by Brett Savory
Farther down.
She peers into the gloom below, the sunlight overhead barely reaching her. The water in her belly grows colder. Iced veins. No more bubbles.
With the pain of breathing removed, she feels better. Her mind clears enough for her to think about her husband, who was in the boat with her. She remembers a big wave. No storm, no bad weather beforehand. Just a massive wave that rose from nothing, crushing their little boat to matchsticks.
She tilts her head up, watches silently as the dancing skeleton couple slumps back down into their boat, their water-song finished, heads nodding to the rhythm of the sea.
Deeper yet.
She turns herself around as the grim light fades, leaks upward through swirling eddies. Another outcropping of coral peeks through the blackness, as if spotlighted just for her. She sees another boat, this one much larger, some kind of yacht, perhaps. She can only see the front half of it, but it’s much older than the first boat. More sea life has laid claim to it.
Inside, through the portholes, she watches them dance. White as the moon, and glowing just the same. On the deck, too: Foxtrots, tangos, waltzes. Water flowing through and around bone. Mesmerizing.
She is jealous. She wants to dance, too.
Filtering down, her feet finally touch bottom. It is completely pitch, save for a small crease of light just ahead of her.
She is no longer cold. She’s warm to her center, thinking of the dancers. Thinking of her husband’s strong hand on the small of her back, leading her.
The little fold of light gets closer. It is her husband’s hand, reaching out. His arm, then his chest.
His face.
She takes his hand gently and they dance. Slowly, in small circles.
Waiting for the music to begin.
DANNY BOY
Cocooned in a straitjacket and secured to the chair by not one, but two nylon restraints, the boy looked up at the man and smiled.
It was the smile of an innocent babe—wide and guiltless.
“You must be the new Mr. Psychologist,” the boy said, his child’s voice reminding the man of the boy’s age.
Not even shaving yet and already a multiple murderer.
Joel Rossman—who was, indeed, the newly appointed State Psychologist—returned the smile nonetheless and took the little steel chair the sanatorium staff had set next to the boy’s big, wooden one.
“Yes, I am,” he said. “I’m Dr. Rossman. How do you do, Danny?”
“Fine,” the boy said.
Rossman couldn’t help but smile. Danny looked like a million other mid-western farm boys who’d be starting middle school in the fall: towhead, blue eyes, freckles the color of chestnuts sprinkled across the upturned nose, and baby-fat cheeks.
Except that this sixth-grader would be taking classes in his cell, strapped to the bed to keep his teacher safe. If a teacher could be found, that is, who wanted to risk life and limb to teach Daniel Thomas Mackey.
Rossman took a micro-cassette recorder out of his coat pocket and held it up for the boy to see.
“Can I record this session, Danny?”
“Sure.” The boy’s eyes brightened.
Rossman nodded and turned on the recorder. “What did you do to deserve having a muzzle put over your mouth, Danny?”
The boy’s grin stretched almost to the lobes of his ears. “Bit off the last Mr. Psychologist’s nose and spitted it out.”
Rossman frowned and moved the recorder closer to the boy. “Why?”
The boy stopped smiling and looked puzzled.
“’Cause it’s better than chewing them.”
Rossman’s gut clenched into a ball.
“No, Danny, I didn’t mean why did you spit the nose out, I meant why did you bite it off in the first place.”
“Oh,” the boy said, and looked away for a moment, to the new day’s sunlight streaming in through the cell’s only window—a 5-by-5-inch square made of Plexiglas that looked out onto the sanatorium’s lush grounds. His face grew cloudy, shadows crossing it. He turned his moony face back to the doctor. “I . . . I dunno. Just did, I guess.”
Danny returned his gaze to the bright little square in the wall, his only window to the world for the past nine months.
Rossman followed the boy’s eyes, trying to imagine what it must be like for Danny, what thoughts would be going around in such a young boy’s mind . . . A young boy that had murdered his entire immediate family—his brother, two sisters, grandfather, both parents.
Rossman had taken the case because of its unprece- dented nature. No one this young had ever committed a crime of this nature before. And it wasn’t just the fact that he’d murdered six people, it was some of the methods he’d employed . . . It was too intriguing to pass up.
“Danny,” Rossman began, deciding to switch tracks, since motive for his aggression didn’t seem to be getting them anywhere, “what happened to your mother?”
Danny didn’t even flinch, kept staring out the window.
“She’s dead, Mr. Psychologist.”
“How did she die, Danny?”
The boy shrugged.
Rossman waited.
“Danny?”
Danny was somewhere else, his eyes glazing over, tears forming on his lower eyelids, dropping when they got too heavy, splashing on the rough material of his straitjacket. Then he started singing. Lightly. His voice so small Rossman could barely make it out.
“Oh Danny Boooooy, the piiiipes, the piiiipes are calliiiiiing . . . ”
Danny sniffled, his shoulders and arms struggling against the restraints, trying to bring his hands up to his face. He looked at the doctor, pleadingly.
Rossman wasn’t going to wipe the boy’s tears for him. Little boy or not, he was a murderer.
Danny slumped a little more in his chair in defeat, scrunching his face up at the doctor’s reluctance.
“Can’t bite ya like this, now can I?” He rolled his eyes, feigning exasperation.
Rossman ignored him.
“Danny, was that a song your mother used to sing to you?”
“Mama’s dead, Mr. Psychol—”
“I know, Danny, I know your mother’s dead.”
Rossman waited a heartbeat.
“You killed her.”
Danny shifted positions in his seat, uncrossing his legs, crossing them the other way, right over left. He stared at the doctor. Rossman began to feel uncomfortable.
“Look, um, Danny . . . ” he started. He felt his face flush. The boy’s eyes ripped away his calm like the layers of an onion. He gathered himself a little more and began again.
“Danny, what did you do to your mother?”
The boy just continued to stare, his gaze ever more intent. The knowledge in those eyes belied the boy’s years. They were the eyes of a killer, no doubt, unforgiving, unrelenting, but beneath were still the eyes of a frightened child, unsure what to do, unsure how to communicate his reasoning, his feelings.
Suddenly the eyes softened.
“Didn’t do nothin’ to her, Mr. Joel.”
Mr. Joel, Rossman thought, grinning a little. Better than “Mr. Psychologist,” anyway . . .
“Danny, my last name is Rossman. My first name is Joel. So you should probably call me Mr. Rossman, okay?”
The boy nodded, tiny bubbles forming on his bottom lip.
“Okay, Mr. Rossman, so long as ya know I like Mr. Joel better.”
Rossman laughed. Danny was acting like a normal eleven-year-old. The blood drained a little from his face, his heartbeat settled. He took a deep breath. “Okay, Danny,” he continued, wanting to take advantage of the mood swing, “who did do something to your mother?”
“From glen to gleeeeeeen and down the mountain siiiiide . . . The summer’s goooone and all the leaves are falliiiiiing . . . ”
Danny was singing again.
“But come ye baaaaaaack when—”
“—summer’s in
the meadow,” Rossman took up the thread, interrupting the boy. “Or when the valley’s hushed and white with snow . . . I’ll be here in sunshine and in shadow . . . ”
Danny’s mouth hung open, eyes wide, teary. “How d’you know my song, Mr. Joel?”
Rossman finished slowly, “Oh Danny Boy, oh Danny Boy, I love you so.”
Silence.
Danny suddenly began twisting and turning violently in his chair, trying to get free, trying to get at the doctor, feet kicking out, face turning red, veins bulging.
“You fucking cocksucker!!” Spittle flew from the boy’s thin lips as he screamed. The chair tipped backward, nearly fell over. “That’s my DADDY’S song, you . . . !” The boy scrunched his face up, a ripe, red tomato, ready to burst. “. . . BASTARD!!”
He flailed, cursed some more, wrenched his body side-to-side. An orderly opened and peeked through the tiny slot in the door, looking panicked, probably expecting to find, despite its impossibility, a piece of the new psychologist sitting detached from the rest of him on the floor in a puddle of blood.
The young man was fumbling for his keys, but Rossman held up a hand, still staring at the boy—
. . . all the flow’rs are dying, Danny.
—his eyes never leaving the display of rage in front of him. The orderly just stood there, gawking through the slot, dumbfounded. Finally Rossman had to tear his eyes from the boy. He glared at the orderly, mouthed, “Go away!”
The orderly’s eyes hardened and he shook his head side-to-side, then the slot flapped shut, the key still fumbling in the lock . . . and Danny finally tipped over in his chair, frothing and bellowing incoherently, hitting his head against the wall behind him, and—
—swimming, floating, sinking in his . . . house.
Danny. Boy wonder. Baddest motherfucker in town, baby. Like Han Solo or somethin’.
“Danny, you little shit!”
Yeah, and here comes Dad. Biggest loser in town, baby. Stormin’ in as always, thumpin’ across the carpet, trackin’ mud. Man on a mission, chump. Fuckin’ man on a—
Stars. Univers-eriffic!!
“Danny Boy, you little bastard.”
Cracking an eye to see. Other is bleeding, running red, painting the world. Weird perspective you got here, Danny Boy. Floor-level view. Dog’s eye to the world, baby. Wonder what these seats go for, huh? Wonder what—
“Where’s your mother, Danny? Where is she?”
Dad’s head’s gonna pop, chum. Watch it’ splode in bright red and orange, bits of skull creepin’ in! Wee! Wonder what tickets would be for that show, then, eh?! Don’t matter no how, no one’s gettin’ my floor-level view, man. Fuck that. I’ve earned these here seats . . . Oh, hey, here comes—
Ah, Jesus, wish I could see better. Screamin’ again in the kitchen, like it’s somethin’ fun to do (nothin’ better!) on a Sunday afternoon, huh? Ha! Ma Laura.
(flittering pictures of mother, MAMA, burning, falling into puddles of blood, falling into—)
Oh, God, what a show this is. I can smell Dad’s anger. I’m breathing it. Just breathing it. Gotta sit up to check out the show. Always in the kitchen. Always somethin’ fun to watch in that fucking kitchen. If not on TV, then ’least I got me some REAL home entertainment. Always got me some—
(BANG!)
. . . (tea kettle whistling, metal clattering to the floor, maybe a pot or a pan, then silence) . . .
Feet, stomping across the carpet again, gonna wear a hole in it, Dad, but Dad don’t care, Dad’s holding a gun.
Ma’s dead.
Ma’s dead.
No tea today, Danny Boy. No more piano lessons, chum. End of the road. Ma used to brush my hair—
(standing up, dizzy, room spinning, bloody vision)
(BANG!)
Dad’s upstairs now. Sis is screaming.
(walking, wishing that wasn’t ma in the kitchen, she used to let me eat Count Chocula right out the fuckin’ box when no one else’s ma would let their kids have it even WITH the milk! The fucker, the goddamn—)
Dad’s killing everyone. His head ’sploded, after all, Danny Boy. Wonder what the scalpers would get for tix to those seats, eh? Haha. Ha.
Not so funny, though, now, friends. Not so—
(BANG! BANG! BANG!!)
Thudding upstairs, like dominoes, three blind mice, see how they die. See how they would have run if they weren’t dead.
(falling against the wall, slumping down in the corner)
Grandpa’s whispering something, I hear his raspy (dead) voice, smell an oily gun barrel, feel his old man’s too-wet lips on mine, kissing me, always wanting to kiss me. Gross, I said to ma. I love grampy and all, but it’s just GROSS, ya know? I mean—
Dad’s coming down the stairs. Who’s he think he is, for chrissakes? Clint Eastwood? Fucking Billy the Kid? Fucking Bruce Willis? Fucking Terminator? Fucking fucking fuck—
“I don’t want the gun, Dad.”
“No time for that, son. No time for bein’ a baby about it. Only one bullet left. Either you or me. Who’s it gonna be, son?
Who do you think should die this fine day?”
(she used to clean me up when I was younger, when I was done making mud pies in the yard after the rain; she used to pack me into my snowsuit, wrapping the scarf ever-so-gently around my neck, tying it in a loose knot and smiling, handing me my lunch pail, then send me off to school, sneaking some Almighty Count Choco in a little Tupperware container; she used to—)
“Son, now come on, stay with me, here.”
(Dad is—)
“No time for thought, we have to act on this now.”
(covered in—)
“You or me, son, one bullet.”
How is he so calm? Calm? Balm? Lip balm. “Gimme some Chapstick, please, Dad, my lips hurt, I need—”
(my family’s blood.)
“Come on, now, son,” he says, growing impatient, like we don’t have all the time in the world to die.
“Ma would have given me some lip balm, Dad,” I’m sayin’, and Dad’s wonderin’ what I’m talkin’ about, like it’s so weird to want Chapstick for your lips, or somethin’.
He killed my mother, the motherfucker. Han’ll beat his ass. Baddest space pirate around, baby. Fuckin’ A. Solo’ll kick your ass direct, Dad. Don’t mess with Danny B—
(BANG!)
Dad shot me.
We’re all dead. Squirming around, crawling down the stairs in agony, heads shattered, bleeding, sisters, brother, grampy, ma in the kitchen reaching for the Count Chocula, a big smile on her face, a bullet hole in her neck, blood pumping out, splashing in my bowl, splashing my bad eye, my glasses, but still smiling, always smiling, my ma . . .
Dead.
Dead . . .
And if I am dead, and dead I well may be
You’ll come and find the place where I am lying
And kneel and say an “Ave” there for me
And I shall hear tho’ soft you tread above me
And all my grave will warmer sweeter be
And you will call and tell me that you love me
And I shall sleep in peace ’til you come to me . . .
“—Oh Danny Boy, oh Danny Boy,” the boy whispered through bloody lips, the orderly pulling his chair into its proper sitting position. “. . . I love you so.”
“He sang it to me every night before I went to sleep,” Danny said.
Rossman shivered.
Danny’d been given some more sedatives and had his straps tightened. An orderly had been posted just at the end of the hall instead of all the way down at the front desk, in case there was more trouble.
“It musta been him that killed ’em all, Mr. Psychologist. Musta been Daddy.”
Danny had told Rossman all about what happened in his dream when his head hit the wall. He said it jogged his memory and he remembered everything now.
Rossman didn’t know what to make of the story.
<
br /> In the official report, the neighbors had called the police upon hearing shots. When the police arrived, Danny was found holding the gun, bloody from head to foot, standing over his father, crying.
Danny’s brother had been drawing cartoons in his room, headphones on, listening to music, when he was shot in the back. One of his sisters had died halfway down the stairs, gunshot at point-blank range to the chest. His other sister died instantly while drying her hair in the bathroom after a shower, gunshot to the face. Grandpa was asleep in the spare room. Shot in the back of the head. Danny’s mother, Laura, was found in the kitchen shot in the head, then stabbed repeatedly and left riddled with various knives, pencils, cutlery, anything sharp that was within the boy’s reach, apparently.
Danny’s father, James, had been shot in the stomach with the last bullet in the six-shooter, then sliced open from neck to crotch and stuffed with TV guides, men’s magazines (that had apparently been hidden under the living room sofa, as the cushions were overturned), little army soldiers, dinky cars, action figures, and other assorted toys and books.
When the police approached Danny, guns drawn, he had the barrel of the gun shoved in his mouth and was pulling the trigger, the hammer falling on the empty chambers over and over again. Danny noticed them and removed the barrel from his mouth, aiming it impotently at the officers, a vapid look on his face, clicking away at both of them.
They could only blink as the surrealism of the scene sunk in . . .
From a psychologist’s point of view, this was easy—the boy was initially in great shock and had forgotten what he’d done. The events he’d dreamed and retold were obviously just something his overwrought mind had made up to rationalize his actions. The question was: what triggered this? What would make a boy of his age do something like this? And why had the aggression not subsided? When he’d come out of his initial fugue at the scene of the crime, he’d battled the police officers tooth and nail as they tried to put him into a patrol car. He’d bashed his head against the window repeatedly, trying to get out, screaming that he wanted his mother, that he wanted his father. Spewing obscenities and kicking the backs of the seats in the car.
