by Jeff Gelb
It was just about that time when I was watching the Game of the Week (the Orioles against the Blue Jays, I think), and I saw the commercial. Actually, it was probably one of those Public Service Announcements, and what it was doing shoe-horned among the endless array of beer and razor commercials I could not imagine.
(Of course, I now know the message was placed there by Divine Intercedence. It was important that I receive the message when I did.)
The message? Oh yes, it was important all right. Have you ever heard of SIDS?
Neither had I! Imagine my shock as I sat there in my La-Z-Boy to see that there is this hideous phenomenon know as Crib Death or Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. Newborns, up to the age of six months, are suddenly found dead in their cribs, and no one has the foggiest notion as to how or why.
How come I’ve never heard of this? I ask myself. How come I’ve never seen anything about this terrible syndrome until now, until the very moment I have my own little baby who may be victim to this horrible thing?
This was positively incredible to me. But stunned though I may have been, I remained lucid enough to realize I had been given a Sign, a celestial memorandum so to speak, to be ever vigilant.
As the months ticked past, I took it upon myself to nightly approach the crib and listen for Becky’s sweet breath. When my wife discovered my habit, she chided me for being so overprotective, and for a moment, I became suspicious of her. Surely, she could not be in league with any forces that would harm my daughter. In short order, I banished such thoughts from my head.
Well, at least I tried to …
Time continued its work, and Becky not only escaped the critical period of SIDS frequency, but she weathered bouts of commons colds, influenzas, chicken pox, measles, and mumps. It seemed like I blinked my eyes and she was four years old. She had been such a healthy baby and toddler, that I think I became lulled into a false sense of security during those years. We rarely allowed her to leave the house, other than to roam about our fenced-in yard. Whenever other children came over to play with her, I always watched them with a careful eye. I saw this movie once about a six-year-old serial killer….
When it came to protecting your daughter, you couldn’t be too careful.
It wasn’t until Becky started pre-school that I began to realize how foolish, how lax I had actually been. There were so many ways she could be in danger, at first I had a hard time tracking everything—until I took a page from my accountant’s training and logged everything in a wonderful ledger with cross-referencing columns and rows. Once I inflicted some order on the situation, I began to feel better about everything.
I didn’t allow her to ride the school bus until I’d completed a dossier on the driver and had the vehicle inspected. The dossier thing worked so well that I used the same P.I. to work up files on everyone at the pre-school, my neighbors, and even Louise Smeak, the Sunday School teacher at St. Albans Episcopal. I wanted to have total control over everyone who would have any contact with my daughter.
You could never be too careful …
I heard this radio talk show where this guy who called in had postulated that many fatal diseases were actually transmitted by those plastic “sporks” they give out at fast-food eateries. I had never thought much about this, but it certainly made sense if you stopped to consider everything.
And then somebody told me that peanut butter is a major killer of small children. People feed it to them on the end of a spoon and it gets lodged at the intersection of the esophagus and the bronchial tubes or something like that. It’s so dangerous that even the Heimlich maneuver doesn’t work and of course there is always the truth that a spoon is pretty damned close to a spork. But can you imagine, that Death hides even in a peanut butter jar?
Well, you can bet that my Becky didn’t eat any more of that stuff.
The years slipped away from me; I had risen through the ranks at P&G until I was the chief of the entire financial division. Sure, I had plenty of time on my hands, but still not enough to administer to Becky’s needs as well as I would like. Retirement was still many years off and my wife did not seem to share my over-riding concern for my daughter’s welfare.
In fact, I was beginning to realize that perhaps Rhonda was not the ally I’d always supposed.
Becky turned ten, and that meant a whole new ledger, a whole new set of variables that I would have to start tracking. She was a very pretty girl and despite my efforts to discourage contact with other people, lots of the kids in her class wanted to be her friends. More dossiers. More money. But what did I care? I was being a good parent.
It was also around this time that Rhonda actually turned against me. It started slowly and with much subtlety, but I recognized it early on because I’d sensed it coming. She told her sister I had too much pressure at my job, that I was not adjusting well to Becky’s pre-teen years, and worst of all, that I needed a hobby. Can you imagine such foolishness? I could have gotten very angry, but I knew how outward displays of domestic unrest can be harmful to children. An article in the International Enquirer said depression and teen suicides tended to be caused by bad parenting, so by remaining tranquil, I was being a wise and caring father.
I knew that I would eventually discover a solution to the problem Rhonda was becoming. If I remained patient and vigilant, I would be given a sign, an answer. And it came to me the day I realized that Mr. Death had changed his tactics. I mean, it was no secret he’d been after Becky since we’d brought her home from Cook Memorial Hospital. It was only through my stalwart efforts she’d remained as safe as she had.
But Mr. Death is slick and he took to impersonating regular people that might come in contact with Becky. That’s why I had to cancel all her dental visits and of course there would be no more examinations by Doc Wilson. The biggest problem were those unexpected situations that could not be planned. For example, when Becky answered the door one after-school day to admit the meter reader for the local gas and electric company, I almost lost my usual composure.
(Where was her mother? you might ask—as I certainly did. How could she allow the child to do something so dangerous as answer the door! The answer lay ahead, as you shall see.)
You can already imagine how horrible it could have been if the gas-man had actually been The Gas-Man—if you get my meaning …
Yes, I realized I must learn from this experience. And learn I did indeed. After pulling Becky from her school, I arranged to have her education continued at home under the care of a carefully checked-out tutor. The young boys who had already begun sniffing around the hems of my daughter’s skirts received stem warnings from me to simply stay away. I reinforced my messages with letters to all the boys’ parents.
That seemed to help matters very much until a man in a charcoal suit with a red tie knocked on the door. He said he was from the State Department of Health and Mental Hygiene, and that he wanted to ask me a few questions. He also said he had a warrant to inspect my premises. He showed me some ID that said his name was Silverstein and some papers with official seals and notary stamps on them. He didn’t know I recognized his true identity, and therefore misinterpreted my smile as I led him into the kitchen. I directed him to a chair at the dinette where I offered him a cup of coffee. He said yes and I asked him what kind of questions he had for me. I was going to grab my aluminum baseball bat right away, but I was curious as to what Mr. Death would want to ask me. Didn’t he already know everything? And so I poured two cups of Maxwell House and sat down to listen.
He said a few things right up front about Becky that made me very angry. I almost reached for the baseball bat twice, and both times I thought maybe I should listen a little longer, even though it was making me very angry.
“After reading copies of the letters you sent the Wizniew-ski and Harrison boys, I decided to contact you directly,” said Mr. Death. “Initially, I spoke to your wife, and she told me about your … tendency to … ah, go on at length about your daughter.”
I asked him what
exactly Rhonda had said.
“Exactly? Well, sir, she said that she is very much afraid of you. Did you know that?”
I told him no. Anything else? I asked.
“She said that she had decided a long time ago she would tolerate your behavior—”
Tolerate?
“Yes, as long as it remained within the family, she figured it was safer, better for everyone involved.”
Safer … yes, I see, I told him. But then, why are you here, Mr. Silverstein? (I needed to allay any suspicions he might have that I knew his true identity.)
“Well, it’s hard to explain, but we’ve received a petition to have your case examined by a state psychiatrist,” he said. “We have statements by neighbors and relatives and parents at Holbrook Elementary, plus an interesting letter from a private investigator, Lucius Mallory. It was forwarded to us from Lieutenant Karsay at the 3rd Precinct.”
I moved away from the table, close to the pantry door where my aluminum buddy awaited my touch. And what do these statements and letters have to do with me?
Mr. Death almost chuckled. Can you imagine his audacity? “I think you know what this is all about. Your daughter, Rebecca, is dead, sir. She died when she was three months old from SIDS. More than nine years ago.”
I think that’s when I lost it—when he mouthed such a cruel lie, a heinous blasphemy in my house. I screamed something about what a liar he was and how I knew his true identity and how I would stop him from taking my daughter away from me.
He went down like a clumsy palooka from the first impact to the base of his skull. As his life fluids seeped across the tiles of the kitchen floor, I realized I’d made a mistake. This man, Silverstein, was a mere mortal. Another of Death’s clever tricks, no doubt. I checked my watch, and knew I had little time. Rhonda would be due home from her part-time job at the neighborhood library at any moment.
There was no need to clean up the mess, however. None at all.
It has been a long week-end. The scent of death I mentioned earlier is getting heavy in here. The crowds of neighbors and police cars that have surrounded my little bungalow have been a terrible distraction, and I fear that Mr. Death will get in while I am forced to deal with the foolish meddling of those outside. The television says there is a dangerous hostage situation here. I think it is a good thing they don’t know about Silverstein and Rhonda. They probably think I might do harm to Rebecca, which reveals them to be the fools they are.
Don’t they know I’m her father?
And a father can’t ever be too careful….
The Powers Of Darkness
Richard Lee Byers
“Are you a devil worshipper?”
Startled, Harper lurched around. The woman had stolen up behind him so silently that it was almost as if she’d coalesced out of the twilight. “What?” he said. “I don’t think I heard you right.”
The woman swallowed. She was fat, and wore a Tampa Bay Giants T-shirt, cutoffs, and flipflops. Her feet were dirty, her teeth stained and crooked. All in all, a perfect example of the new neighbors that he was making a conscientious effort not to think of as rednecks. “Are you a devil worshipper?” she repeated.
“No,” Harper said. He couldn’t decide whether to be annoyed or amused. “Why would you ask that?”
The woman hesitated. “Somebody told me.”
“Who?”
“I shouldn’t say.” She turned and lumbered away from the road.
Puzzled, Harper continued his walk through the subdivision. Each of the homes lining the street occupied at least a half acre of land; most were trailers, with only the occasional house. As darkness fell, mosquitoes began to whine around his ears. Occasionally, he caught a whiff of skunk, cow manure, or somebody’s barbecue grill.
Despite the bugs and the muggy Florida heat, up to now he’d enjoyed his evening walks, and not only because they got him away from his wife. Before inheriting Aunt Joanie’s house, he’d spent most of his life in the brick-and-concrete heart of one Northern city or another, and so the burrowing owls, gopher turtles, and choruses of braying frogs in his new neighborhood interested him.
But now he found he couldn’t focus on Nature. The more he thought about his exchange with the fat woman, the more it bothered him.
He guessed he understood where her accusation had come from. He wrote fantasy novels, epic potboilers full of black magic and evil spirits. The local paper had profiled him, so people knew it. And recently he’d thrown a costume party for the Tampa science fiction club, and had people in hooded cloaks and monster masks parading around his yard.
But Jesus Christ, so what? It was all imaginary. How could anybody get upset about it?
Surely, most people weren’t. And as for the couple morons who were, well, what difference did it make? He tried to put the matter out of his mind.
A door slammed. Harper jerked in his chair, and the half-formed sentence in his head burst like a bubble. The cursor on the computer screen winked at him mockingly.
Grimacing, he looked at his watch, and was surprised to discover it was almost five. He could knock off for the day if he wanted, and the way his back had begun to ache, he did. He saved his text, stood, and stretched till his spine popped. Then he headed for the front of the house to see what all the racket was about.
In the living room, a cluttered space festooned with prints by fantasy artists like Whelan, Maitz, and Cherry, he found his son and wife. Kevin’s face was twisted and red beneath his tousled, sandy-blond hair. Mary, slim and fair-skinned, with curls the color of honey, had dropped to one knee to look the ten-year-old in the eye. Harper had seen the tableau a hundred times. Something had upset Kevin, he was reluctant to talk about it, and his mother was coaxing the story out of him.
“What’s up?” the writer asked.
Mary turned her head, a glint of annoyance in her gray eyes. “That’s what I’m trying to find out. He was playing with some of the neighbor kids.”
“Did you get in a fight?” Harper asked. He looked the boy up and down for bruises.
“No,” Kevin said. He quivered. “But Mrs. Porter says I can’t play with Frank and Robbie anymore.”
Mary’s lips thinned, as if she was annoyed with Kevin for yielding the truth to his father instead of her. “Why, sweetheart?” She hesitated. “Did you do something?”
“No!” Kevin said. “She said they were only allowed to play with Christian kids.”
“You are Christian,” Mary said. Harper supposed she was right. They didn’t go to church, but the boy had been baptized. “Did you tell her that?”
Kevin said, “No. She wouldn’t listen to me.” He glanced at an assortment of gaudy plastic figures scattered across the worn beige J. C. Penny sofa. “She said the X-Men are Satanic.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Harper said. “I’ll talk to her.”
“Maybe you should let it go,” Mary said. “I’m not sure these are the right friends for Kevin anyway, and you don’t want to stir things up worse than they are already.”
Harper said, “I won’t. Give me a little credit.” He smiled at his son. “Can you show me the right house?”
Kevin looked at his father, then his mother. Harper could tell he felt caught in the middle. Finally the boy shuffled to the window and pointed at a weather-stained double-wide trailer across the street. There were several kids hanging around in front of it. “There.”
“I see it,” Harper said. He opened the door, and the late-afternoon sun seared his face. Carthoris, the family’s white-and-gray tomcat, ran up and rubbed against his feet. He stooped and scratched the animal behind the ear, causing him to flop over onto his back. “This should only take a minute.”
As Harper passed his curbside mailbox, the children in the yard noticed him coming, and started whispering back and forth. When he got closer, he smiled at them, and they scattered. Slightly dismayed by their reaction, he climbed the rusty wrought-iron steps to the trailer’s screen door. The voice of a television preac
her twanged from the dimness beyond.
Harper knocked. A vague form heaved up, occluding the glow of the TV. As it trudged closer, it turned into a sun-bronzed woman in her early twenties, surprisingly young to be the mother of any of the kids outside. Sweat glistened on her forehead and neck. Her floral-print blouse was sodden with it.
“Hi,” Harper said. “I’m Bruce Harper. Kevin’s dad. Are you Mrs. Porter?”
The black-haired woman stared at him. “Uh huh.”
“I understand there was some kind of a problem this afternoon. Could we talk about it?”
Mrs. Porter sighed. “If we have to. I think it would be better if our kids stayed away from each other.”
“Why?” Harper asked. A drop of sweat oozed down his temple. He wished Mrs. Porter had invited him in. Not that it seemed to be any cooler inside the trailer, but he felt awkward talking through the screen. “Because he brought his superhero toys? They’re not anything”—he floundered, groping for an appropriate word—“bad, just characters from a comic book.”
“I know what X-Men is. Witchcraft, smut, and violence. My boys aren’t allowed to look at trash like that.”
Harper gave her what he hoped was a winning smile.”You know, our generation read comics too, and most of us turned out all right. Kids understand the stories aren’t real, just fairy tales with spandex.”
“Frank and Robbie never looked at fairy tales, either, or anything else that goes against the Bible.”
Harper felt an almost irresistible impulse to launch into his patented spiel on the value of fantasy for kids and grownups alike. He quashed it. He could tell that he’d never convince this woman, and he’d come over here to help his son, not debate. “All right. I respect your feelings. Kevin will leave the figures at home from now on.”
Mrs. Porter shook her head. “No. I’d rather he just stayed away.”
“But why? He’s a good kid!”
