Web of Angels

by Lilian Nattel

  Lester smiled at her. “Okay, sweetheart. You’re next. Let’s play school.” He put out two chairs for Ally and her next older brother. Ted was nine, skinny like her. He had marks on his back from a hanger. So did their bigger brother, Gary, even though he was not skinny. One of them answered the door without permission to a lady selling makeup in a pink suitcase and they both got it. Ted was a good runner but not such a good speller. He wouldn’t be very good at playing school. He was biting his lip. They had to sit with their backs to Lester and their legs around the chairs, facing the bed and the picture of the clown holding balloons. Teddy’s shoulder was touching hers. Click. Movie lamps went on. The light was hot and hurty and she squinted her eyes.

  Lester had a long thin stick. He said to Teddy, “Spell ‘Antarctica.’ ”

  It was a big word. Ally kept her fingers crossed.

  “A-n-a-r-t-i-k-a,” Teddy tried.

  “Wrong,” Lester said and Teddy had to turn around and face Lester to be hit with the long thin stick. The stick whistled. Then it whacked. His shoulder jerked. She could feel it every time, jerking against her.

  The only words she knew how to spell were “cat” and “bed” and she couldn’t stop her legs from shaking.

  “Spell ‘cat,’ ” Lester said.

  She nearly peed she was so happy. “C-a-t,” she said.

  “Good girl,” Lester said. He had red hair, too. He liked her. She was good. “Turn around. Show me how good you can be.”

  Ted’s face was mad. She got such an easy word. But he didn’t have to be mad about it because he got to be assistant teacher and whack her all over even though she kept saying “c-a-t” and again, “c-a-t,” the stick biting her ribs and her chest and her legs until something exploded through the drugs in the Kool-Aid. She kicked and she screamed. Lester picked her up and threw her onto the bed. The body was wetting so it wouldn’t get torn inside but she wiggled and yelled while he put the leather straps around her wrists and ankles, biting right through the wart on his hand, only that wasn’t her anymore.

  “Alyssa! Obey!” The father got up from his chair. When he got up, he knocked glasses off the table. Crash. The mad in his head was very very mad.

  So Ally went away inside, as deep as she could go, leaving Lyssa on the bed to scream and try to bite the man again as he turned her over, yanked her head back by the hair. It had to be someone else who cried. Lyssa wanted to kill them. She wanted to throw a bomb on them. Then she’d run so fast nobody would ever catch her. Afterward they played a game, the silly men. That’s what her mother called them. The silly men put a brown cigarette in her bottom, the filter end pressed between the cheeks, to see if it smoked when they lit the top. The silly men laughed.

  Then everybody else got dressed and went home, except for her because she had to learn her lesson in the darkness. She was cold. Her throat hurt. She heard a distant train whistle and she thought it was an angel coming to save her. She waited for a long time, shivering. Click. The door unlocked. It was the angel. She came! The sudden light made her squeeze her eyes shut. When she opened her eyes, she saw that the sheet wasn’t white anymore.

  Mother was wearing a hairnet over her curlers and a flowered housedress and Lyssa thought of ginger ale glasses with flowers. She was so thirsty. She’d have put up her bum if she could just get a drink. So she said, “Can I have some ginger ale?”

  Mother said, “Can you? Yes. May you? No. You didn’t earn it.” She put her hand down there inside Lyssa and then she pinched her face with wet fingers. “A pig in its own filth. Who is ever going to want a little whore like you? Russell!” She called upstairs, “Russell! Bring down the budgie, will you?”

  Dan knocked on the bathroom door. “Hon? Are you okay? You’ve been in there a while.”

  “The toilet’s blocked.”

  “Let me in,” Dan called through the door. “I’ll fix it.”

  “No. It stinks in here.” Lyssa grimaced as another cramp went through her.

  “I can deal with stink. Remember when the kids all had the stomach flu at the same time?” He tapped on the door.

  “Just a sec.” Okay she could breathe again. She just couldn’t stand up. “I don’t have the flu. You can go to bed.”

  Her voice sounded fine she thought. But Dan was rattling the knob, twisting it back and forth until the silly little lock gave, pushing the door open. “Pew. It does stink. God, you look awful.”

  “Gee thanks.”

  Dan stepped over her, turned on the taps in the bathtub. “Come on. I’ll help you in.”

  “Wait.” Somehow she got herself off the floor and on the toilet. Splat. Wipe. Not looking at Dan as she got into the tub, splashing the hot water over her belly. “I flushed three times. I think there’s something wrong with the floatie thing.” She leaned back, the hot water starting to untangle her knotted belly.

  “You can just relax now. I’ll deal with this,” he said. Splunch. Splunch. Splunch. Flush. Toilets were a man’s business. Garbage and toilets and taking care of his family.

  “Great.” Her voice low, eyes on her knobby knees sticking up out of the water. She hated her knees. At least the tub was big and deep, an old claw-footed tub, and when it was full her knees would be covered.

  “We need to call social services about Cathy’s family. They might have questions you could answer better, but I’ll do it if you’d rather.”

  “You don’t have to,” she said.

  He bent his head to inspect the inside of the tank. “I don’t know how I’m going to deal with clients that Rick’s associated with.” He attacked the toilet with renewed determination. Press, lift. Press, lift. Get the water in the bowl moving down faster than the fresh water coming in. “I wanted to beat the crap out of him. I hated having to be civil. Is that what made you so sick?”

  “Partly.”

  He flushed the toilet, studying the water as it poured in from the tank, the level in the bowl rising, plunger at the ready. “What else?” He turned to look at her.

  “That and seeing the picture on the computer.”

  “It was hard to take,” he said.

  “I know.” Her shame deepened, and she dismissed everything he’d said to her earlier in the evening. If he couldn’t take one picture, how could he accept her? Soaping her arms and her chest, her neck, she washed off the night, rubbing hard with a loofah, washing away herself.

  “I should be able to do more,” he said. Balancing the plunger over one of the sinks, he poured bleach over it, his back to her so all she could see of his frustration was the hunched shoulders, a flushed neck. Then he turned to face her, anguished, holding the plunger as if he intended to make all the shit in the world go down into the bowels of the earth. “I can’t do anything about Cathy, and I can’t change what happened to you as a kid. But I’m here for you now.”

  “You don’t even know me. Not really. Not me,” she said, turning her eyes back to her ugly knees. Her mother was right. Who could want someone like her? She could hardly stand to be in her own skin right now.

  “You’re wrong about that.”

  “It’s okay. It’s better if you don’t,” she said.

  Her voice was barely audible, but he heard. “Do you know how many people love you?” he asked. “There’s me, the kids, Eleanor, Bram, my parents.” He put the plunger in the corner beside the toilet. “Here, let me wash your back.”

  “I can use the back brush.”

  “This is better.” Taking a clean washcloth from the vanity, he kneeled beside the tub. The washcloth was pale blue with a blue butterfly and satin piping along the edge.

  “That’s Nina’s,” she said, so he would know. So that he wouldn’t dirty it with her skin.

  “You think I don’t know you?” He rubbed soap on the washcloth until it foamed up, soft and white. “You’re strong,” he said. “I can barely keep up with you when you’re running. I feel like an idiot compared to you when we’re dancing, but I’m willing to feel like an idiot so I can be with
you dancing.”

  She leaned forward as he washed her back, neither slow nor fast, neither soft nor hard, one hand on her shoulder as if he still liked the feel of her, the other hand moving the washcloth in circles. And he talked. About how much fun it would be dancing at Hammond House. She looked great in jeans and that lacy thing she’d put on. Wasn’t she wearing something like that when they first met?

  “I had an army surplus jacket. It was cheap.”

  “I don’t think I was paying attention to any jacket when you skated into me. That wasn’t Sharon, was it? You were the one skating. And when we had cocoa at Magee’s, you took off the jacket,” he said. “I noticed that.”

  Of course he did. That was what she was for. But he kept talking until she told him about the sky above the railroad tracks, and the wildflowers that were tiny and perfect and the rabbit that had surprised her on the path, and how she wished that one day she might see the northern lights. He rinsed her back. He kissed her shoulder as if it was a privilege. He held out a towel as she stepped out of the tub, wrapping it around her. Then she followed him up to bed and she knew that they would make love another day when she said so. He fell asleep holding her hand, and his touch kept her from spinning off into the endless dark matter that fills the universe.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-FIVE

  It rained again on Saturday. In the morning, while everyone was downstairs eating breakfast, Alec got the car keys off the dressing table and the phone from the nightstand. Sitting on the bed, his elbow knocking into a bunch of cushions, he looked up the number at the front of the phone book.

  A woman’s voice answered. “Child abuse hotline. How can I help you?”

  “What do you need to know to get a kid out of her house?”

  A pause. “Can you give me your name?”

  “No.”

  “I see.” Another pause. “I’m asking because we sometimes get calls from people with malicious intent, and every call is investigated.”

  “Good. This kid needs help.”

  “What is your relationship with her?”

  “Yeah. Okay. She’s my son’s girlfriend. She just told me that she’s being abused.”

  “In what way?”

  “Sexually. Maybe more.”

  “Did you see any bruises or other injuries?”

  “Her hand has a scar. She said from the stove. I don’t know if it’s from the abuse. She might’ve done it herself.”

  Clicking sounds. The person at the other end of the line on the keyboard. “Who is the perpetrator?”

  “Father is still messing with her.”

  “Can you give me her name and the school she attends?”

  “What’ll you do?”

  “The procedure is that a social worker and a police officer go to the child’s school. They’ll question her there. If she discloses we can remove her immediately. After that we visit the parents.”

  “What if she won’t say anything?”

  “Then we’ll still talk to mom and dad. But in all honesty, without disclosure it’s unlikely anything more will happen. The perpetrator almost always denies it and the non-offending parent usually supports him.”

  “Her mom hurt her, too.”

  “I see.” Silence. “Her name and school, please?”

  “If you just show up, she’ll be scared.”

  “The social worker and police are trained to talk to abused kids. They realize she’s scared.”

  “Do you know anything about DID?”

  “A little.” Probably The Three Faces of Eve or something like that. Where alters were so obviously different they might as well be wearing signs. Like yeah.

  “This girl is multiple. I’ve seen her switch. It’s hard to tell when you don’t know what to look for.”

  “If she tells us that she’s being abused, we’ll get her to a safe place right away.”

  “But if she’s scared, the one who is forward won’t know anything to tell. Are you guys trained for that? The kid’ll be in worse trouble unless you can get her out of there. The cops talking to her parents will make them hit the roof. I don’t want her getting more hurt. She took a chance on telling me. If we can’t help, she’ll never trust us again. It’ll be game over.”

  “I’m sorry.” The voice was gentler. “I had a case like this recently. I knew the child was being abused but the child was too frightened to disclose. It’s frustrating.”

  “There’s a damn baby in that house. The girl is sleeping in the baby’s room, trying to protect her, but she’s just a kid herself. There’s got to be something you can do.”

  “If there’s no physical evidence of abuse and the child doesn’t disclose, then we have no authority to do anything more.”

  “Look here. She was using my son’s computer and I caught her looking at a porn site. There was a picture of her sister when she was like five or something. What if I give you the URL?”

  “We aren’t allowed to look at it. Not even the regular police are allowed. I can give you the phone number of the Child Exploitation Unit.”

  “Okay. Let me grab a pen.” He wrote down the number and said goodbye, pressing the off button. He sat there for a few minutes, holding the phone in his hand, thinking. Then he put it back in its cradle and went out to the car.

  Rain gushed from the sky, overflowing gutters, creating puddles and ponds. Alec drove through storm-darkened streets, splashing pedestrians who stepped back too late and gave him dirty looks. Thunder boomed and street lamps went on. He stopped the car at the condemned cottage that had once belonged to an escaped slave. Across the street crocuses were getting beaten down by rain as he watched Cathy’s house. A balcony on the second floor, with a black railing and a door. That would open into Cathy’s room. Her mother had office hours on Saturday morning. She would be there now, examining children for illnesses and injuries and insufficient growth. But her father could be at home. The main floor was dark, so he wasn’t eating or watching TV in the den. The third floor was dark—he wasn’t in their bedroom. The basement light went on.

  Alec decided. He’d just sit here in the car and wait for her to come out. Call her over. Lock the car and drive her home. And then what? Her parents would come and get her, with a police officer if need be. Alec sat in the car, hands gripping the steering wheel as the third floor light went on. The top of the house was lit, with its office full of computers hooked together and into the Internet with high speed cables. And there at the bottom of the house, underground, anything could be going on.

  So this was it. Same as usual. Nobody could do anything. He stared at the house with hatred. It licked at the edge of his steadiness, a hot tickle in his belly. His steadiness was mere paper. How easily it caught fire, curling black, flaking away. There was plenty of kindling for this fire. It burned high and the heat felt good. Be real, people said. What can you do? He was supposed to turn around, drive home like he didn’t know shit. Except that he did. And he wasn’t helpless. That was a fact. His hands were skilled.

  His father had made sure of that and his mother made sure his father taught him well and true. Russell! Bring down the budgie, will you?

  She wore a housedress, pink hairnet over her curlers. When the father came down the stairs with the red wire cage, she sneered at him.

  You can’t make that child listen at five years old. What next?

  Father sucked in his lips and blew out. I’ll take care of it, he said.

  You do that. I’m sure I don’t want to wear the pants.

  The budgie flapped its wings like it wanted to fly somewhere. Banging against the bars. The dad yelled and snapped his belt. Spread them wider, he said. Alec’s hands were on the bed. Feet on the floor. Somebody better stop being a smart aleck and start listening to me, the dad said. You are going to get rid of that bird, aren’t you?

  No, he said. The carpet was rough under his feet. It stank. No I’m not.

  Whack.

  You are going to obey me. Snap.

  S
not running down Alec’s face. Something trickling down his leg. Blood, pee. One foot coming off the floor, shaking. The dad put the belt back on his trousers. Betty, he said, I need the baby.

  Alec was leaning against the bed, praying to God. Not the baby. Don’t hurt the baby. Mom going up the stairs, and coming down again, holding Pauline, who didn’t cry even though she was so little. Not even big enough to walk. Dad lifting the knife. The big kitchen knife that Mom used for chopping meat. No, Daddy! I’ll do it. Stop, please, please.

  Alec took the bird out of the cage. It was pecking at his fingers, its wings banging, heart beating so fast you couldn’t count the beats. It made a sound—chhh chhh. He kept pushing on its neck and it wouldn’t die. He got so mad at the birdie for biting his fingers. It was a bad birdie. So he turned it upside down and pulled on the neck like it was a chicken. Twisted. Threw it back in the cage. But he didn’t cry. He was no crybaby.

  Alec gripped the steering wheel, windshield wipers sweeping from side to side, clearing rain. Ingrid’s handgun was more convenient than the rifle. It could be slipped into the back of his pants, under his shirt. Nobody would know it was there as he rang the doorbell, standing on that porch, whistling until the door was opened. One thing he didn’t want to do was miss. At point blank range he couldn’t. But after the first shot someone would come running and what happened next was unpredictable. He might have to shoot from a distance and he couldn’t be certain of his accuracy with the Beretta. He should’ve tried it that day at the shooting range. No, it would have to be the rifle. He could call and say he needed to borrow it. Ingrid would trust him. He was pretty sure. He could feel it in his hands, the weight of it, the coolness of stock against his cheek. The way it would recoil against his shoulder after he aimed it at the people who hurt children. Surely any god in heaven would forgive him this.