Sometimes I feel like I’m back there, even though I’m all grown up and live far, far away. I’m from New York. Not the city, Long Island. A long strip of land in the Atlantic—takes three hours to drive from one end to the other, changing from urban to rural until you reach the points, Montauk and Orient. Then you fall into the ocean.
Too bad I couldn’t drive when I was eight.
Our town is too far from the city to be called a suburb and not fancy like the Hamptons. This town is blue-collar, hard-working people who provide services to the rich and famous, and a few stray farmers holding out against developers. Our house looks pretty much like every other on Maple Street. The lawn is tidy, the front porch neat, windows so polished birds fly into the glass then drop dead.
I bury them in the backyard with the other bodies.
Most Sundays Mommy and I get up early and go to church, while Daddy and my little brother stay at home. After church, Mommy makes a giganto lunch, and I help.
Not today.
Today we didn’t eat, because Mommy and Daddy had a fight. (They yell a lot.) Then Mommy had a headache, and she told me to get her pills.
Now the house is quiet, like it should be.
My teacher at church says Sunday is a day of rest, but most Sunday afternoons Mommy gives me chores: cleaning toilets, using a toothbrush to scrub between tiles, vacuuming dead flies that get caught between the windows and the screens.
Today I don’t have to do anything, because Mommy’s in the bathtub.
I climb onto the plush beige couch (our house is beige; the furniture, the walls, the carpet), rest my head on a beige cushion, and kick off my sneakers (hot pink Revs with zebra inserts—rad). Usually, I’d untie the laces, carefully remove my shoes and arrange them side-by-side on the mat by the front door, the way Mommy taught me, but now I let them tumble from my feet and land where they will.
I take a bite of sandwich, set it on my stomach.
Mommy would tell me to use a plate, call me a slob like my father.
Donnie, my little brother, comes into the living room, carrying his kitten and practically strangling it. He grins at me, displaying the gap in his front teeth. He’s still wearing pajamas, and a smudge of grape jelly stains the bright green brontosaurus on his chest.
“Is Mommy taking a nap?”
“Uh-huh.”
“She’s not in her bed.”
“In the bathroom. Don’t go in there.”
The kitten squirms in Donnie’s arms, revealing its tiny balls. I guess I should call it a him.
“What you want Santa to bring you, Sadie?”
A chainsaw, like Daddy’s.
“I don’t know.”
“I want a Cabbage Patch Birthday Kid with brown hair,” Donnie says.
“Boys don’t get dolls.”
“Why not?”
“They just don’t, dummy.”
Donnie sticks his thumb between his lips and sucks. If Mommy were around she’d tell him to take that thing out of his mouth, tell him she was gonna smear his thumb with mustard and eat it like a hotdog.
“I want a red BMX bike,” I say.
Donnie stops sucking his thumb long enough to say, “That’s really dumb.”
“Not as dumb as you.”
I grab the remote and amp up the TV’s volume, so I can hear the evil king, Zarkon, ruler of the planet Doom, vowing to destroy Voltron’s lion robots.
The kitten escapes Donnie’s stranglehold, hops onto the couch, and sniffs my turkey sandwich. I run my fingers down its back, think about snipping off its little balls. Mommy said they have to be removed, so the cat won’t spray. She said big cats squirt this stinky stuff to mark their territory. I’d like to mark my territory and make this couch off limits to Donnie. (He just wiped a glob of snot on the seat cushion.) How long does it take to drown a cat? Less time, I bet, than it would take to drown my baby brother.
“What show is this?” he asks.
“Voltron: Defender of the Universe.”
“Could we watch Sesame Street?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Chill.”
“I’m hungry.”
I hand him half of my sandwich, my eyes glued to Princess Allura.
Donnie bites into the bread, spits out the meat.
“I don’t want dead bird. I want PBJ.”
Even at age five, my brother is sensitive.
“We’re out of jelly.”
“Where’s Daddy?”
“In the basement.”
“What’s he doing?”
“How should I know?”
Daddy spends hours in the basement working on stuff he calls projects. He doesn’t like to be disturbed. The basement door is next to the kitchen, and I can see it from the couch. Closed and locked. One time Muffy followed Daddy downstairs and never came back. Muffy was our Yorkshire Terrier. Donnie and I are forbidden to enter the basement, except when Daddy makes us go down there for punishment, and we have to sit in the chair. In our house, the basement is the only door that locks.
“I’m gonna wake up Mommy,” Donnie announces.
Before I can stop him, he scrambles down the hall past the kitchen, past the door leading to the basement, the feet of his footed pajamas catching on the carpet. He stops at the bathroom door.
“Don’t go in there, Donnie.”
“Why?”
His small hand reaches for the knob.
“’Cause I said so.”
Muffin (named after Muffy) meows.
(Note: for the sake of clarity, henceforward, I’ll refer to them as Kitty Muffin and Doggie Muffy.)
I click off the TV, watch the picture fade.
“I want Mommy,” Donnie whines.
Plump tears roll down his chubby cheeks. Pretty soon, he’ll wet his pants.
I hop off the couch, crumbs from my sandwich falling on the carpet, and get to the bathroom door as Donnie shoves it open.
The woman in the bathtub doesn’t look like Mommy. She’s sort of floating and her face is bloated, greenish like the mask that big kid across the street (I think his name is Jason) wore for Halloween. Mommy’s hair is a tangled mess and her makeup is blotchy. She stinks. Bloody water overspills the tub, leaving a pinkish puddle on the tile. The bathmat is stained brownish red. I wonder when the maggots will show up. I wonder if they’re inside Mommy now, writhing, twisting, turning, as they eat their way out.
Donnie wails, his small fists digging into his eyes.
I lead him away from the tub, and we back out of the bathroom staring at what used to be Mommy, pull the door shut till the catch clicks.
Then I go to the kitchen, climb onto a stool so I can reach the wall phone’s receiver, and call 911.
Like I said, the cops called it suicide.
Female, blonde, (original hair color brown), age thirty-six, prescribed sleeping pills in bloodstream, vertical cuts on both wrists.
Dead. Dead. Dead.
My father said he knew his wife had been depressed, but he had no idea how badly. He told the cops he spent most of the day in the basement working on a project—building a cedar chest (more like a coffin, IMO) intended to be a Christmas present for Mommy. He went downstairs that morning and time got away from him, didn’t even come upstairs for lunch, ate a sandwich he kept in the basement fridge where he stores beer and soda. He invited the police to have a look.
Of course, everything appeared normal.
(He tossed a blanket over the chair.)
No severed heads mounted on the pegboard where he kept his tools, no bloody footprints leading to the back room and his private refrigerator. He undid the padlock, so the cops could check it out. No hearts stored in Tupperware—just three cases of Budweiser (minus three cans), a dozen twelve-packs of store brand diet cola, and a half a hoagie from Monty’s Deli on Main Street. (Daddy said he was sick of turkey.)
A lady police officer interviewed me and Donnie, but we didn’t say anything. We knew if we did, we’d spend
time locked in the basement, and that chair hurts your butt. (I call it the torture chair.) Daddy straps you in, so you can’t get out, puts you in a diaper, because you’re not allowed to use the bathroom, then he turns off the light.
Once I spent two days down there.
When the police left, Daddy shuts the front door and says, “Good riddance.”
I wasn’t sure what that meant (but now I understand). There are lots of people in this world I’d like to get rid of, and Daddy is one of them.
I knew that when I was eight.
There’s good Daddy and bad Daddy, and you’re never sure which one you’ll get.
Good Daddy does things like buys me and Donnie Happy Meals on afternoons when Mommy sees her sigh-a-tryst. (Mommy sighs a lot.) Once, good Daddy took me and Donnie to the circus where I got to ride an elephant. (Donnie cried, because he was too little.) Sometimes Daddy takes us to movies that Mommy doesn’t want to see like Freddy’s Dead: The Final Nightmare and Child’s Play 3: Look Who’s Stalking.
As the police drive away, Daddy locks the door and secures the chain to make sure we’re safe.
His gaze passes over Donnie, lands on me.
The eyes behind his glasses are dark, and the skin looks bruised, like somebody punched him. I think Daddy has X-ray vision, because he says, “Sadie, you want to ask me something?”
I shake my head.
“It’s okay,” he says. “You can ask me anything.”
Daddy peers down at me, his eyes meeting mine through thick lenses. A piece of silver tape is wrapped around the nosepiece. I think his glasses broke when Mommy knocked them off his face.
“Go ahead, Sadie. Ask away.”
“Did you …” my voice trembles, so does my lower lip.
“Did I what?”
“M-m-make M-Mommy dead?”
“Did I m-m-make M-Mommy dead?” Daddy tilts his head and frowns. “No, Sadie. I did not make your mommy dead. I would never hurt her. You don’t hurt your wife, the mother of your children.”
I want to believe him.
I glance at my brother for reassurance. Donnie’s thumb is plugged into his mouth, and he’s making a smacking noise, sucking so voraciously he’s bound to get a blister. The crotch of his pajamas is soaked.
Daddy follows my gaze, says, “Stop sucking that thing or I’ll chop it off.”
Donnie pulls his thumb out of his mouth, plugs it back in when Daddy turns to me.
Crouching, so he’s my height, Daddy yanks my pigtail, then he says, “How could I have hurt your mother? I was downstairs in the basement.”
“I heard you and Mommy yelling.”
He grabs my chin, forcing me to look at him.
“That’s not true.”
“You called her a bad name.”
“That’s a lie.”
He squeezes my chin, so hard his fingers press against my teeth and cut the inside of my mouth. I can’t move my jaw. Finally, Daddy releases me.
When he stands, he towers over me. I look up, past his stomach. It sags over his belt, and his shirt gaps around the dark tunnel of his belly button—I imagine a worm crawling out of it.
When you cut a worm in half, both pieces wiggle.
“You know what happens to liars, Sadie?”
My eyes fill with tears.
“Tell me what happens to girls who don’t tell the truth.”
“They get punished?”
“That’s right. Big girls don’t lie, do they?”
I shake my head.
“You’re a big girl, aren’t you?”
I want to suck my thumb, like my brother, but Daddy might cut it off.
“Big enough to call the police, right, Sadie?”
I bite my lower lip, drawing it into my mouth.
Daddy jerks his chin at my brother, and Donnie removes his thumb.
“Big girls don’t piss themselves like babies. Big girls don’t need diapers, do they?”
My eyes blink frantically, but I can’t stop my tears from falling.
“When big girls poop themselves, they don’t complain, even if they reek for days.”
Daddy seizes the collar of my tee-shirt, tugging it so hard, it digs into my throat.
I kick as he drags me to the basement, but my feet don’t reach his knees.
He shoves the door open, and—
Surprise!
Donnie’s Toys ? Us fire truck is lying on the second step, where I planted it.
Daddy’s foot skids out from under him. He lets go of my collar, and I watch him tumble down the stairway.
He makes a lot of noise, before his head hits the cement.
After that, he’s quiet.
Advice from L’il Sadie
10 Signs Someone is a Low-Life Liar
They say it takes one to know one. Guess that’s why I’ve become good at detecting when someone is a lying slime bag. Here are a few tips I’ve picked up over the years. (Too bad I didn’t know this stuff when I was a kid. I might have got away with murder.)
Note: You may also find this information useful if, like me, you’re working to improve your dissimulation skills.
You ask a question, and the liar repeats your question using your exact words, giving himself more time to concoct his story. For example, I ask Daddy: Did you make Mommy dead? He says: Did I make Mommy dead? (Thinking, thinking, thinking.) No, Sadie, I did not make your mommy dead. (Zero points for creativity, Daddy Dearest.)
Notice the use of did not instead of didn’t, giving the denial extra emphasis. That’s called non-contracted denial, another clue that he’s a lying scumbag. My rule of thumb: No contractions = Contradictions = BS.
If you confront the dirty dog with what you believe may be a lie and he starts panting heavily or his breathing gets shallow, don’t trust him as far as you can throw a stick. (Sweating doesn’t prove he’s lying. He may just be nervous or perhaps he forgot his antiperspirant.)
Liars frequently use euphemisms, filtering harsh reality through a soft focus lens. I would never hurt your mother (rather than kill); I borrowed (embezzled) the money; I think you may belong in a correctional facility, Daddy Dearest (MAY YOU ROT IN HELL, SCUM BUCKET).
Constant eye contact can be a sign of lying, especially if it’s unblinking. A person speaking the truth looks away about 60 percent of the time. Do snakes blink? Absolutely not. I recall only one instance when an honest person didn’t blink at me. His eyelids had been removed.
Liars repeat words or phrases, not because they don’t remember what they said—because they’re trying to convince you that they’re telling the truth. Or maybe he’s trying to convince himself. My advice: err on the side of caution—if someone repeats himself, unless he’s pushing eighty, chances are it’s not due to Alzheimer’s.
A liar provides too much information. Instead of getting to the point, he tells the cops about the hoagie he got from Monty’s Deli—roast beef, cheddar, onions, tomatoes, lettuce, hold the pickles, heavy on mayo and mustard. This is an attempt to appear open and honest, when anyone with half a brain can tell he’s full of it. (Not just the hoagie.)
Feet offer telltale signs of lying. A liar may shuffle his feet, exposing a desire to escape. Or his feet may point toward the door, another indication that he would like to make an exit. If you want to sniff out liars, a shoe fetish can be helpful. Personally, I prefer high- performance sneakers for accelerated lying and fast getaways.
When a person puts his hand over his mouth, yeah he could be yawning, but chances are there’s something he doesn’t want to tell you. Instinctively covering vulnerable body parts like the neck, stomach, or my personal fave, the penis, is a sure sign of lying (or possibly a need to use the men’s room), so if you want to appear truthful, expose yourself.
My number one tip to determine if a person is lying is: pay attention to your gut. You might say I’m hungry for the truth, and liars really rev my appetite. Lie to me, and you could show up on my menu. I find that’s a great deterrent.
Okay, Sadie, you may say, so I’ve determined that so-and-so is a liar … how do I secure a confession?
Good question.
I recommend torture. (For preferred methods, an excellent resource is Sadie the Sadist.)
Happy Birthday, Sadie
(1996)
Too bad the tumble down the stairs didn’t kill Daddy, just knocked him out. After he woke up, he crawled upstairs and conked out on the couch. Luckily, he didn’t remember much, so he forgot to punish me.
Since cracking his head on the cement, Daddy’s been easier to manipulate. His memory stinks. For example, you need money for a school trip, and he gives it to you twice. Or you tell him he forgot to take his blood pressure pills, and he takes them again. That happened once, and he had a seizure then passed out. Gloria (his stupid girlfriend) got suspicious. Now she premeasures Daddy’s pills into this organizer box.
What an interfering bitch.
After the seizure, Daddy stopped doing projects down in the basement. Now he uses it for storage, only goes down there to get groceries—or to drink and get away from Gloria.
Guess what?
Today is my thirteenth birthday!
Truthfully, I thought becoming a teenager would be more exciting.
Daddy told me to stay home from school (May 22, yeah, I’m Gemini), not so I can celebrate (won’t hold my breath for cake and ice cream), but because Gloria has a wild hair up her ass from watching spring cleaning ads. Thanks to Mr. Clean, she’s waging war against bacteria—lying on the couch, giving me orders. She’s almost as big a slob as Daddy and twice as lazy.
“When you’re done with the stove, get the bathrooms.”
She treats me like a robot slave.
Judgment Day is coming.
“And use Clorox, will ya?”
She means store brand bleach. Daddy is too cheap to buy name brands.
I pull my head out of the oven, feeling dizzy from oven cleaner fumes, and glance into the living room (actually, it’s a living area that opens from the kitchen). Gloria moved in a year after Mommy exited. From here, I see her feet, plump and pedicured, resting on a once beige cushion.
Wearing rubber gloves and an apron, I stalk over to the couch, stand in front of the TV, and look Gloria up and down, attempting to bitch stare her (like mean girls do to me at school).
Six Pack of Sleuths: Comedy Mysteries Page 58
