Perfect Little Angels

by Andrew Neiderman

  Reluctantly, he nodded.

  “But just because he had the opportunity, doesn’t mean he had to go out and do it.”

  “No. Listen, I agree with you. I didn’t say you were wrong. I only wanted to know your plans, that’s all.”

  “Then you’re willing to help me?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Good, because you know your way around down there, and you know where she is and when it would be best to…to do it.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Okay.” He closed his eyes when his head touched the pillow. “I’ll rest now. Then we’ll think and we’ll plan.”

  “Fine. Rest. I’m tired, too.”

  “Did you see him? Did you see the fire and the light?”

  “Yes.” His other self’s voice was dwindling.

  “Did you see how he glowed? He doesn’t have to be afraid of the light; he is the light.”

  He opened his eyes and sat up again, a realization coming.

  “He would destroy you if he saw you. Do you hear me? He would burn you away, and I need you. I need you more than ever. Are you listening?”

  “I know,” his other self whispered.

  “He knows about you, so be careful.”

  He closed his eyes again.

  “Be careful,” he muttered.

  Before he fell asleep, he imagined himself going down there, and then he saw himself coming back up the hill toward home. He was smiling, and he felt so light and happy.

  He was holding her head in his hands, bringing it back to where it belonged.

  9

  Justine was almost late. By the time she had gotten dressed and left her room, her parents were already down in the kitchen finishing their breakfast and chatting happily, their smiles as bright and excited as the faces of children on Christmas morning. Why didn’t she share their optimism and energy in the morning? Maybe she should be taking the vitamins, she thought. For a moment, when she held it in her fingers, she debated whether or not to actually swallow it.

  She didn’t. Once again, she went through the ruse Lois had demonstrated, and then she sat down and had breakfast, intrigued with her parents’ topics of conversation.

  He mother had never been a traditional housewife. Occasionally Elaine had tried a new recipe published in the New York Times, but her cooking was often a subject of humor. Her father often teased that her mother’s favorite meal was “Let’s make reservations.” It was understandable. Neither Justine’s maternal grandmother nor her mother had been at home in a kitchen. They’d had maids and cooks. Justine’s grandmother was always too engrossed in her charity foundations to devote time toward running a household anyway.

  Elaine Freeman had never felt guilty about her lack of interest in household matters. She was an artist, an intellectual, a sophisticated woman—everything the wife of an up-and-coming corporate lawyer should be. In her mind, these things more than compensated for her failures in the domestic arena.

  But suddenly she was sitting here talking about the dinner menu as if it were going to be an art gallery opening, and Justine’s father…he was actually showing interest. Justine thought they would never stop talking about it. Finally, when there was a break in their conversation, she asked about the MTV hookup.

  “We’re not getting it,” her father said, his happy-go-lucky tone of voice disappearing and his hazel eyes darkening.

  “Not getting it?” She looked at her mother, who nodded approvingly. There was something almost comical about her look of agreement. It reminded Justine of the exaggerated expressions on the Dukes’ faces when Justine and her parents first arrived. Their reactions were so dramatically sad or angry, they looked farcical. Her mother pursed her lips and closed her eyes as she nodded. “But why not? You told me we could get it here.”

  “It’s not a matter of the technology,” her father said, somewhat pedantically. “This community is just as up-to-date as any in America. More so, probably.”

  “Then why not?” Justine asked, her tone almost demanding.

  Her father sat back in his seat, his arms folded across his chest, and stared blankly for a moment. “MTV is not a good influence.”

  “Huh?” She looked at her mother again. How many times had the two of them sat and watched MTV together in New York?

  “It encourages kids to be rebellious because most of the rock videos show punk rock or drugs. And the costumes these singers wear,” her father continued as if he were reciting the gospel, “outrageous. What do they expect from young people today?” he asked, turning to her mother for support. She was nodding again, her head bobbing like a puppet. “Considering what someone like that Madonna wears, everything goes. Nowadays, even prostitutes are held up as cult heroes.”

  “But Mom…you like Madonna,” Justine protested. “You never complained about her costumes.”

  “How utterly ridiculous,” her mother said and laughed. “Can you imagine? Please, Justine. Just because I didn’t voice my criticism doesn’t mean I approved.” She laughed again, a thin trickle of a laugh that trailed off, then lingered like an echo.

  Her father sat forward. “Don’t go around telling people, especially people here, that your mother likes such things.”

  “But she did,” Justine insisted.

  For a moment her parents just stared at her, their eyes blinking rapidly. She felt her face redden, and her heart began to beat rapidly.

  “At least, I thought she did,” she finally said. That seemed to please them.

  “Well, you were mistaken. Now everything’s straightened out,” her father said and smiled.

  “Just a few days ago, you bought me one of Madonna’s tapes,” Justine said softly, reluctant to let go.

  “What?” her father asked. He smiled at her as if she were talking in her sleep. “I did no such thing. And don’t go around saying I did,” he added.

  “Well,” he said, slapping his hands together, his happy-go-lucky expression rapidly returning. “I’ve got to get on the road. My turn to drive Michael. God, you look good this morning,” he told Elaine. “Doesn’t your mother look healthier? I can’t believe how she’s blossoming.”

  “Oh, Kevin.”

  “Doesn’t she?” he asked Justine.

  She looked at her mother. As far as she could see, she didn’t look any different from the way she’d looked in New York. In fact, she looked a little more peaked and less robust. There were wrinkles in her brow as if she were weighed down with troublesome thoughts.

  But it seemed important to her father that she agree. “Yes,” she said.

  “Oh, I’m not,” her mother said. “But you know what…I’m going to sit out in the sun today and get a tan before it gets to be too late. Christy has such a beautiful tan, don’t you think?”

  “Yes,” Justine said. She felt like some kind of stooge, there to reinforce everything her parents said.

  “All the women I’ve met in Elysian Fields look so tan and healthy. They make me feel sickly white and puny beside them,” her mother confessed. “When we were living in the city, I didn’t think much about having the healthy, outdoor look.”

  “Well, soon you’ll have it, too,” Kevin Freeman said as he got up from the table. “You ladies will excuse me. I’m off to do battle in the jungle.”

  “I’ll see you off,” Justine’s mother said, and escorted her father to the front door where she kissed him goodbye. In New York, Justine recalled, her father often left for work before her mother had even risen from bed.

  “Now then,” her mother said, returning, “you’d better get a move on, too.”

  “Ma,” Justine began, sitting back, “do you really like it here as much as you claim, or are you just putting on for Dad?”

  “Putting on? How could you say such a thing, Justine? Putting on?” She grimaced as if Justine had uttered a blasphemy, but Justine often recalled times when she and her mother shared little deceptions, especially about people her father liked and her mother really didn’t. “I wou
ldn’t deceive your father like that. How can you expect a marriage to succeed if one person deliberately deceives the other? That’s what’s wrong with so many marriages today,” she went on, speaking as if she were standing in front of a classroom of potential wives. “Husbands and wives don’t trust one another and are not honest with one another. As well as with their good friends,” she added.

  “You like these people?” Justine pursued.

  “Of course. They’re…together. Their lives are organized and, they’re quite active. I have no regrets,” she added, smiling as she went to clearing the table.

  Justine watched her mother work for a few moments. There was something so different about her, even about the way she moved. She noticed how careful she was, how she seemed to be following a prescribed plan—taking pains to organize the dishes carefully in the dishwasher, picking up the silverware with a sense of organization, forks first, spoons next. Never were the domestic chores treated with such respect.

  Justine was nearly hypnotized by her mother’s behavior. She had to rush to get her things together to meet the other kids at the bottom of the hill. She was eager to get there to talk to Lois and find out what exactly had happened the night before.

  When Justine arrived, Lois was standing beside Janet. Everyone was listening to Brad describe how he had accidentally burned his hand on his car engine. When she appeared, he hesitated, and the others looked up expectantly.

  “Morning,” she said. “I’m sorry about your hand,” she added quickly. “Your mother told my mother.”

  “Just one of those things, those stupid things,” he replied.

  “Now that Justine is here, we can get going,” Janet announced with a smirk, and everyone started for the front gate.

  Lois looked at her and smiled. Justine maneuvered herself next to her, hoping they’d have the chance to talk freely for a few moments. Like yesterday, the topics of conversation ranged from homework assignments to club activities. Lois contributed, and Justine winked at her as she, too, added something to the discussion.

  Just before they reached the school grounds, Justine, growing frustrated with their inability to talk privately, deliberately dropped her notebook, causing pages to scatter.

  “Lois, can you help me pick this up?” she said before any of the others could offer. “It’s all right, don’t wait,” she told them when they stopped and turned. “We’ll be right with you.”

  “Hurry, or you’ll be late for homeroom,” Janet said.

  Lois and Justine began to scoop up the pages.

  “Figured that would work,” Justine whispered. “So what happened last night? Why didn’t you come out?”

  “Come out?” Lois handed her the pages. “What do you mean?”

  “To meet me, stupid.” Justine spoke rapidly, one eye on the others. “I was waiting and waiting, and then I saw Dr. Lawrence’s car. Your mother told me you were sick. Didn’t she tell you I came to your house? I didn’t want to get you in trouble, but…”

  “She didn’t tell me, but that was probably because she was concerned about me.”

  “You really were sick?”

  “Yes, I was,” Lois said with an idiotic smile on her face.

  “Well, what was wrong with you?”

  “I had…problems,” she said, “but Dr. Lawrence helped me, and I feel much better today, thank you.” She started away.

  “Wait a minute. What the hell…”

  Lois turned around sharply and stared at her, her eyes blinking rapidly the way Justine’s mother’s and father’s eyes had blinked during breakfast.

  “What about our plans?”

  “Plans? Really. I don’t know what you’re talking about, and we’re going to be late for homeroom. I’ve never been late for homeroom,” Lois added. Pulling her shoulders back with pride, she started walking quickly toward the front entrance of the school, where the other kids from Elysian Fields waited impatiently.

  Justine stood there for a moment looking after her. Then she hurried to the building herself.

  After homeroom, Justine was able to get a hold of her friend while the others rushed off to their first period class. She pulled Lois aside by the water fountain.

  “Lois, did you take your vitamin today?” she asked with incredulity.

  “Of course,” Lois said. “I always take my vitamin. Don’t you?” Lois sang and moved on to her first period class, leaving Justine to stumble over her own confusion.

  All that day, Justine felt like someone who had been struck dumb. In a daze she moved from one class to another, watching Lois, studying her behavior toward the others. What had once been an act, now looked authentic. Lois had been returned to the fold. She was one of them again.

  What frustrated Justine most was she had no one to turn to, no one in whom to confide or seek advice. She felt a natural need to turn to the other students, the ones who were not from Elysian Fields, especially Bonny Joseph and Tad Donald, but every time she spoke to them, she felt the eyes of the kids of Elysian Fields on her. They were watching and listening, and she remembered Lois’s warnings from the day before.

  She found she was actually afraid, more afraid than ever, because of Lois’s apparent desertion. She was alone with the strange and incomplete knowledge that something odd was happening at Elysian Fields.

  She considered calling Mindy after school, but when she reviewed what she would tell her, she grew even more distressed. What would she say? That her mother cared more about household duties? So what? She could tell Mindy that her father didn’t approve of MTV or her mother changed her mind about it. Some complaint.

  She could tell her that they wanted her to take vitamins, vitamins that made kids act differently. She could tell her that the boys were unusually shy, naive. But Mindy wouldn’t be impressed with any of those complaints. Who would?

  Mindy wouldn’t understand. Mindy wouldn’t care, and Justine couldn’t make her care because she couldn’t formulate her own feelings clearly or dramatically enough to interest her. She had to discover something more, something that anyone would understand.

  Her mental turmoil left her withdrawn and quiet for the rest of the day, but the other kids didn’t notice. They mistook her stillness and vacant look simply for attentive behavior. They didn’t detect anything critical in the way she observed them. They smiled at her and hovered about her. The only time she seemed to draw out their suspicions was at the end of the day when she told Lois and Janet she wasn’t going to attend the school newspaper meeting.

  “I have a bad headache,” she said. “I just want to go home and lay down.”

  “You shouldn’t give into it,” Janet said. “Occupy your mind and it will pass.”

  “I think I just need some rest,” she insisted.

  “Dr. Lawrence always tells us to avoid excuses for not doing the right things, to live as though we had no alternative,” Janet responded. “Right, Lois?”

  “Yes,” Lois said softly. “Rationalizing weakens the individual. Your personality has to be built up just the way you would build up your body,” she recited.

  “I’ve got to go home,” Justine said. She didn’t wait to hear any more slogans and platitudes. She hurried off without looking back. A fluttering rippled in her chest, as if a baby bird were trapped beside her heart.

  She practically ran all the way back to Elysian Fields. Twice tears came, and she had to wipe her cheeks. The security guard looked up with surprise as she burst through the gate and charged up the small hill. She was determined to talk to her mother, to tell her everything that had happened, everything Lois had told her. She would make her understand, and together, they would make her father understand. Her parents would care. They were her parents; they had to care.

  Hope lifted her, carrying her up the street. But as she ran, she was like a horse wearing blinders, refusing to look left or right, her attention centered and locked on her home. She had become afraid of the development, afraid of its charm and its beauty. She feared looking at
the colorful flowers and the facilities. The pretty houses, the elaborate landscaping, the clean, wide streets reminded her of the sirens from Greek mythology.

  She had always been impressed with that tale about Odysseus, the episode when he was sailing home and he asked his men to tie him to the ship’s mast after he had filled their ears with wax so they couldn’t hear the song of the sirens, beckoning them closer, tempting them so they would crash on the rocks. He wanted to enjoy the beauty, but he knew if he did so without being tied, he would succumb to the evil call.

  So, too, would the development beckon her to crash on the rocks, she thought. It would confuse her and soften her opposition. She would be lost. She anticipated that slight ringing in her ears, but it didn’t come before she reached her house. Encouraged and determined, she charged through the front door.

  “Mommy!” she screamed. “Ma!”

  She dropped her books on the small table in the hallway and raced into the living room, then into the kitchen.

  “Ma!”

  She went directly into the studio, expecting to find her mother involved in her work. But the room was empty.

  “Ma!”

  She turned to go upstairs, but stopped to look at the painting her mother had been working on, the one depicting the view from the rear of their house. It wasn’t completed, but enough had been done for Justine to understand her mother’s viewpoint and perception. The oils were brighter than the colors Elaine usually used. In fact, the painting screamed out at Justine. It was like looking directly into a high-wattage light bulb. There was something blinding and mesmerizing, as if the painting were casting a spell. It turned her into a moth, magnetically attracted to the light. She stepped closer to view it.

  Justine was struck by the way her mother had painted Dr. Lawrence’s house. The house was enormous in relation to everything around it, and that enormity was heightened by the particular shade of shiny black. The house rose off the canvas, in a three-dimensional manner.

  Her mother had placed the sun behind the house so that the building cast a giant shadow over everything, and the shadow seemed to be in the shape of a hand. It was as if it held the entire community in its grip.