The Boy With Penny Eyes

by Al Sarrantonio

  "Die, Allie," he said sometime later, smiling his roguish soap opera smile up at her. She did. And the child, standing there in the dirty bedroom in the untidy house, said, "Happy."

  18

  The Mifflins arrived at two o'clock. Sharp. They climbed out of the same late-model black Chevrolet Billy had seen them in when they had come to take John away from Melinda's.

  Billy saw them from the upstairs window in his room. They came up the walk, the girl and her mother in front, the man and John behind. The front doorbell rang. Mrs. Beck's footsteps sounded in the hall and then there were words of greeting. A little while later Christine knocked once on his door, telling him curtly to come down to dinner.

  Billy went downstairs. They were already seated at the dining room table. He went to the single empty chair, between Reverend Beck and Christine. The Mifflins were at the far end, John and Martha sandwiched between their parents.

  As Billy sat down, Richard Mifflin said, "This must be the young man I've heard so much about."

  He smiled, but there were hard lines around his eyes. He glanced at John before turning his attention back to Jacob Beck. "I want to thank you again for asking us over, Reverend."

  Beck nodded pleasantly. "I figured if you wanted to talk, we might as well do it with full stomachs."

  At first it was another quiet meal. The adults exchanged small talk, but the children were, for the most part, silent. John sat looking down sullenly at his plate, occasionally trading glances with Christine, who made sure she was busy helping her mother in the kitchen as much as possible. Only Martha Mifflin showed any willingness to participate, insinuating herself into the conversation whenever possible.

  "I did a school report on the stock market last week, didn't I?" she said brightly when the talk at the table turned to financial matters. She faced her mother, who smiled obligingly, and Jacob Beck felt compelled out of politeness to say, "That's very nice, Martha. Did you learn a lot about Wall Street?"

  "I got an A," she boasted, not offering any further information. Her eyes were large and very dark, and she had a pouting mouth. Her hair looked as though it had been artificially curled and colored a dark honey-blond.

  "I try to encourage my kids to look into a lot of things," Richard Mifflin said proudly. He put his hand on John's head, ruffling his hair. "This fellow here is going to play basketball next year."

  John continued looking down at his plate.

  "I'm going to be a cheerleader when I go to high school," Martha bragged.

  Annoyed at the girl's manner, which was beginning to give him a headache, Jacob Beck changed the subject. "Wasn't it terrible about that woman on Market Street hanging herself the other day?" he said, offering the first thing that came into his head, instantly realizing the mistake he had made.

  "I thought it was just terrible," Janet Mifflin said immediately. At the hint of gossip she brightened.

  Her husband smiled slyly at her. "You just like the fact that the woman turned your committee work down last year."

  "Well it was terrible," Janet Mifflin said. "The way they found her and all." She glanced around the table, avoiding the children's eyes, trying to talk over them. "You know what I mean," she said, making a motion at the front of her dress as if she was taking her blouse off.

  "Yes, it was terrible," Mary Beck said, her eyes on Billy.

  "Julie Matheson swears she was having an . . . affair," Janet Mifflin went on, even the disapproving look from her husband failing to stop her now. "She thinks it was that man Allie Kramer's husband used to go fishing with. From Kipperton. They stopped going fishing together last summer, after they had a fight. Julie says the fight was over Allie."

  Richard Mifflin said, "I think, with the children here, we should—"

  "Well, it's true," his wife countered.

  "It's not true. You don't know it is. From what I heard, Ralph Kramer and his Kipperton friend had a fight over a bank loan. And besides," he continued, caught up in the mild argument with his wife, "supposedly she killed herself because of all the credit she'd run up. Ralph found out about it and he was going to kick her out."

  "Credit?" Janet Mifflin snorted. "She hanged herself in the bedroom, over the bed, naked, over credit?"

  "I think . . ." Jacob Beck began, as Richard Mifflin turned to him.

  "I'm sorry, Reverend," he said, a trace of anger still evident in his voice.

  "There have been three suicides in this town in the past month," Janet Mifflin said, refusing to give up. "First that fag . . ." She hesitated, blushing. "Excuse me, that art teacher at the school, then that milkman who jumped from the Harris Building downtown, now Allie Kramer." She gazed around the table conspiratorially. "Isn't that strange?"

  "Well, actually it is," Jacob Beck said carefully. "Suicide is a terrible thing. And sometimes it comes in waves. Around the holidays and such."

  Mary Beck got up and went into the kitchen.

  "That may be true," Richard Mifflin said, but this—"

  "I heard in school that Mr. Monk liked to touch little boys," Martha said mischievously.

  Janet Mifflin's eyes widened. "The art teacher? Who told you that, Martha?"

  "Well . . ." she said noncommittally.

  "I've never heard anything so disgusting in my life," Janet Mifflin said indignantly. "To think that no one checked into rumors like that. To think they had a man like that working with children!"

  "It was probably just gossip," her husband said, sensing a chance to resume their argument.

  "But to think"—she pointed at John, who quickly looked away—"that our boy might have been exposed to—“

  "Now Janet—" Richard Mifflin interjected.

  "Ah, dessert!" Jacob Beck announced. He indicated his wife, who stood grimly in the entranceway to the dining room with a huge platter of brownies. Beck took them from her and set them down near the Mifflin end of the table. In a moment the Mifflins were busy with them, and, as Jacob Beck had hoped, the conversation turned to more mundane things.

  "I have to admit," Janet Mifflin effused, that having children is wonderful." She paused to put another brownie on her plate. "Especially"—she patted her stomach, making a face—"when you don't have to go through that nine-month business every time."

  Beck noticed that the wine decanter, which had made its way down to the Mifflin end of the table near the beginning of the meal and had stayed there, next to Janet Mifflin, was now nearly empty.

  "Janet . . ." Richard Mifflin warned.

  "I'm just joking," she said waving her hand at him. "My little Martha is wonderful, but that pain—" She broke off, shivering. She paused to empty her glass. "And then you go through all that work, and they bring you the little baby, and it doesn't even look human at all. It looks like"—she gestured with her glass—"I don't know, a Martian or something. All shriveled up, with those little eyes." She shivered again.

  "That's quite enough," Richard Mifflin said.

  "I'm only joking, dear," his wife replied mildly. She looked lovingly at her two children. "I only meant to say thank God for adoption. It makes everything so much easier. And anyway, after you get past all that birth business, kids aren't the big problem they're supposed to be."

  Jacob Beck said, smiling, "It's not all roses. I remember Christine filling the bathtub with Jell-O when she was three. It took Mary two days to get it out." He looked at his wife, who only managed a distracted smile.

  "I once did that," Martha Mifflin interjected.

  "No you did not!" her mother said with a gasp as she set the now empty wine decanter on the table.

  "Yes. When you were away. I did it to Mrs. Breckenridge, the housekeeper."

  Janet Mifflin put her hand to her chest. "My little Martha did that? It must have been that Breckenridge woman's fault. We were always having trouble with her. I remember—"

  "Richard," Jacob Beck said brightly, "what do you think of the football season so far?"

  "I don't quite know." Mifflin frowned, and Beck reme
mbered that Mifflin was a basketball fan and didn't follow football.

  There was a lull in the conversation. The afternoon hung around them. Even Janet Mifflin was silent, rolling her empty wineglass between her fingers. Beck was about to say something when Martha Mifflin blurted out, "Billy left the school yard Friday, at lunchtime."

  "Really?" Jacob Beck said, realizing as he spoke that it was an impolite thing to say, an extension of the fact that he had been about to speak and hadn't been able to hold his tongue. Everyone had unconsciously turned toward Billy.

  "Is that true?" Mary asked the boy quickly.

  "I really don't think this is the time—" Jacob began.

  "I bet he went to do something bad," Martha continued smugly.

  "Answer me," Mary persisted, suppressed anger in her voice. "Did you leave the school yard on Friday?"

  Billy pushed back his chair and stood. He walked from the room.

  "Come back here!" Mary Beck exclaimed hysterically, but Jacob held up his hand and said, "Let him go."

  "Well I saw him," Martha Mifflin said.

  "Would anyone like more coffee?" Jacob Beck offered, a little too loudly.

  The room was dark when Beck opened the door. A reflection of light from the hallway showed Billy in his chair, facing the window. A chill went through Jacob. He ignored it and closed the door behind him, leaving it open a crack to let a line of illumination into the room.

  He sat on the bed and said softly, "I want to talk to you."

  Billy didn't turn toward him, and again a chill wanted to take over Reverend Beck, but he pushed it away.

  Silence stretched in the darkness. Beck said, "Billy, I had a talk with John's father. He says that you and John were at the same adoption home and that this woman Melinda took care of both of you. He says that John is very upset that you're here. John thinks you're bothering him for some reason."

  Billy stared into the darkness.

  Beck gripped the boy's arm and turned him until Billy faced him. He hesitated for a moment, afraid of what he might see, but when the boy faced him, it was with his somber visage and blank, calm copper eyes.

  "Are you bothering John Mifflin?" Beck asked.

  Billy said, in a steady voice, "He came to me in the school yard and told me to stay away from him."

  "You haven't gone near him?"

  "No."

  Beck relaxed his hold on the boy's arm, realizing that he had been gripping it. "Did you have any trouble with John when you were at Melinda's house?"

  "Yes."

  "Was there a reason?"

  "No."

  "Billy, did you follow John Mifflin here?" The boy stared levelly through Jacob. "Tell me, Billy."

  Silence.

  A flash of rage passed through Beck. He wanted to take the boy by the shoulders and shake him, or bring his hand across Billy's mouth. This frightened him momentarily; he had never raised a hand to his own daughter, never mind any other child, but then he realized that the source of his anger was the same as that which had made him smash his fist against the pew in the chapel that Saturday night. It was emotional impotence. He wanted badly to reach Billy, but the boy would not let him.

  The moment of anger passed.

  "Listen to me," Beck said gently. "John's father told me about Melinda, where the house was and who to locate about her records. I want you to know that I have to look into this. Since you won't tell me, I have to find out where you're from and who, if anyone, you belong with. It's the law, Billy, and it's also the right thing to do. I want very much for you to stay here, but I have to do these things. You're sure there's nothing else you want to tell me?"

  It was as if he wasn't there; the boy was staring out into the darkness, his small back straight against the chair, his hands unmoving in his lap.

  Another wave of anger passed through Beck, but he held it in check. He put a hand on the boy's shoulder and got up. "I was going to talk about smoking cigarettes, but that can wait."

  He left the room, closing the door soundlessly behind him.

  Billy turned toward the window. And, in the darkness, his eyes turned into two deep, black wells.

  19

  Satan.

  The night was chilly. Mary Beck drew her shawl up around her shoulders. She considered going back for her jacket, but the fear that she might lose him made her tighten the shawl around her and block the cold from her mind.

  Her steps echoed thinly down the path.

  She opened the front gate slowly, because the grinding noise its old hinges made might alert him that he was being followed. She left the gate open.

  He was a block ahead of her, across the street, standing by one of the tall brick pillars at the entrance to the park. There was a lit cigarette in his hand. He brought it up to his mouth and drew deeply on it, blowing out the smoke slowly in a practiced way. A shiver went through Mary, making her draw the shawl even closer about her. Satan. The way Satan would smoke.

  He took another drag on the cigarette and then dropped it, crushing it with his sneaker. He walked into the park.

  Cautiously, Mary made her way to the park entrance and looked in. He had stopped under a lamp and stood motionless. He looked as though he was measuring the night, sniffing it, almost.

  He resumed walking.

  She kept a good distance behind him. The path wound gently, with a light every thirty feet. Soon the entrance was lost to sight. Another shiver passed through Mary.

  What if he wanted me to follow him? What if he knows I'm here?

  Satan could do that, couldn't he?

  No, even Satan could not do all things. Only God could do that. But Satan could try to trick her.

  She remembered her Aunt Stella, Uncle Henry's wife, with her Bible stories. It was this big woman with thick legs and shoes that always hurt her ("Blast it, Eleanor," she would always tell Mary's mother, "I think the Lord gave me two feet on each leg, the way mine feel!") who had finally convinced Mary that she should use her gift of reading. "Can't see why He would have given it to you if He didn't want you to use it. Just keep your head about it," she'd said with the kind of simple logic that Mary's mother, or Uncle Henry, with his constant, inscrutable head nodding and mutterings that everything, no matter how trivial or monumental, was "God's way," did not possess.

  One night Aunt Stella, with her shoes off and her bunioned, aching feet propped on a pillow set on a cane-backed chair, pulled close to the sofa, told Mary about Jesus being tempted by the devil. "Oh, Satan was a wise-tail, he was. He tried to tempt Jesus every which way he could think of. He thought that Jesus would be so hungry after fasting for forty days and nights that he could get just about anything out of Him. He says to Jesus, 'If you're God's son, turn these stones to bread.' But Jesus, He ain't fooled at all. He tells Satan that man doesn't need bread to live, only the word of God." Aunt Stella laughed, a throaty sound, like a bull-frog's. "Guess after forty days without food, Jesus was used to not eating. Anyway, then Satan tries to get Jesus to kill Himself, telling Him that if He throws Himself off a high place, angels will come to catch Him in midair. But Jesus tells him to forget it. He's not going to fall for that. Then Satan takes Him up to the highest place around, and shows Him all that there is to see, and tells Jesus that he'll give it all to Him if Jesus'll just fall down and worship him. Satan must have been weak from the heat! Heck, Jesus owned it all already! He tells Satan so, and then tells him to beat his horned tail out of there."

  Aunt Stella lifted her feet off the pillow with a grunt, and rubbed at them for a few moments. "Well, little girl," she said at last, "the thing is, you can't trust old Satan. He'll say anything, do anything, to get you to follow him. Then—wham! He's got you. Heck, if he thought he could fool Jesus Himself, think what he'd try to do to you and me! Lord, these feet hurt so!"

  Mary thought how Satan had fooled Aunt Stella.

  It was Aunt Stella who had told her to marry Jacob Beck when everyone else was set against it. With her direct manner she'd said simply, "Hec
k, any pig in his pen can see you love the man. That's God's way if anything is. Was the same way with your Uncle Henry and me—though Lord knows why I ever fell for that man." She laughed. "All he ever does anymore is mumble and stare at the sky looking for God's judgment. Wasn't like that till your momma started filling his soft head with all kinds of strange ideas. Them being brother and sister and all, must run in the family. 'Fraid your momma filled your own head with some strange thoughts, but I pray you'll get over them. Heck! Go away with this Jacob—marry him! And him being a man of the cloth, can't see how you could lose!"

  How wrong Aunt Stella had been.

  The last time Mary saw Aunt Stella she was sitting on the front porch waving goodbye with one hand, the other rubbing at her foot, the rest of the family locked tight and silent in the house. She had only heard from her once since, in the letter her aunt had written to tell her her mother had died, and to tell her in her direct way not to get any foolish ideas that her leaving had had anything to do with it. "Your momma was sad to see you go," the letter read, "but when the Lord rings your telephone, you answer, and there's not anybody else in the world has anything to do with it one way or another."

  She thought about how wrong Aunt Stella had been about that, too.

  Up ahead, the boy stopped. He stood half in, half out of a sharp cone of light from a park lamp. He reached into his black golf jacket and drew out his pack of cigarettes. He put one to his mouth and expertly lit it.

  He was still as a statue, only the glowing coal of the tip of the cigarette showing life. Again he appeared to be testing the world around him.

  He walked on, the cigarette still in his mouth.

  Mary's sense told her to turn back, but she followed until he stepped off the path suddenly and disappeared into the gloom.