The Murderer Next Door

by Rafael Yglesias

  After another fifteen minutes awake, Naomi came to life. She resumed playing her video game, but was disgusted with it quickly (in the dark I didn’t know how she could see anyhow), and equally revolted, after a minute, by the Barbie things. This time, when I asked if she was hungry, I got a vehement yes, followed by an irrational complaint: “I thought we were stopping an hour ago.”

  We were deep in Pennsylvania. I pulled into a combination Burger King and gas station, set by the turnpike’s shoulder for the sole purpose of servicing the traveler. I hoped its anonymity would prevent her from being alerted to our distance from home, almost two hundred miles by now.

  “Where are we?” she said the instant we got out of the car.

  I looked around with her at the dark mass of trees behind the Burger King, then at the dreary highway, and up at the overcast night sky, black and gray, no stars decorating its gloom. “We’re in the country,” I said.

  “Looks more like we’re on a highway,” she snorted.

  “We’re on a country highway.”

  “Let’s go,” she said. They had newspaper vending machines at the entrance. I took Naomi’s hand and pulled her past them.

  Burger King was a third full. Ahead of us in the line were a woman and two men. Boneless People, remarkably fat. Their arms bowed outward from bowling-pin hips, hanging lifelessly, too wide to be contained by the chains of the ordering line. Its chaffing contact with their forearms didn’t trouble them; nor did the bemused looks they provoked. I was fascinated. The woman had no beauty, not even an exaggerated kind. Her face was squeezed together vertically, and expanded horizontally; consequently, her thick glasses were pushed forward, bobbing on the end of her nose, hopping to the tip, rescued at the last inch by a swollen finger and pushed back to the top of the slope to resume their descent. She had a bold manner with the two men, whacking them with her hand and wheezing laughter when she made a joke. Her two gross companions were her age, apparently not any relation.

  Who were they? How did they survive in a world hostile to their species?

  “Aren’t they the fattest people you—” Naomi whispered this, but I was horrified they might hear.

  “Shhh!” I overwhelmed her.

  “I was talking in a whisper!” she protested loudly.

  One of the fat men slowly turned his head to look at us.

  I was mortified. “Just be quiet right now,” I mumbled. The man studied us. He was the more attractive of the two, mostly because he seemed to be less than three hundred pounds—the others were well over that. He had a young pleasant face too, gentle brown eyes, puffy red cheeks, and a compassionate, regretful smile.

  “Hi,” Naomi said to him.

  “Hello.” He spoke in almost a female’s high pitch. He smiled at her, then slowly swiveled his massive head back to his friends.

  I was surprised that their order was modest, no extra fries, no second burgers; chocolate shakes, to be sure, but they didn’t get to be whales eating those portions. We followed them to booths by the window. Although they managed to squeeze in, they really didn’t fit; their behinds, housed in mutant blue jeans that appeared to be two sewn together, overflowed the sharp edges of Burger King’s plastic molded seats. I thought: in Manhattan it’s against the law for people that fat to be seen in public.

  “Molly!” Naomi leaned across at me, speaking sharply. “We’re in Pennsylvania!” She pointed to a large highway exit sign, visible from our scenic booth.

  Hearing her, the slimmer of the fat men again looked at us with his pleasant but careful deliberation.

  “Uh-huh,” I said.

  “Does Daddy know we drove that far?”

  “Uh-huh. How’s your burger?” I asked lamely.

  “Isn’t that very far from New York?”

  She had completely captured the thinner fat man’s attention. He ignored his friend’s conversation, held his burger in midair, waiting to hear my answer. His eavesdropping was undisguised, almost demanding. “Don’t worry.” I couldn’t think of anything better.

  “We’re going home, right?” Naomi was more than suspicious, she already seemed to be arguing against my plan. She pulled a leg under her, rising up in the booth, leaning toward me, intent and worried. “I have school tomorrow.”

  The man put his burger down. His smile was gone. His hairless mouth pursed, concerned.

  “Let’s eat now—”

  “Just tell me what’s going on!” Naomi demanded.

  The fat woman whacked her pleasant companion and wheezed a joke at him. He shushed her, indicating with his eyes that he was interested in me and Naomi. There was no doubt about that. Was he a cop? Absurd. Why was he so nosy? He met my furtive glance with his friendly brown eyes, still amicable, but insistent.

  I felt guilty. You’re a kidnapper, I told myself, and my throat closed up.

  Stupid for a lawyer, you’re thinking, surely I must have realized what I risked. But I hadn’t. Never occurred to me to judge myself as I would be judged by the law. I was a kidnapper and Naomi was my victim. I would be pursued by the FBI for having taken her across state lines…and I expected Stefan to help me?

  “I want to go home,” Naomi said. No panic, no plea: a fact.

  The Boneless People definitely overheard that—at least the woman and the thinner man did, since they were the two who faced us. “Excuse me,” the man called to me. He pretended innocent concern: “Are you lost? Can we help you with directions?”

  I couldn’t speak. I shook my head at him. My throat had closed—a lump of gray burger meat was stuck partway down. “Fine,” I mumbled to Naomi. “We’ll eat and go home.” I sipped my soda and beamed at her; at him; even at the grotesque, unsmiling fat woman. But my brain revolted: Go back and face Ben?

  Naomi skidded around on the plastic seat and addressed the Boneless People. I tried to interrupt her, but she spoke over me: “Which way back to New York City?”

  “Route Eighty, honey,” the fat woman said.

  “Just turn around and go back the other way.” The pleasant fat man daintily wiped off ketchup from a stuffed index finger and pointed out the window. “You can get off about a mile…” He looked a question at the fatter man.

  “Mile and a half,” his friend grumbled. His voice was low, bearish, especially compared to the thinner man’s castrato timbre.

  “Mile and a half,” he sang to us happily. He whirled his frankfurter finger in a circle. “Just get off, swing round, and get back on the other way. What’s your name, dear?”

  “Naomi. What’s yours?”

  “She’s cute,” the fat woman said, commenting as if no one could hear her.

  “I’m Larry. How old are you?”

  “I’m seven years old today!” Naomi may have thought them the fattest people she had ever seen, but she wasn’t repelled.

  “Happy Birthday!” He patted his hands together like an infant; against his massive chest, although bursting out of their skin, they looked tiny.

  “Birthday at Burger King?” the gruff man said. I couldn’t see his face; his tone was disapproving.

  “You seem so smart and grown-up for a seven-year-old,” Larry said. He spoke in a slow lilt, head moving rhythmically from side to side, like a giant doll. He could be put on display at F. A. O. Schwarz, he was so massive and kindly.

  “I’m from Manhattan,” she said.

  “Oh…?” Larry nodded, but he was puzzled.

  “City kids are precocious,” Naomi elaborated, egoless, passing along routine information.

  The fat lady wheezed and her glasses slid all the way to the end of her nose; Larry’s small mouth opened into an O shape and his chest jiggled, but his laughter made no sound.

  “I’m serious,” Naomi said.

  “Okay, honey.” The lady wheezed.

  “Can I buy you dessert?” Larry said. He looked at me innocently: “Is that all right? Is she done? Can she have dessert? A little birthday Burger King cherry pie?” He twisted his lips into a red splash of helpless
ness. “That’s all there is.”

  “Piss poor,” said the disgruntled one sharply. He turned in the booth, shaking the whole restaurant. His massive arm oozed onto the backrest of Naomi’s chair. He made this maneuver to shoot me a fat-cheeked, small-eyed look of disdain. “What kind of a birthday dinner is this?”

  “It’s okay,” Naomi told him.

  “Aw…,” Larry said, his great head tilted sideways.

  “She’s cute,” the fat lady said.

  “This isn’t her birthday dinner,” I told them. “We had a party, a birthday lunch. We took her friends ice-skating, we had chocolate cake—”

  “And I got six extra presents!” she told them.

  “That’s great, honey,” droned the fat woman. Larry’s pencil-thin eyebrows went way up and he nodded with slow, astonished appreciation. The gruff man glared at me, unimpressed.

  He made me nervous. I kept talking: “I thought we’d go for a drive in the country and build a snowman.”

  “Snowwoman!” Naomi said.

  “Snowwoman!” the fat lady wheezed. She banged her plastic cup down in appreciation. “That’s funny!”

  “Here…?” Larry said, pointing daintily down.

  “She fell asleep in the car. I just kept driving.”

  “Did you build your snowman—I mean woman?” the big one asked.

  “No…” Naomi spoke in a tone of wistful despair.

  “Well there’s snow out there. Let’s do it!” Larry put his half a burger in his mouth and seemed to swallow it whole.

  “Hey Larry!” the bigger male yelled.

  “I forgot,” Larry apologized through half-chewed food.

  “He’s not supposed to eat fast. That’s what makes you fat,” the fat lady said. “Not tasting your food.”

  “I thought eating too much makes you fat,” Naomi said, not innocently. She smiled.

  The fat lady didn’t wheeze, she honked. Larry applauded, gulped down what was in his mouth, and shouted: “That’s right!”

  The gruff one patted her head. His hand was as large as her skull. “You know something?” he said to her sadly, pleading his case. “Even if I don’t eat a lot I’m fat.”

  “How much do you weigh?” she asked.

  “What do you think?”

  Naomi shrugged. “I don’t know. A lot. I don’t know what’s a lot.”

  “Good,” he said. “I like that you don’t know. Let’s make a snowwoman.” He stuck his legs out and skimmed out of the booth, like a kid going down a slide.

  “That’s neat,” Naomi commented.

  He offered his hand. She took it willingly, after a glance to make sure I came along. Forcing a grin I nodded, gathered the fast-food containers, and got up.

  “I’m B.J.,” he said to her, waiting for me. Larry and the fat lady maneuvered themselves out of the booth less gracefully than their friend; they twisted from side to side, oozing forward gradually until they popped free, sighing with relief at the expanse of the open air.

  “I’m Naomi Fliess,” she told B.J. Wendy had taught her that she should say her full name, in case she ever got lost. Even at two and a half years old, when introduced to a grown-up, she answered in her babyish accent, mouth full of words, saying: “I’m Nommy Fliess,” and then rattled off her address and phone number, sounding like a POW under interrogation. I did not introduce myself. I was very unhappy. Because of this contact, I doubted we could escape without being traced. They would certainly remember her.

  “I’m Maggie, honey,” the fat lady told her. We waddled with our trays, dumped the garbage, and went outside, walking past the parking lot to a cleared bit of land before the line of trees. There the snow was untouched.

  Naomi hung on to her Beast all the way, a very proud Beauty; she stood by him while he gathered (with bare hands) armfuls of snow and started a base. Dainty Larry produced huge red mittens for his hands: big stiff flags flashing signals against the white earth.

  Maggie mostly kibitzed, wheezing with laughter at any stumble or gracelessness of B.J.’s or Larry’s. “Don’t fall,” she warned B.J. when he skidded to one knee. “Get covered with snow and they’ll think you’re the Michelin man. Put you out at the pumps and sell you at half price.” She was very cruel about their weight; they said nothing about hers.

  Larry quit long before B.J. He stood next to me and said, “She’s great.” He was short of breath.

  “You’re gonna die of a heart attack,” Maggie said, and called out to B.J.: “Feel a stroke coming on, B.J.? You’re turning red.” He wasn’t, actually. He seemed peaceful.

  Larry whispered to me: “Everything okay? If you’re in any trouble, we can help.”

  “We’re fine. I just wanted to go for a drive.”

  “You know my father used to beat me up.” The baggy outer moons of his cheeks were tinged bright red from the cold. He looked even more artificial that way, like a clown or a cartoon. “My mom was too scared to stop him. Maggie was abused too.” He nodded in her direction. “Her mother used to beat her with an electric cord. She’s got scars all over her back.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said. How do you make conversation like this? Confess back? I’m Molly. My father is an alcoholic, he hit me all the time, he killed my mother, I’m sure he would have raped me if I’d stayed around, but I didn’t and…what’s the point? Sympathy? Everybody has troubles. The people who don’t, like Stefan, invent some for themselves, and those fictions are just as real. Stefan himself told me this tenet of Freudianism: if the patient believes something happened, then it has to be treated as if it did. The heart can’t be put on trial: facts are meaningless and no court has jurisdiction.

  “There are places now you can go and they’ll help,” Larry insisted. “It’s not like when we were kids.”

  “We’re okay,” I begged him.

  “We belong to Overeaters Anonymous,” Larry talked on cheerfully; like a public service ad on television, broadcast when time is cheap or worthless, pedaling agony instead of cars, relief instead of aspirin. “We came from a meeting.”

  “They let you eat at Burger King?”

  “It’s not a diet,” he said, eager to disgorge himself of himself: “It’s about sharing your feelings and experiences. It’s a disease—”

  “Life is a disease,” I interrupted.

  “What?”

  “Life is a disease. A bug. A flu.”

  Maggie had overheard my last comment. She nodded at me and wheezed her laughing agreement. “That’s right.” She grinned, her face expanding sideways, a gargoyle. “We all got bad fevers.”

  Did her mother hit her because she was so ugly? Or did the hitting make her ugly? I know what you think—I’m heartless, I’m perverted. But chances are you’ve never had to deal with evil; never had to live with it, to love it, or to forgive it; never had to face the fact that to choose to be evil, just like choosing to be good, is a rare and difficult decision. But I shouldn’t state that to you flat out. Saying that truth, even hearing it, is too hard a choice to make.

  “B.J.’s father raped him,” Larry said in a breezy tone.

  B.J. made a massive middle for the snowwoman: his bare fingers were bright red from the cold. Naomi adored his effort. She told him: “You’re great at this.” He showed no pleasure at her praise, except to bend down and work even harder.

  “Raped him more than once, I mean,” Larry continued thoughtfully.

  “Uh-huh,” I answered. He is eager to please, I thought, horrible me, cruel me.

  “He used to drink.”

  “B.J. was in Vietnam!” Maggie added, impressed by this part of his history. She coughed, also in a wheezing fashion. “Killed a lot of Vietcong.” She choked on the words. “Now they’re moving here,” she said, clearing her throat.

  “We have a Vietnamese in Overeaters,” Larry said.

  “A fat Vietnamese.” Maggie chuckled. “Now that’s loneliness!”

  “B.J.’s got a great heart,” Larry said about Naomi’s Beast.

 
; The monster has feelings; even Tyrannosaurus rex sometimes wept. “We have to go,” I said. “We have a long drive back to New York.”

  “There’s a battered women’s shelter near here,” Larry said. “They can help.”

  We didn’t need a shelter—we needed an Underground Railroad. “Is Naomi Perlman the sponsor?” I asked.

  “Who?” Larry said in his woman’s voice.

  “Who?” Maggie wheezed.

  “Naomi!” I called, not to repeat myself, but to her namesake, the little girl making a snowwoman with Big Foot. “We have to start back. It’s a long drive to the city.”

  “We’re not finished,” B.J. growled at me.

  “We have to make the head!” Naomi spoke enthusiastically, not making a demand.

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll call your father”—that was an error; should have said home. I rushed on—“and tell him we’re heading back.”

  Only when I got inside the first bank of doors and located a phone right next to the newspaper vending machine did I realize: I’ve left Naomi with three strangers. Strangers? They were barely human.

  Would Ben have done such a thing? Wendy certainly wouldn’t. No matter how many times I had cared for Naomi successfully—even after I had had charge of her for weekends, even after the week she spent with me while they traveled to Europe—each time Wendy recited a long list of instructions, as if I was new to the job. Whenever Wendy had to hire an unfamiliar babysitter she checked whether I was going to be home; to make sure that if needed I would be next door to help, as well as in the hope that I would volunteer to eavesdrop via a phony phone call to her apartment an hour after she left. And I would, uselessly listening for sounds of unhappiness from Naomi or the noise of an orgy in the background—feeling stupid because obviously a wrongdoer would have the brains to quiet things down before answering the phone. My point is that Wendy released her precious girl with sticky fingers.

  In the beginning I judged Wendy’s mothering to be suffocating, encouraging dependence; lack of initiative, and fearfulness. Except Naomi grew up with none of those traits; I had long since admitted I was wrong…and yet you see what I did? Just walked away.