The Sixth Sense

by Peter Lerangis

No answer.

  He took off his jacket and tie, tossing them on the sofa. The dining room table had been set for one. A meal sat half finished on the plate.

  She wasn't waiting for him for dinner any­more. They always used to eat together.

  Anna, he knew, was afraid. She didn't want to go through such a trauma again. Malcolm-back-to-work meant Malcolm-leaving-himself-open-to-homicidal-maniacs. She was depressed, too, that life would be going back to the way it was: Anna returning from the antique shop at precisely the same time each night to an empty house. Or worse, Anna finding the man of her dreams absorbed in the study of the minds of children who grow up and sometimes return for vengeance.

  Anna's patience was crumbling.

  Vincent Gray had changed everything.

  Malcolm ascended the stairs and walked qui­etly into the bedroom. His wife was asleep, curled up on her side. Her reading lamp was still aglow.

  In her right hand she clutched a wad of tis­sues, still wet with tears. She looked like a mournful angel. He didn't have the heart to wake her. She was so peaceful now. She didn't deserve to be angry.

  Malcolm backed out of the bedroom. He had the urge to retire to his study, which was now in the basement.

  He slipped downstairs and tried the base­ment door. It was locked.

  She was angry, too.

  Working in the basement was not a pleasant experience. Malcolm had no shelves, his desk was crammed against the wine rack, and his stuff had been scattered helter skelter over everything.

  From a pile of old books, he pulled out his Latin dictionary. He hadn't used it since college, and a layer of dust fell away as he opened it.

  He placed his notebook beside it on the desk and read what he'd transcribed in church - Cole's phrase: De profundis clamo ad teDomine.

  Flipping through the dictionary, he trans­lated each word.

  Out of the depths, I cry to you, Lord.

  Malcolm recognized this.

  It was from the mass for the dead.

  ". . . and it's fifty-four degrees in South Philly on this cloudy Monday morning, with a chance of rain later today. In this morning's head­lines- "

  Lynn Sear switched off the radio on top of the clothes dryer. It was too late to be distracted by the news. She was running behind schedule as always, and her only clean tops were in the laundry basket.

  Unfortunately so was Sebastian, Cole's puppy. Fast asleep.

  She pulled out a black blouse, temporarily waking the lazy beast, and shook out the wrinkles. Quickly she put it on and went into the kitchen.

  Lynn was quietly attractive, a trim and young-looking woman with wavy brown hair that her friends claimed to admire, although she described it as mousy. Her motions were effi­cient and quick, but her eyes had the calmness of a woman who knew her place in the world and made the most of it.

  Although she'd left the kitchen spotless the night before, it was already a mess. Cole's ce­real, puffed and bloated with milk, sat in a bowl on the small table. The utensil drawer and two cupboard doors were open. Cole was in his room, getting dressed.

  Lynn shook her head. One of these days he'd learn to do these things in the right order.

  "Cole?" she called out.

  She adored her son. Everything she did, every thought in her long day revolved around the question, What's best for Cole? Theirs was a single-parent home, but the love they shared more than made up for her husband's departure. But Cole missed his father deeply, and that broke Lynn's heart - because frankly, Ken Sear was a major-league creep. Right now, as she scrambled to make ends meet, he was probably snug in his little Pittsburgh apartment, being served bacon and eggs by Trudy the Toll Collec­tor, the woman he'd run off with.

  No matter. Life was too short for bitterness. They made a good family, Cole and she. Lynn would give him all the attention he craved and every opportunity he needed. Affording the tu­ition to St. Anthony's Academy was a constant struggle, but worth every penny. He would grow up among good, thoughtful, educated people. He would even show them a thing or two. He was that kind of kid.

  If only it were that easy.

  She had long ago given up trying to predict Cole's behavior. One minute he was focused and happy, the next moment shaking like a reed in the wind. The screaming at night, the clammy hands - that was all supposed to have gone away after the divorce. That was what the priests and psychologists had said. But they'd been wrong.

  The cuts and bruises were the worst. Some of them he must have given himself. He'd wake up with them in the morning, and she knew they hadn't been there the previous day. The shrinks and priests had an answer for that, too. Plenty of kids scratch themselves in their sleep, they said.

  But so savagely? she would ask. Cole wasn't capable of such ferocity.

  "He'll grow out of it" was about the best they could do. Big help.

  Something was wrong. Terribly wrong.

  Whatever it was, she was determined to hold up her end. She needed to bolster his self-esteem. To listen and love. To get him the best help and stick with him until he was better.

  It was the only way she knew how.

  She knew she had to be strong and alert. Right at this moment, that meant a good strong cup of coffee.

  She quickly closed the drawer and cabinets and pulled out the coffeemaker. Her hands were shaking as she poured the water. Suddenly it felt freezing in here.

  Turning around, she jacked up the thermo­stat.

  Cole was standing in the kitchen doorway, dressed in his St. Anthony's uniform - blazer, khaki pants, clip-on tie. He looked almost neat.

  As he sat at the table, Lynn said to him, "Your Cocoa Puffs are getting soggy." Her sharp mother's-eyes zeroed right in on a grease stain on his tie. "You got a spot."

  In a quick, practiced series of motions, she undipped his tie, stepped into the laundry room, threw the tie in the washing machine, and pulled a clean tie out of the dryer.

  When she moved back into the kitchen, she nearly fainted.

  The cupboards and drawers - every one of them from top to bottom - had been flung open.

  Cole was sitting stiffly, exactly where he'd been a moment ago. His face was pale, his little hands pressed palm-down on the Formica table.

  Lynn swallowed. How did he do that? She hadn't been out of the kitchen more than a few seconds. She squashed her rising panic.

  "Something you were looking for, baby?" she asked gently.

  "Pop-Tarts," Cole said, his eyes averted.

  Lynn looked into an open food cabinet. The box of Pop-Tarts stood face-out on the second shelf. "They're right here."

  "Oh."

  She took the box and held it out to him.

  Cole still wouldn't meet her glance. "What are you thinking, Mama?" he asked. He couldn't mask the fear in his voice.

  "Lots of things," Lynn replied, as noncha­lantly as she could.

  "Anything bad about me?"

  Lynn leaned close, her elbows on the table, so that she was eye to eye with him. "Look at my face."

  Cole turned warily toward her.

  "I wasn't thinking anything bad about you," she said with soft conviction. "Got it?"

  It was the simple truth. Life was too full of people who were willing to bring you down. But not in this house.

  Not ever.

  "Got it," Cole said, a little more confidence settling his voice.

  The doorbell interrupted their conversation.

  "That's Tommy, Mama." Cole stood up, kissed his mother on the cheek, and raced to the front door.

  "Don't you want this?" Lynn held out a Pop-Tart.

  Cole stopped in his tracks. He turned back, tentatively took the Pop-Tart, and left.

  Lynn glanced at the kitchen table.

  The sweaty remains of two small palm prints slowly began to evaporate.

  Cole bounded down the stairs to the brick sidewalk, where Tommy Tammisimo stood wait­ing. Tommy was also eight but looked at least a year older. He was tall and solidly built, with neatly cut
dark brown hair. He always seemed to be wearing brand-new clothes, and when he smiled he had two holes in his face which the grownups called dimples.

  Tommy had been in a dumb TV commercial. Tommy thought he was hot stuff.

  With a big, too-friendly smile, he took Cole's book bag and slung it over his shoulder. Fling­ing an arm around Cole, he turned back to the house and waved cheerily to Lynn, who was watching from the living room window.

  At the end of the block, safely out of Lynn's sight, Tommy let go of Cole's shoulder and dumped the book bag back in his arms. "Hey, Freak, how'd you like the arm-around-your-shoulder bit?" he said with a cocky grin. "I just made it up. That's what great actors do. It's called improv."

  Tommy began sprinting ahead toward school. Looking back, he called out, "Be careful! I hope no one jumps out and gets you!"

  Very funny.

  Cole looked to his right, at the street's bushy center median, then to his left, at the evergreen near the corner. Cautiously he resumed his walk to school.

  He was the last to arrive. As the other kids scampered in to beat the morning bell, Cole stood alone in the empty, leaf-strewn street.

  St. Anthony's was a broad, sturdy building with stout columns flanking the front doors and fancy inscriptions that spoke of justice and democracy. It was one of the oldest structures in South Philly, built originally as a courthouse.

  Cole knew a lot about its history. Perhaps a little too much. The place scared him. The kids scared him.

  Shoving his hands in his pockets, he fingered his toy soldiers. Then he said a quick prayer and walked inside.

  When Cole arrived home from school that afternoon, Malcolm was waiting. He sat on a worn but comfortable brown-fabric chair with a small protective plastic mat to lean his head on. Lynn sat opposite him in an almost-matching chair, and a modest coffee table stood between them. Cole's toys had been lined up against the baseboards and on the windowsills. They spilled out of old boxes and hung off shelves. It was a friendly place, Malcolm thought, a bit cramped but tidy and clean. Clearly Cole had the run of the house, a healthy thing for an eight-year-old.

  Cole walked inside, his body drooping and face slightly downcast, the way he had walked out of the church.

  When he saw Malcolm, he froze up and looked away.

  Lynn stood from her chair and walked toward her son. "How was school, baby?"

  Cole shrugged.

  "You know," Lynn continued, kneeling to his level, "you can tell me things if you need to."

  Malcolm noticed that Cole was refusing to look at him. The boy was staring at his mother with an awkward intensity.

  "Well," Lynn said with a sudden, impish grin, "you know what I did today?"

  Cole shook his head no.

  She thought for a moment. "I... won the Pennsylvania lottery in the morning. I quit my jobs. I ate a big picnic in the park with lots of chocolate mousse pie, and then swam in the fountain all afternoon. What did you do?"

  A smile started to creep across Cole's face. He and his mom had been doing this for as long as he'd been going to school. It never failed to cheer him up. "I was picked first for kickball teams at recess," he began. "I hit a grand slam to win the game, and everyone lifted me up on their shoul­ders and carried me around, cheering."

  Lynn's expression was warm and cheerful, but Malcolm could detect the weight of a mother's pain - the knowledge that her son's deepest fantasy was about acceptance. And that he saw it as an unattainable dream.

  "I'll make triangle pancakes," she said, tak­ing his book bag and coat and heading toward the kitchen. "You got an hour."

  Cole looked frail and sickly as he stood in the archway that separated the living room from the front foyer. Malcolm gestured to the chair Lynn had vacated. "You want to sit?"

  The boy shook his head.

  Malcolm had expected this. Cole saw this visit as a violation of his space. That was normal. Malcolm would have to make him feel at ease. Just go with him. Keep it light. No demands. "Don't feel like talking right now?" he asked jovially.

  Again Cole shook his head.

  "How about we play a game first?"

  Cole's head remained still. This was progress.

  "It's a mind-reading game," Malcolm went on. "Did I mention I could read minds? Here's the game. I'll read your mind. If what I say is right, you take a step toward the chair. If I'm wrong, you take a step back toward the door­way. If you reach the chair, you sit. If you reach the door, you can go. Deal?"

  Cole looked puzzled but intrigued. He nod­ded yes.

  Bingo.

  This was one of Malcolm's best tactics. Kids enjoyed it. He almost always won, too, because every child unwittingly gave clues. Cole's wari­ness, Malcolm decided, hinted at a bad experi­ence with psychotherapists.

  He sat back and closed his eyes. Pressing his fingers to his forehead, he let out a soft, high-pitched drone and then said, "Just after your mom and dad were divorced, your mom went to a doctor like me and it didn't help her. And so ... you think I'm not going to help you."

  Malcolm opened his eyes. Cole stood still for a second, his brow scrunched up. Then he took a step forward, his feet soundless on the speck­led acrylic throw rug.

  Repeating the mystical routine, Malcolm pro­claimed, "You're worried because she said she told him things - things she couldn't tell any­body else. Secrets."

  Cole took another step forward, off the rug and onto the wood floor.

  This time Malcolm looked at him levelly. "You have a secret. But you don't want to tell me."

  Another step. If he took one more, he would be at the chair.

  Cole looked scared and shaky, so Malcolm tried to put him at ease. "You don't have to tell me your secret if you don't want to."

  As he lifted his fingers to his forehead again, he noticed an adult-sized watch hanging loosely on Cole's wrist. "Your father gave you that watch as a present before he left."

  Thump. Cole took a step back. "He forgot it in a drawer," the boy explained. "It doesn't work."

  Okay. Time to focus on the boy's overt per­sonality traits. His shyness. His articulate speech and knowledge of Latin. "You don't like to say much at school," Malcolm tried. "You're an ex­cellent student, however. You've never been in any kind of serious trouble."

  One more step back, onto the rug. "We were supposed to draw a picture - anything we wanted," Cole explained, quietly - almost des­perately. "I drew a man. He got hurt in the neck by another man with a screwdriver."

  Violent fantasies. That hadn't been part of the profile.

  But it made sense.

  Malcolm reminded himself it was too early to jump to conclusions. Often, in sensitive chil­dren, dark visions were brought on by disturb­ing media images.

  "You saw that on TV, Cole?" Malcolm asked.

  Cole stepped back again. He had taken back all his ground. He was one step from the door.

  "Everyone got upset. They had a meeting. Mama started crying." Cole's voice was unusual. It was flat, matter-of-fact, tinged with sadness, with none of the lilting timbre and diffuse mum­bling typical of most children his age. "I don't draw like that anymore."

  "How do you draw now?" Malcolm asked.

  "I draw people smiling, dogs running, and rainbows." Cole paused. They don't have meet­ings about rainbows."

  Malcolm nodded. "I guess they don't."

  Cole stood rock-still, staring curiously at Mal­colm. "What am I thinking now?" the boy chal­lenged him.

  "You're thinking..." Malcolm was at a loss. This wasn't the right game for a boy with Cole's mind. He didn't follow the patterns. He pro­jected fragility and helplessness, the beaten-down quality of someone who has discovered life's cruel limits. He knew how to manipulate adults and had learned not to expect their help. Yet help was what he needed, big time. Help and truth. "I don't know what you're thinking, Cole."

  Cole stepped back, into the front vestibule. "I was thinking, you're nice," he said softly. "But you can't help me."

  With tha
t, he was gone. Cole's words, barely above a whisper, hung in the air. Thin and reedy, and steeped in confusion and fear.

  The game was over.

  The work had just begun. Malcolm had come so close... he wanted to help so badly. The boy had slipped away. .. but Malcolm would not let him go.

  Malcolm looked at his watch as he barged into La Bella Luna Restaurant.

  Eight-thirty.

  He wanted to kick himself. The Sear case had consumed his entire evening - the meeting with Cole, then four solid hours in his study.

  And for what' He was more confused than ever. Plus he was an hour late for his wedding anniversary dinner. Of all days.

  Anna was going to kill him. This was exactly the kind of thing she hated most. It made all her worst accusations true.

  Malcolm wouldn't blame her. She'd always told him he couldn't manage time well, and she was right. Cute youthful habits did not wear well into middle age. They turned into thoughtless­ness and passive-aggressive behavior. But Anna was human. And neither of them was getting any younger. Too little time together was too lit­tle time together.

  He spotted Anna exactly where he expected her to be. She was sitting at the same table where they'd sat when he'd proposed to her. That night he had made sure to bribe the maitre d' in advance to reserve it. It was in the quietest, most romantic spot of the restaurant, near a leafy potted plant, with a view of the magnifi­cent wrought-iron entrance. Tonight she was alone. Malcolm's place setting had been re­moved. A plate of chocolate cake sat untouched in front of her, lit by the small table lamp.

  She adored chocolate cake. She adored all food. She only stopped eating when she was upset.

  Malcolm doubted she'd even touched her salad tonight.

  He walked to the table and took a deep breath. When all was lost, he figured, use humor. "I thought you meant the other Italian restaurant I asked you to marry me in," he said.

  Anna ignored the joke.

  "I'm so sorry," Malcolm said, dropping the facade. "I can't seem to keep track of time. It didn't go well today. I spent some time after try­ing to get my head together."

  Anna brusquely signaled the waiter.