better than to dance on her grave.
“Not a thing. You go to sleep now.”
In only five minutes, Lance was breathing deeply, fast asleep. Jean sat in her chair by his bedside, the light on, reading her book until the witching hour.
