The other children delighted in this—the one topic guaranteed to make little kids laugh is flatulence. But Allison was not amused. “I’ll tell my daddy what you said!”
“By all means,” said Step. “He’ll be proud to know that his little girl thinks she can boss around grown men. He’s doing a fine job of raising you.”
Allison was young enough not to realize she was not being complimented. “Well, thank you,” she said. “I forgive you and I won’t tell. Now come on, Robbie.”
“You missed the point, little girl,” said Step. “Robbie is not going on the raft. This is because I love Robbie and don’t want him to fall into the lake and drown. But I can’t wait for you to go on the raft. So please, hurry up, the lake is waiting for you.”
Allison looked confused for a moment, and then stuck her tongue out at Robbie and led her little troop of friends off toward the water.
“She stuck her tongue out at me, Daddy,” said Robbie.
“And it made her look really ugly and stupid, didn’t it?” said Step.
When he turned back to DeAnne and Mrs. Keene, however, he was chagrined to realize that they had apparently been listening to the whole exchange. Mrs. Keene at once put him at ease by winking and saying, “She’s got so much of her father in her, wouldn’t you say?”
“I wouldn’t know,” said Step. “I haven’t seen Ray in months.”
“Well, you haven’t missed much,” said Mrs. Keene. “You must be independently wealthy or something, because it’s plain that you don’t give a rat’s ass whether you keep your job. I like that in a man.” Then she grinned at DeAnne. “I’m flirting with your husband, Mrs. Fletcher, but don’t pay any attention to it, because I’m just a little bit drunk. My rule is no more than one martini—per hour.” She laughed in delight. “Not really, of course,” she said. “What I’m drunk on is the fact that I can look around this whole group of people, more than a hundred of them now, and I can be absolutely certain deep in my soul that every single one of them hates Ray Keene. You don’t mind my telling you this, do you?”
“Actually,” said DeAnne, “we really need to be going.”
“Oh, I’m not surprised,” said Mrs. Keene. “I need to be going myself.”
“Where’s Stevie?” asked DeAnne.
“Right over there,” said Step, pointing to the tree where Stevie was leaning, watching the activities on the water. “Where’s Betsy?”
“Oh, that young fellow who used to drive you home a lot is taking her for a walk.”
“Glass?” he asked. “Gallowglass?”
“No, he said his name was Roland McIntyre.”
“That’s Glass,” said Step. He cursed himself for not having warned DeAnne, not having told her that she must not let Betsy out of her sight for a moment, and she must be especially certain not to let Roland McIntyre, alias Saladin Gallowglass, so much as touch a hair on Betsy’s head. “Where did he take her? How long ago?”
“Oh, while I was talking to Mrs. Keene here. He took her off that way, up that hill.”
Vaguely in the direction of the parking lot. Or the woods just to the left of the cars. In any event, the very area where nobody else was gathered.
“Is something wrong?” said Mrs. Keene.
“I hope not,” said Step. “Here’s Robbie.” He put Robbie’s hand in DeAnne’s. “Don’t let anybody take him or Stevie for a walk, please.”
DeAnne clearly caught from Step’s air of urgency the fact that she had done something very wrong by letting Glass take Betsy. “Step, I’m sorry, 1 figured he was a friend, I saw him drop you off so often . . .”
He didn’t stay for the rest of her apology. He wasn’t much of a runner, and he was badly out of shape, but he still had breath enough when he got up by the parking lot to call out Betsy’s name, then Glass’s.
“Over here, Step!” called Glass.
Now Step could see him, standing behind a car at the far edge of the lot, beside an overgrown pasture. “Do you have Betsy with you?”
“Of course,” said Glass. “Your wife said I could take her for a walk.”
Step was halfway across the parking lot. Now his run up the hill was catching up with him—he was panting, and he hadn’t enough breath for speech.
“I think she might be wet,” said Glass. “I was just checking. I didn’t know which car was yours, though.”
At last Step was around behind the car and there was Betsy, holding hands with Glass. Her diaper was still on and she was waving a dandelion fuzzball, trying to get the last of the seeds to fall off. Step finally had breath to speak. “DeAnne said you could take her on a walk, not fiddle with her diaper, Glass.”
“Well, I didn’t think you’d want your daughter walking around getting diaper rash,” said Glass.
Step scooped Betsy up into his arms and stood there looking Glass in the eye. “I don’t know how to put this delicately, Glass, so I won’t try. I like you, as a programmer, as a friend. But don’t you ever, ever touch any of my children as long as you live. Because if I ever catch you alone with one of my kids again, then that will be as long as you live.”
Glass looked him right in the eye, and for a moment it seemed that he was going to answer—angrily? With a joke? Step could not begin to guess. Finally Glass just shut his mouth tight and turned his head to look out toward the entrance to the park.
OK, so I’ve made an enemy, thought Step as he carried Betsy back down toward DeAnne. But I’m not making this up. Glass had Betsy for no more than a couple of minutes before he had her off behind a car, where nobody could see, and if I hadn’t come up there he would have added her to his list of treasured stories of times he has cleaned the private parts of little girls. Until now Step had begun to think that Glass had never actually molested a child, that perhaps what he had said to Step in the hotel room in San Francisco had been nothing worse than a weird fantasy of his, an obsession that was still only in his imagination. Now Step knew better. Call it “checking her diaper” or “helping her wash,” it was still sexual molestation and he had come this close to doing it to Betsy.
When Step got back to DeAnne, Mrs. Keene was still there—and she was frankly curious. “What was all that about?” she said.
“Just time for us to go home, I think,” “said Step.
“You certainly seemed upset when you heard that Bubba McIntyre was taking her for a walk. I can assure you, Bubba’s the sweetest boy and he’s very good with children.”
Step remembered Allison Keene and had to ask. “Did Bubba ever babysit for you, Mrs. Keene?”
“He used to, back when Allison was just a toddler. He used to come around and ask if he could babysit, he was such a dear. That’s how he got started programming on our old Commodore Pet—that’s where he first wrote Scribe, you know—only when he started really working for Ray, Ray told me never to ask Bubba to babysit for us again. It wouldn’t be right to have his best programmer also tending his children, I suppose!” But there was still a quizzical expression on her face.
“Is Betsy all right?” asked DeAnne.
“He was about to check her diaper,” said Step. “To see if it was wet.”
“Of course it isn’t,” said DeAnne. “I just changed her. I told him so.”
“You told him?”
“He asked if she needed changing, and I told him I’d just changed her.”
Mrs. Keene was not stupid. “Good God,” she said. “You’re not saying that Bubba—but that’s—”
“No, I’m not saying anything about Bubba,” said Step. “Except that if I ever catch him alone with my little girl again, a jury will be deciding between life imprisonment and capital punishment for me.”
Mrs. Keene looked sick. “But he tended Allison all the time when she was your little Betsy’s age.”
“At least he doesn’t tend her anymore,” said Step.
“No, because Ray . . .” Mrs. Keene’s expression darkened. “I knew he was a son-of-a-bitch, but even he wouldn’t hire a . . .
a . . . person that he knew was . . .” She shook her head firmly. “I’m not going to believe malicious gossip.” She turned her back and stalked away.
“Oh, Step,” said DeAnne, her face stricken. “Why didn’t you tell me about that boy?”
“I forgot,” said Step.
“You forgot!”
“No, I mean I forgot that when we brought the kids to the picnic, Glass would be here. He’s been asking to babysit for us from the first moment I met him. But after San Francisco, when I realized what direction his fantasies go, I’ve been making sure he never gets a chance to meet the kids. And nothing happened today, not really. It was my fault things came so close, not yours, and now let’s please get the hell away from this place.”
DeAnne did not demur. In a couple of minutes they were back in the car, pulling out of the lot and heading home. Step was very calm all the way, and because Robbie and Stevie were in the car they hardly said anything—nothing at all pertaining to what happened with Betsy and Glass.
At home, DeAnne wasted not a moment before she had Betsy undressed and in the bathtub. Step stood at the door and thought of all the times he had changed Betsy and bathed her and never once had he thought of anything except to talk to her and smile at her and be close to her, just as such times had always been close, affectionate times with his sons. But now the idea of watching DeAnne bathe Betsy made him feel guilty, as if the mere fact of knowing how Glass had looked at her made it so that any man’s eyes that looked at her were vile, even Step’s own.
The rage and shame he felt were too strong for him. He fled into the bedroom and threw himself on the bed and buried his face in the pillow and roared, a wordless animal shout that he couldn’t contain a moment longer. Again. Again.
Panting, exhausted, he rolled over onto his back.
Gradually he became aware that he was not alone. He turned his head and saw Stevie in the doorway. “Hi, Stevedore,” he said.
“Did that man hurt Betsy?” asked Stevie.
“No,” said Step. Of course, he thought. Stevie isn’t as young as Robbie. He isn’t as oblivious. He watches more. He understood some of what had gone on at the picnic. “No, Betsy’s fine.”
“Then why were you yelling like that? You sounded really mad.”
How much to say? The truth, as much as it was fair to tell someone as young and innocent as Stevie. “I was mad, but mostly at myself, because I didn’t protect Betsy well enough. And also I was afraid, because we came so close to something bad happening.”
“What?” asked Stevie. “What bad thing?”
“There are people in the world who do bad things to children,” said Step. “People like that are the worst people in the world. Jesus said that if any man harmed a child, it would be better for him if he tied a millstone around his neck and threw himself in the sea. And if you think somebody like that might hurt your child, well, it makes you really angry and afraid.”
Stevie nodded. “Yeah,” he said.
“But nothing bad happened, OK? I was just upset because I thought maybe we came close to having something bad happen, that’s all.”
“Sometimes the bad things really do happen,” said Stevie.
“Yes, I guess they do,” said Step. “But if I can help it, it’ll never happen to any child of mine.”
“I know,” said Stevie. “You and Mom are really good.” He turned and went back to his room.
This was the most Stevie had said to him about anything since they moved to Steuben. He couldn’t wait for DeAnne to get through bathing Betsy so he could tell her.
But when DeAnne came into the room Step had fallen asleep. He didn’t get to tell her what Stevie had said until late that night, when they were in bed together, and when he told her what Stevie said at the end she nestled closer to Step and said, “Maybe we are pretty good parents, Junk Man. At least we’re not Ray Keene or his wife.”
That was why Step got back to thinking about Ray Keene, and realizing that Ray almost certainly knew about Glass’s predilections, and yet he kept him around Eight Bits Inc., and hired other people to work with him, people for whom Glass would certainly offer to babysit, and Ray said not one word to help other people protect their children. Now, maybe Ray didn’t really know, maybe it was just coincidence that he didn’t let his wife hire Glass to babysit Allison anymore. But maybe Ray did know, and just didn’t tell anybody because he needed Glass too much, needed Scribe 64 too much to risk losing the strange sick boy-man who had created it for him.
Dr. Weeks didn’t come to the door of her office anymore when Stevie’s hour was up. He pushed the heavy wooden door open by himself, and came out, looking—or so it seemed to DeAnne—smaller every time he did. She really is shrinking him in there, she thought. Yet Stevie never complained about going and never talked afterward about what went on. It was as if it didn’t really happen to him, or as if it was something not important enough to be discussed.
On Monday, the eighteenth of July, DeAnne got the kids home from the psychiatrist’s office and let Robbie and Elizabeth run out into the back yard to play, while she and Stevie got the mail.
She headed for the side door that led from the carport into the laundry room and then to the kitchen—it was the door they always used. But Stevie called to her. “Mom, there’s a package at the front door!”
In fact, it wasn’t a package at all. It was a manila envelope. It had been mailed, but the postman had left it at the door, probably because it had a rubber stamp on it, DO NOT BEND, and there would have been no way to get it into the mailbox without bending it. It had a Steuben postmark, but no return address, and the mailing label had been neatly typed: “Stephen & Diane Fletcher, 4404 Chinqua Penn, Steuben, N.C.”
No zip, and while they had got Stephen’s name right, DeAnne’s was wrong. Usually people either got both right or got both wrong. It probably meant it was from someone who knew Step and not her. Or from someone who wanted to peeve her and not Step! Why was someone careful enough to get it stamped DO NOT BEND and then careless enough not to include a return address?
Stevie came into the house with her, and as she opened the mail at the kitchen table she heard him start up the Atari. It bothered her that he didn’t go outside enough, even though it was summer. He was spending altogether too much time at the computer. It was probably time for her and Step to institute time limits on computer games just as they had for television. An hour a day—that wasn’t unreasonable. And then let Stevie find something else to do. Something healthier, something that would get him out in the sun. He looked downright pallid compared to Robbie and Elizabeth, who were getting quite a golden glow, with nice highlights in their hair.
Most of the mail was ordinary. She set aside the letter from the mortgage company in Indiana—it could only be bad news, and it could wait. Then she opened the anonymous manila envelope.
Inside was a 45-rpm record, and nothing else. It was by a group DeAnne was only vaguely aware of. She really didn’t follow rock music, not the way Step did. But she did enjoy watching the new videos now and then. Cable had MTV here in Steuben, the way they had in Vigor, and she left the TV tuned to that channel sometimes while she worked. She liked the “Billy Jean” video—the lighting sidewalk appealed to her. But that one where Michael Jackson became a monster had scared the children and she had stopped just leaving MTV on when the kids were up. Still, she was aware of rock music, however vaguely. She must have seen something by the Police before.
They never bought forty-fives, and so DeAnne had no idea where she could find one of those little plastic doodads you had to put in the middle of them to play them on the stereo. It had to be somewhere near the stereo. They certainly wouldn’t have thrown it away—throwing things away was not their problem.
There was a knock at the back door, the one that led from the family room into the back yard. It was Robbie. “Can we have the sprinkler?”
“OK,” said DeAnne. “Come on in, both of you, and get into your swimsuits.”
&nb
sp; Elizabeth trooped in after Robbie with an exaggerated lope. Giant steps. “Pink-er, pink-er, pink-er,” she chanted. It took a moment to realize that Elizabeth was saying “sprinkler.” Why it had become a chant, and what it had to do with taking great galumphing steps through the family room, DeAnne could not begin to guess. It was the great mystery of childhood—what they thought they were doing when they did such weird things.
Of course, that was also the great mystery of adulthood.
Then DeAnne glanced down at the stereo and saw immediately what she had missed before: the 45-rpm adapter was built into the turntable.
She got the record from the kitchen table and slipped it onto the adapter and turned on the stereo and set the needle on the record. It sounded like big dumb lummoxes singing lumberjack songs. She lifted the needle, changed the speed to 45, and set the needle down again. Now it was a rock song.
It was a strange kind of love song. No matter what the woman did, the man would be there watching her. It didn’t sound like he loved her, either. Or even liked her. It talked about her faking smiles, staking claims, breaking promises. And the rhyming was relentless. “Every cake you bake,” she thought, and almost laughed. “Every child you wake. Every thirst you slake. Every duck and drake. Every well-done steak.” Amazing the number of words in English that rhymed with take. The songwriter had barely scratched the surface.
Then it didn’t seem funny anymore. Because somebody had sent that record to them anonymously. Why would they do that? They wanted to send a message. And what was the message? That no matter what they did, somebody would be watching.
She went around the house, checking the locks on all the doors. In the meantime the record had ended. She came back into the family room and started it over. After just a few notes of the song, she lifted the needle and turned off the stereo. Step would play it tonight, and that would be plenty.
Lost Boys: A Novel Page 33
