Child’s Play 2

by Matthew J. Costello

  He looked down at the dirt. He couldn’t see Tommy anymore. Chucky just stood there, thinking.

  Those kids didn’t know the half of it. They thought he was just embarrassed having a midget for a mom.

  But he always knew he was going to kill his mother . . . it was just a matter of time.

  No, there never had been any question about that.

  11

  Her name was Minna Elizabeth Ray.

  But the people who knew her called her Mrs. Ray.

  When Charles Ray was very young, he didn’t have any idea there was something different about his mother . . . something odd. When you’re very little, you don’t see people staring, you don’t see kids snickering, you don’t hear people whispering.

  It was only when he got older, and bigger, when he started to grow, that he noticed something.

  His mother was short. Very short. She had always seemed big to him. Like any parent, he guessed. But he saw now that she was only inches taller than he was. And soon after he graduated from third grade, Chucky passed her in height.

  That’s when things got bad.

  He never knew his father.

  But he had heard a lot about him. Minna called him “a big rat . . . a big good-for-nothing rat . . . a big slob . . . a slob without a heart . . .”

  And Chucky understood, from his mom’s use of the word “big,” from very early on, that his father had been normal-sized. But Chucky never saw him to verify that fact.

  There were no photos, just his mother’s endless rants. Though she smiled up at all the big people she had to deal with—at the stores, the neighbors, everyone—her face would darken when she turned away. It would darken, turn evil, and Chucky would lie awake, scared, as he listened to his mother, outside, in their apartment’s tiny living room, drinking, talking to herself.

  And then Chucky grew taller.

  He was becoming one of the big people.

  And that was not a good thing.

  She started yammering at him all the time. Nagging him about his room, his lousy grades at school, the way he dressed. And soon she started talking about him and his father in the same way. “Your father was a big nothing . . . and that’s what you’ll be.”

  And she started to hit him.

  Lashing out, for no reason.

  First, just one blow, then more until she sent a rain of gnarled fists crashing down on him.

  He learned how to cover his head and protect himself. He learned to stay out of sight when she started making bottle-and-glass noises in the kitchen.

  He learned to hate the woman.

  The kids in school were great. Just super. Not a day passed that they didn’t taunt him about his “dwarf-mother.” They called her “the little woman.”

  “Couldn’t be your mother, Ray,” they’d laugh. “You’re too big to have come out of such a small—”

  It was just another reason to hate her.

  But every day he grew bigger and stronger.

  And he started to make plans. At first he thought he’d run away. But where? He had no money, no relatives he knew about. Where could he go? Then he began to see her size as an advantage. He could laugh now when she started smacking at his head. He got so good he could dodge her blows while she shrieked, spittle flying from her puppet-mouth right at his face. “Don’t you laugh at me, you horrible boy, you ugly boy.” And then she’d try to work in some more blows, yelling, screaming, “Don’t you laugh . . .”

  She’s so small, he saw. Small enough that he could, yes, he could lift her.

  There was a park across the street. Nobody played there or walked there too much. The kids at school said it was a drug hangout. But Ray looked down at the park at night. He saw the shadowy shapes moving around and the occasional glint of their eyes looking around . . . looking up at him.

  Charles Lee Ray suspected that a whole lot of interesting things went on down there. A whole lot.

  He found himself grabbing the windowsill, gripping it hard. He felt the wood give, almost crumble under his fingers. He saw those eyes, down below, as if they were waiting for him to play with them. He looked at the claw marks his hands made in the wood.

  And he knew what he was going to do.

  He waited until she was drunk, staggering around the living room, the kitchen.

  He walked up behind her. She was muttering to herself, didn’t even see him coming. She held a big grape jelly tumbler filled with some cheap Scotch.

  He thought that he’d just grab her and do it. But that wasn’t good enough. She hates me, he thought. For being normal. She hates me, and I have to let her know that I hate her too.

  “Mom,” he said gently. Then, smirking, “Mommy.” She turned, looking at his stomach, then, blinking, up to his face.

  “Whad’ya want?” she said, the words a long slur.

  As she stood there, wobbling, her face looking at his, he saw a glint of recognition bloom in her eyes.

  She knows she’s in trouble, Chucky thought.

  He flexed his fingers.

  And he loved that look of horror in her eyes. That terrible, terrible look. It was wonderful.

  “Mom,” he said gently.

  He reached out and wrapped his hands around her neck.

  He closed her throat with his hands. She gagged, her eyes bulged out. And then—he was enjoying himself much too much—he eased up, giving her just the tiniest teasing breath of air before—whomp!—slamming his hands shut again, closing down the airpipe.

  He was strong and she was light, and he found he could even pull her off her feet, letting her kick the air.

  Up and down he jerked her. Her nails scratched at his hands. She tried to kick him.

  But then came the first of many wonderful moments for Charles Lee Ray. She stopped struggling. She hung there in his arms . . . a lifeless . . .

  Doll.

  He carried her across the street, stuffed inside a big lawn bag. He grunted, carrying her down the steps. She seemed much heavier dead. Then he dragged his way over to the park, to a lamp post with a light that he saw was out. It was black there. And he wasn’t scared of being caught. He wasn’t scared of anyone trying to do something to him.

  Because if they do, he thought, I’ll just open my bag and say, “See this! Come near me and you can be next!”

  He had a wonderful sense of peace and strength. A side benefit of killing his mom, he guessed.

  He buried her deep, using a small spade. It took most of the night. Some crack-heads strolled by to watch, but they kept on moving when they saw him glaring at them, when they saw the bag.

  He went back to the apartment feeling free.

  He was eventually caught, of course. His great plan was filled with arrows that pointed right to his nasty murder. Dogs found her body.

  Nobody came to the little witch’s funeral. Except for Chucky. The youth officer said it would look good.

  He was sent to the Spofford, Illinois, Juvenile Home. No jail, no trial.

  How could there be? He smiled, thinking about it. I was only thirteen years old.

  Only thirteen years old . . .

  I was young, I had my whole life ahead of me. And we all make mistakes . . . don’t we?

  The rain stopped.

  Chucky had to clean up . . . put the shovel away . . . get back to the living room.

  Because tomorrow was going to be a big day. A really big day.

  He looked up at Andy Barclay’s bedroom.

  12

  Andy sat at the wooden kitchen table waiting for Joanne to finish with his breakfast. He would have been just as happy with a bowl of Captain Crunch, but she was fixing him something . . . special.

  She didn’t look so pretty this morning. She didn’t look really awake yet. When his mom woke him up, she was usually all dressed, with her makeup on and some perfume, all ready for work. But Joanne was flopping around in slippers and a big, fluffy white bathrobe. Doing something very strange to an egg.

  She opened the egg with a
quick crack to the side of the blender. Then she dropped it into a strainer, the kind his mom used for spaghetti and Andy used for a helmet.

  The clear, gummy part of the egg dripped into the blender, joining a banana that sat in a pool of orange juice. When all the clear stuff had dripped down, covering the banana with goo, Joanne moved the strainer with the eyelike yolk to the sink, covered the blender, and turned it on.

  It made a loud whirring noise. Joanne turned and smiled at Andy, and he smiled back.

  So far, it didn’t look like any eggs he had ever had before. He hated the noise of the blender. He wanted to put his hands on his ears, but he thought that maybe she’d be mad.

  I want to act how they want me to act, he thought. It’s better here than at the center.

  Sometimes, in the center, Andy had had the feeling that he’d never get out. He felt as if he’d stay there until he was all grown up. And maybe even beyond that.

  But here, with the morning sun bouncing off the wood table, he could imagine the doorbell ringing. And he’d hurry to the window and see his mom’s car. Then he’d run to the door. To a big hug from his mom.

  I’m not here forever, he told himself. And they’re nice people. He looked at Kyle, who was looking at a magazine and chewing on a mouthful of Cheerios. They’re kinda nice.

  “There,” Joanne said. “It’s all done.”

  She smiled again, pushing her hair off her forehead. She took the blender off its base and poured a great big Mickey Mouse glass full of the mixture. It was still orange, like the orange juice. But when she placed the glass in front of him, Andy could see that the mixture was paler, with tiny strands running through it.

  It reminded him of a picture in his old first-grade class. It was one of the planets. It looked like Jupiter.

  “Bon appétit,” Kyle said, looking over at him.

  Joanne stood next to him. She’s waiting to watch me drink it, he knew. She wants to see if I like it.

  He thought of the egg, the runny clear glop, and the banana, spinning around. His stomach felt tight.

  “It’s an egg shake, Andy,” Joanne patted his shoulder. “You’ll like it.”

  He looked up at her, hesitant. “My mom . . . used to cook eggs.”

  Kyle laughed.

  “Oh . . . ,” Joanne said. “Well, Phil says . . .”

  Kyle jumped in. “Phil says,” she said, sounding as if she had memorized the words, “that the grease used in cooking accounts for thirty percent of the excess body fat in the average American.” Kyle leaned closer to Andy. “And don’t even get him started on cholesterol.”

  Andy picked up the glass. He took a breath. Joanne just stood there, watching him, waiting. He brought the glass to his lips, and then he took a sip.

  It was horrible. It was one of the worst things he had ever tasted, worse than that cold medicine Dr. Wormley prescribed, the orange stuff that Andy hated. This was much worse.

  “You like it?” Joanne asked.

  Andy nodded. He looked up at her. But her face didn’t look happy. She knows I hate it, he thought. “I do,” he added.

  But Joanne put her hands in the pocket of her bathrobe and shrugged. “That’s okay, Andy. You didn’t have to drink it.”

  She turned away. And Kyle leaned close to him, whispering, telling him something he already knew. “You hurt her feelings.”

  He looked over at Joanne standing facing the sink, rinsing out the strainer and then grabbing the blender. And he looked at his nearly full Mickey Mouse glass. He reached out and brought the glass to his lips. He chugged the liquid, letting the gummy taste run over his lips. He kept drinking it until the glass was empty, and then he slammed it down. Joanne turned, a big smile on her face now.

  “Oh, so you did like it!” she said. Andy nodded. He felt Kyle watching him. “Want some more?” Joanne asked.

  “I feel kinda full,” Andy said.

  Joanne, still smiling, nodded and moved to the foyer. She called out, “Phil, breakfast is getting old!”

  “Time for Phil’s batch,” Kyle whispered.

  Andy sat there listening to Phil’s heavy steps coming down the stairs.

  But he didn’t come straight into the kitchen. He turned away—into the living room, Andy guessed. Andy hadn’t looked in that room this morning. He didn’t want to see that stupid Good Guy there. And he tried to keep away this thought: What if it’s not there?

  Joanne came back into the kitchen and ruffled his hair. “You better get ready to go out and play, Andy,” she said. “First day, we don’t want to be . . .”

  He heard a crunch. They all heard a crunch. And Phil said a word Andy knew but wasn’t supposed to use: “Damn!”

  Kyle surfaced from her magazine and cereal. She looked at Andy, then Joanne. Everyone waited while Phil walked into the kitchen. He had something in his hand.

  “What is it?” Joanne said. “What’s . . .”

  Phil leaned over the kitchen table and turned his hands over, and a bunch of broken pieces of pottery clattered onto the table.

  Andy looked at the broken object. He saw the sharp jagged edges and tiny pieces, but he didn’t see what it was, couldn’t recognize it, until . . .

  He saw the baby. Intact. Looking up with big eyes. At nothing. Because the mother was in a hundred pieces.

  Andy looked up at Phil.

  “Do either of you have anything to say?” Phil asked.

  Andy looked back at the statue. He thinks I did it, Andy thought. Because of what happened yesterday. He thinks I broke the statue.

  Kyle cleared her throat. “I think we should talk to a lawyer first.”

  “Hey, don’t talk wise, Kyle. This isn’t funny.” Phil looked back to Andy, talking right to him. “That was a very expensive statue. And I’ve told both of you not to touch it.” He moved closer to Andy. “What did I tell you yesterday, the first day you got here?”

  Andy licked his lips.

  “Now one of you did this, and one of you owes Joanne an apology . . . and maybe a new statue.”

  Joanne leaned out and picked up the baby. “Phil, maybe . . .”

  “I’m innocent,” Kyle announced. “That’s all I know.” She shoved another spoonful of Cheerios into her mouth.

  “Andy?” Phil demanded.

  “I . . . I . . .” He looked at Joanne. “I didn’t do it.”

  Phil grunted. “Look, did you come down here last night, Andy? One of you must be lying, one of you . . .” His voice was getting louder.

  Joanne leaned out and touched his arm. “Phil, please. Lighten up, honey. It’s just a statue. We can get another and . . .”

  “Andy, did you come down here last night?”

  Andy nodded. He waited, hoping Joanne would touch Phil again, make him stop talking, make him leave Andy alone. Andy thought about the doll, sitting inside the living room. He thought about telling them that he wanted it out of his room, that he was afraid, that—

  But that would be even worse.

  “Why?” Phil asked. “Why did you come down here?”

  “I . . . I wanted something to eat.”

  “Okay. All right. You two leave me no choice. Until someone fesses up, you’re both grounded.”

  “Oh, no,” Kyle groaned. “I have a date tonight. Come on, I told you—”

  “Sorry,” Phil snapped.

  And Andy felt Kyle looking at him as if she wanted to throw him out the window.

  Kyle slammed down the lid to the washing machine, not caring whether Joanne and Big Phil heard the noise.

  They’re both up there, she thought, enjoying their tasty egg shakes, slurping up every last drop of gooey egg and orange pulp.

  She turned the washer on.

  “You and Andy can do the laundry, Kyle,” Joanne had said. Just an extra added chore because the new runt is a pathological liar.

  Kyle walked to the sink and pulled out some of her special shirts that were soaking, too delicate for the mauling they’d get in the washer.

  And
Andy just stood there, watching her.

  “Thanks a heap, Andy. This is exactly how I like to spend my Sunday. Stuck in a cellar, doing laundry with a liar. Thanks a lot.”

  “But I didn’t break the statue,” he said.

  She looked at him. The naked light bulb caught his face, and for all her anger, she had to admit he looked a bit pathetic standing there.

  “Yeah . . . ,” she said. “Well,” she went on, turning back to the washer, waiting to dump the fabric softener into the churning mixture. “Maybe it fell. Maybe a breeze . . .” She turned and looked at him. “Maybe an earthquake,” she said, grinning. And he made the smallest smile back.

  She took a look upstairs, up to the door that led to the kitchen. And then she dug a pack of Marlboros from her back pocket. She lit one and sucked hard. She felt Andy watching her, brainwashed by hours of antismoking commercials.

  God, now I’ll have the kid ratting on me.

  “Here, give me a hand hanging these shirts up on the line. I can’t put them in the dryer.”

  Kyle pulled out one shirt covered with silver spangles, one of her favorites. It ate two of her pay checks, before she started saving for California. It should be dry cleaned, but that cost more money. Woolite was cheaper.

  She draped it over the line. “Hand me some clothespins,” she said. Andy dug a handful of them out of a bag. A few spilled to the floor. Kyle took one and clipped the shirt’s collar onto the indoor line. Then Andy tried to pin the other side of the shirt, but Kyle saw that he had bunched the material up.

  “No,” she said. She reached up and took the cigarette out of her mouth. “Hold this,” she said, handing him the cigarette. She pulled the collar and shoulder of the shirt taut.

  When she turned, Andy was staring at the burning cigarette in his hand. Then she saw him bring it up to his lips, as if sipping something hot and biting. He took a puff and immediately started coughing.

  “Andy,” she said, reaching out and grabbing the cigarette from his flailing hand. He was still bent over coughing. “What do you think you’re doing? God!”

  “I . . .” He coughed again. “I wanted to taste it.”

  “And you do everything that you want to do? Get real, Andy. It tastes like garbage, okay. And you know how bad it is for you, right?”