“Because you look like a clown,” he answered, knowing it would silence her.
“Ha ha ha,” she said sarcastically. “I suppose you know what makes a girl look good?”
“I know what doesn’t,” Henry said pointedly. He started back toward the kitchen, not wanting to have another fight with his sister.
“How’s Mom?” his sister asked, suddenly subdued.
“Upset. Don’t make it worse, okay? She’ll just drink more if you do.” He has kept his voice down, but he had the uneasy feeling that he had been overheard.
“So you think I’m going to cause trouble?” she challenged.
“I hope not.” As he went back into the kitchen, he saw his mother top off her glass with more vodka. “Aw, Mom.”
“I won’t have any more after this glass,” she said, sounding resentful, which Henry knew meant she was getting drunk.
“Do you have to?”
“You bet I do,” she answered him sullenly. “If you knew what I go through.”
Henry had heard all her complaints before, but he held his tongue. “What about the string beans?”
“In the blue bowl,” she said, pointing in the general direction of the sink counter. “Put some butter on them before you take them to the table.”
Henry did as he was told. The exhilaration of the rats he had eaten was beginning to fade, the strength leached out of him by the deadly sorrow and anger that filled him and his mother. He watched the butter run over the string beans and tried to conjure up an appetite for the meal without success. He pointed to the skillet of Hamburger Helper, saying, “It’s starting to scorch.”
“I’ll take care of it.” She removed the skillet from its burner, muttering as she did, “If your father would pay his child support on time, we wouldn’t have to eat crap like this.”
“It’s okay,” said Henry, knowing it wasn’t.
The dining room light had only one bulb burning, but it was enough to illuminate the table. As his sister and mother took their seats, Henry did his best to look hungry. He sat down last of all. “Smells good, Mom,” he said with false enthusiasm.
“It smells burnt,” said his sister.
“Margaret Lynne,” their mother warned her.
“Well, it does,” said Margaret Lynne.
“I’ve had a hard day,” said their mother patiently. “Can we at least eat in peace?”
“Okay,” said Margaret Lynne in a tone that made it clear it wasn’t. “Sure. Anything you say.”
“Okay,” said their mother, and put some salad on her plate, then reached for the string beans. “I hope you’re not planning on going out tonight. It’s a school night, and you know you need to study more than you do.”
“Mo-ther,” said Margaret Lynne. “I’m only going for an hour or two. And it’s not like I’m doing anything wrong. I told Melanie that I’d help her with her geometry.”
“Dressed like that?” Their mother was not convinced. “If your father saw you like that, he’d—”
“Well, he can’t see me, can he?” Margaret Lynne asked defiantly. “He hasn’t seen me for five months now. He doesn’t give a shit about what I do!” She flung down her napkin as if it were a gauntlet.
“Margaret Lynne!” their mother exclaimed. “You will not use such language at the dinner table!”
“Why not?” Margaret Lynne flung back, her eyes beginning to fill with tears of rage. She pushed her chair back and rushed out of the dining room, heading for the door. “I’ll be back later!”
Their mother sat still for a long while, then drank the last of the vodka in her glass. “I don’t know what to do with that girl.”
Henry put his fork down. “Mom. I’m not very hungry.” He sounded apologetic, but he was secretly relieved: he didn’t have to invent a reason for not eating. “I’ll be down in the basement, if you need me.” He got up slowly, not wanting to seem too eager.
“Oh, no, Henry. You don’t have to run off.” She reached out and took his hand. “I want you to eat. You need to eat.”
“Maybe later,” he said as gently as he could.
“We can’t afford to waste food in this house,” said his mother, spooning some of the Hamburger Helper onto her plate. “Remember that, Henry.”
“I will, Mom,” he assured her. “I’ll nuke something a little later. Just put the leftovers in the fridge.”
“Okay,” she said, accepting defeat for the moment.
Henry smiled, knowing what good bait the Hamburger Helper could make. He went back into the kitchen, his plate in his hand, and put it on the edge of the sink for later. Then he headed down for the basement, planning to set some more traps.
* * *
Two weeks later, Henry caught a squirrel, and the charge he got out of eating it was way beyond what he had hoped for. It was much, much better than the rats had been! He thought it was delicious—and entirely superior to bugs and spiders. He relished every morsel of it, and vowed to catch more of them as soon as possible. But he also realized he had taken a terrible risk, hunkering down in the city park behind a thicket of rhododendron. Someone might have seen him, and that wouldn’t do at all. They’d probably make him stop eating the things that gave him life. No telling what Mom would think, working with the nuts at the clinic. She might even think he was a bit crazy himself. He had to be careful: he didn’t want to get caught. People wouldn’t understand, he knew that. So he hid a trap deep in a clump of hawthorn bushes in the Veterans’ Park, and hoped it would snare another squirrel for him; he’d check it on the way home from school.
Halfway home he came upon his sister and a group of her friends gathered around a four-year-old red Mustang convertible. Three senior boys lounged in the car, enjoying the obvious admiration Margaret Lynne was displaying as she leaned provocatively on the hood of the car, her boobs almost falling out of her skimpy tank-top.
“Hey, Margo, isn’t that your creepy little brother?” the owner of the Mustang asked, grinning at the way Margaret Lynne reacted.
“Yeah,” she said, sounding disgusted. “That’s Henry.” She made a gesture to him to go away. “He’s always trying to horn in where he doesn’t belong.”
“Hi, Margaret Lynne,” Henry said, as if he hadn’t heard any of the slighting, hurtful things she said.
“Margaret Lynne?” the Mustang owner echoed in delicious ridicule. “Does he always call you Margaret Lynne?”
“Yeah,” she admitted as if confessing to a major lapse. She began to pout.
“And you let him?” the boy hooted.
“I know, I know,” Margaret Lynne said, trying to recover some of the ground she had lost. “But Mom insists.”
“So, Margaret Lynne,” the Mustang owner exclaimed, “you’re only Margo at school.”
“And other places,” she said, beginning to pout.
“Hey, good for you.” His false praise stung Henry as much as it chagrined his sister.
“Shut up, Craig,” Margaret Lynne told him. She shoved herself off his car and stood with her back to him. “Just shut up.”
Watching all this, Henry felt his new-found strength slipping away. He ducked his head in anticipation of the blow he knew would be coming, but he didn’t step back—that would be too humiliating, and it would leave Margaret Lynne without anyone to champion her. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets and stared at her, trying to keep his mouth shut without seeming to be too much of a fool.
“Hey, Margaret Lynne,” Craig called out derisively. “Better keep an eye on that brother of yours. Who knows what he could say to someone who cares.” He started his Mustang and drove off in triumph.
“You little bastard!” Margaret Lynne shouted, rounding on Henry. “You screwed all this up for me. I hope you die!”
“I didn’t mean—” Henry said, trying to
placate her.
“Sure you did!” She lifted her hand and brought it down on his shoulder with more impact than he had anticipated. It took him aback and he tried to maintain a stoic disposition while she continued to rail at him. “You wanted me to look like a slut, didn’t you? You like to make me look bad. You did this on purpose!” She swatted him again.
“I don’t!” Henry protested. He started walking toward home, feeling completely dispirited. He wished he had another squirrel to eat, to bring back his vigor and restore his sense of dominion in the world.
“Yes, you do. You just did. Craig will tell everyone about my name, and everyone’ll laugh. This is just impossible! I can’t stand it!” She had started to cry, her wrath increasing with her tears; she was working herself up to a fine tantrum. “You just couldn’t shut up, could you? Oh, no! Not you. You had to keep talking. I asked you not to, but you didn’t listen!” Her weeping increased. “You’re turning my life to shit, and you like it!”
“No, I don’t,” Henry insisted, “really, I don’t.”
“Of course you do,” scoffed Margaret Lynne. “You’re a turd, Henry. Just a turd. And it’s Margo! Not Margaret Lynne!” She tossed her head and hurried ahead of him, doggedly ignoring him as he tagged after her.
* * *
Mother took her time getting up, emerging from bed ten minutes before Henry had to leave for school. She put her hand to her head. “God. I shouldn’t have drunk so much last night,” she mumbled as she headed down the narrow hall to the bathroom where Henry was finishing brushing his teeth. “Can you hurry it up, Henry?” She was feeling woozy now and she didn’t want to throw up on the hall carpet.
A single glance told Henry his mother was in rocky condition, so he said, “Sure. You bet.” He spat into the sink and gave his mouth a quick rinse, then left the bathroom to her. “I’ll be on my way to school in a couple of minutes.” He went toward his room, wondering if he had time to check his traps in the basement before he had to go.
“Good. Great.” She closed the bathroom door, saying, “Make sure your sister’s up.”
“Okay,” said Henry, who knew Margaret Lynne hadn’t been home all night. “See you this evening, Mom,” he called out as he went to the kitchen and pretended to make himself a bag lunch. As he left the apartment he heard his mother start the shower. It was going to be a long day.
School was eleven blocks away, but he could cut that short by taking the walk through the city park; it took up two blocks and was in need of upkeep, which suited Henry just fine. He moved steadily along and was almost out of the main cluster of trees and shrubbery when he heard a little sound, hardly more than a whisper, from the bushes under the Stone pines. He stopped still, listening with all his senses, his thoughts keen as the high, tiny sounds that he struggled to identify. Succumbing to his curiosity, Henry left the walkway and ducked under the branches, hoping against hope that he would discover something worthwhile, and trying not to be seen as he sought out the source of the noise.
It was a baby jay, not much bigger than the egg it had hatched from not very long ago. It was trying to lever itself upright on its toothpick legs, but could not coordinate its effort enough to do more than flop about clumsily, its beak open in obvious hunger.
Henry knelt down beside it and gently took it into his hands, all but mesmerized by the tiny bundle of pinfeathers and need. He brought the little jay up to his face. “Can’t let you lie on the ground. Something’ll get you there.” He smoothed the outsized head and made soft cawing noises, reassuring the baby bird before he broke its neck and reached for his pocketknife to flay and gut the tiny creature. He forgot about school, about his mom at home, about everything, as he took the new, sweet life into him.
* * *
“I want to go live with Dad,” Margaret Lynne announced at dinner that evening. She and their mother had had a dreadful argument when mother got home from work, followed by sullen silences and put-upon sighs from both combatants. Henry had listened to it all from the safety of the basement, but now he could not escape the tension that filled the cramped house like summer lightning.
“If your father agrees, then you might as well. Maybe he can do something with you.”
“Well, I’ll call him tonight,” Margaret Lynne said, a bit nonplused to have her mother concede so readily to her demands. “But I mean it, Mom—I’m going to live with him.”
“If he agrees, it’s fine with me,” she reiterated, sounding worn out.
Margaret Lynne grinned. “Do you want to come with me, Henry?”
But Henry had no wish to get dragged into this. “Let’s see what he says first,” he answered cautiously.
She shot him a single vitriolic sneer, then tossed her head. “I’ll talk to you in a little bit,” she promised nastily.
“Just tell him hello for me,” said Henry as he got to his feet and made an apologetic gesture. “Sorry, Mom. I don’t have much of an appetite.”
His mother studied him for about ten seconds, then said, “All right. You may be excused. Take your dishes to the kitchen and make sure you put the food into leftover containers.”
“I will,” he promised her. When he had finished in the kitchen, he headed down into the basement where he was hoping to find something in one of his traps. He really needed to get some life into him. To his disgust and alarm, he saw no mice, no rats, nor anything else waiting for him, so he sat down and began to work on a new trap. He had the thing half-assembled when he became aware of Margaret Lynne’s voice raised in pleading indignation.
“But why not? ... Da-aad ... But you promised ... You’ve got to help me! Come on, Dad ... I know it’s a long way! Sixteen hundred miles. See? I know ... I don’t care if it is. School’ll be over in a month or so ... It’ll be like vacation ... I can come then, and it won’t matter ... I’ll take the bus or have someone drive me. You won’t have to ... It’s so hard. It’s like being in prison! You know how Mom is ... But I’ve told everyone I’m going to live with you and ... Oh, God, Dad, you don’t understand!” The receiver slammed down and Henry could hear his sister crying. A few minutes later, her bedroom door thundered shut and the house fell eerily silent.
Henry knew that he had to be very careful; Mom would be upset now and that meant she would get into the vodka again; there was a full bottle in the fridge—Henry had seen it. Mom was in her room now, changing from her work clothes to the pale-blue sweats she preferred of an evening after dinner for watching TV or videos of old movies. With all this fighting with Margaret Lynne, Mom would be more depressed than ever, and Margaret Lynne—Margo—would be furious at everything for days on end.
She should have known better, Henry thought. Dad didn’t want to see them, not really. He had a new wife and three new kids and he didn’t want to be reminded of the hard years with Mom. Dad had left and that was all there was to it. He went into the kitchen and took a liter of soda from the fridge and got ready to go down to the basement. It was better to keep away from the conflicts between his sister and mother. He’d longed for something good to eat, something with life in it that would strengthen him for the next couple of days. His trap in the park had remained disappointingly empty and his appetite was sharpening with every passing hour.
“Hey, Mom!” Margaret Lynne shouted as Henry began his descent. “Mom! I’m going out!”
“Be back by nine tonight, missy. It’s a school night and your grades—” Her words were cut off as the front door slammed.
The basement was cool and dark, friendly to Henry. He found a mouse in one of his traps, and after a brief hesitation, he got out his pocketknife and began his snack, finding the little life more sustaining than he had hoped at first. When his meal was done, he sat down at his old laptop—the last gift from his father, some three years ago—and began to record his meal and response. He read back through the files, finding solace in the information he had gather
ed about all he had eaten, and realized that it still wasn’t enough. Gradually he began to think about larger meals, anticipating the thrill he would have from them, and the power that would possess him. “Almost like a super-hero,” he said aloud, and put his hand over his mouth, as if the sound of the words would compromise his potency. Carefully he turned off the laptop and sat in the dim basement, contemplating the problems of catching bigger prey.
* * *
The puppy had a bloody paw, and its coat was dirty—it was little more than two months old, clearly abandoned and beginning to fail. It whimpered with hunger, a mongrel with no promise of handsomeness or charm. Henry bent and picked it up, looking around to be sure no one saw him do it, and slipped the puppy into his jacket pocket. He had a half-formed plan to eat the pathetic little animal, but as he walked home, he could tell that the animal had little energy to offer him. He decided to stop and get some milk for the puppy, and something to eat, to fatten him up a bit; the way he was now, there wasn’t much vitality in him. He’d have to bring down his old jacket for the animal to sleep on, too, and find some way to make sure he didn’t make too much of a stink: Mom might be drunk some evenings but her nose still worked. He continued to plan as he made his way along the sidewalk, his mind only on the puppy squirming in his pocket. He wished he had more than two dollars with him, but he decided he’d manage somehow.
In the market he saw his mother—she was buying some stuff for dinner, and, of course, another bottle of vodka. He was careful to avoid her, not wanting her to find out about the puppy, so he hid out behind the onions and potatoes until he saw her leave. Then he bought a pint of milk and a small packet of dog-kibble. When he finished paying for it, he had thirty-four cents left, and he had no idea what he’d buy lunch with the next day. All the more reason to get the puppy ready to eat. It was going to be a hard few days.
Apprehensions and Other Delusions Page 4
