◙
The team ‘ostled properly, I climbed back into my seat and, shaking like sheep fuzz in a breeze, packed my Oom Paul pipe with a rich cherry tobacco, lit it, and tried to relax.
“Mister Coachman!”
I do not remember taking myself down from the four-in-hand. Nor do I remember running into the wood. After the memory of Hanna’s scream coloring the surrounds like a nightmare, my next recollection is seeing a handsome lad crawling toward me, his eyes bulging as he gasped for air, an arrow piercing his left jugular and spine.
“I got one!” Hanna cried. “One of the shepherd lads! Oh, will he be tender enough to eat? I hope I haven’t made a mistake, Mister Coachman.” She fired another arrow from the evil contraption, this one squarely entering his heart. He fell with a thump to the dewy grass.
“Mmmm, smells wonderful, doesn’t it? I so love the scent of freshly spilled blood. They wouldn’t let me eat—”
I had the crossbow in one hand and Hanna in the other, dragging her by the collar back to the coach. How I accomplished it I do not, to this day, know, but soon I had the child tied securely and placed in her seat.
She screamed throughout the next leg of our journey, and at first, I wished I had gagged her. But, when her screams turned to tears, I could not be quite so hard-hearted. I would rather have not stopped—yet again—risking a mishap to my person, but she was, after all, just a wee girl.
◙
When we finally arrived, two tall footmen, several servants, and Hanna’s uncle all appeared as if they greeted the ‘Ooser’ itself. I was ushered into the Great House, for fear that I was dying, and a quick glimpse into an outsized wall mirror showed me the reason for their pallid complexions. Though I knew the reflected figure to be me, the green skin and disheveled hair of a lunatic were completely incongruent with my usual demeanor.
“Sir!” Lord Perrault took me by the arm and led me to a sitting room decorated with a bevy of Pinprick’s dour-faced and dark-eyed cousins. “What is the meaning of your arrival here with my niece?”
“Arrival?” I was still very much dazed and on display for this audience of crows.
“Aye! Were you not properly briefed?”
“What…should I have been briefed about, sir?” I managed to ask.
A chorus of whispers circled the room; black-haired heads tipped toward one another as Pinprick’s noble family members consulted. Lord Perrault looked rather helplessly around at his brood, perhaps seeking someone else to do the talking. When no such savior rose to the occasion, he cleared his throat loudly, and said, “Based upon your, ah, curriculum vitae, shall we say, you were hired to perform a certain service for the family.”
“I’m afraid I do not follow you, sir,” I replied. “I’ve done as requested. The child is quite safe.”
The gentleman closed his eyes. Beads of sweat had erupted over his features. “Are…you not John Copper, newly released from Dublin Castle gaol to, shall we say, serve the Pilchard-Perrault clan with a most necessary but particularly…unsavory duty?”
“Copper? Copper, did you say? No, my surname is Coppe. I am John Coppe.”
“Oh, God in Heaven,” he replied. He put his hand to his forehead and began to pace, back and forth, obviously deep in thought. “There has been a terrible mistake. The rush and bustle of yesterday, surely. All the confusion. May…may I ask, Mr. Coppe, how came you to be hired?”
“A reputable reference made an appointment for me a fortnight ago,” I said.
“That damned butler Renault!” came Perrault’s reply, and his jowls jounced with each word. “His infernal senility has caused us far too much pain this time round!”
“Sir,” I said, “if I may be permitted. I am quite sure that I do not understand what has happened. Mr. Renault was very cordial, if a bit flustered. Might I inquire into the particulars, even a wee bit, in order to clear my own mind?”
Lord Perrault again consulted his family with a look. They, in turn, all looked at me, taking in my bedraggled state with unblinking, coal-black eyes. I shrank under their scrutiny, finding not even a hint of sympathy in any one of them.
I assume Perrault received familial approval that was invisible to me, because he placed his large hand on my shoulder. “You, sir—or I should say the murderer John Copper—were hired to dispatch that devil Hanna somewhere on the highway from Dublin.”
“Dispatch?” I whispered.
“Say you something, Mr. Coppe?”
◙
Having, with a purloined bag of currency, made amends to the clans of the two murdered thieves—one of which, ironically, had been John Copper. He had apparently decided not to make himself present for his Pilchard Manor assignment, despite the fact that it was Perrault who had secured his release from gaol so he could perform that particular duty.
Hanna and I today abide in a comfortable stone cottage hidden in the olden oaks and ash of Gleann na Gruagh. Though my education and my father’s memory may be sullied by my present profession, I could not see the disturbed child assassinated over a condition of mind completely out of her control.
We do well for ourselves when the affluent travel through this perpetually shadowed woodland. Furthermore, Hanna has taught me to fashion and fletch crossbow arrows.
—John Coppe, Highwayman
Patricia Lillie on Melanie Tem's “Secrets”
Melanie Tem’s stories start out innocently enough. Her people aren’t perfect. Their lives and problems could very well be those of your next-door neighbors—or your own. Then, Tem slowly and meticulously peels away the layers and reveals dark secrets. Whether her vehicle is the supernatural or human emotion, Tem’s horrors leave you hoping these are not your neighbors—or yourself. In "Secrets," Grace is surrounded by secrets. After the death of her husband, she discovers his secrets. Christy, Grace’s once loving daughter, is silent and locked alone in her room with her secrets. Hidden in the Beatle’s White Album, Grace finds the answer she needs. When you love someone, you can’t allow them to keep secrets. Currently available in The Ice Downstream and Other Stories, eBook edition, published by Crossroads Press, Secrets first appeared in the Spring 1991 issue of Cemetery Dance Magazine.
◙◙◙
Abby
Patricia Lillie
Life with a teenager with an Autism Spectrum Disorder is, on the best of days, quirky. Don’t get me wrong. Abby is high functioning, and I know things could be much worse. Other than periodic meltdowns, we have it relatively easy and have learned to deal with, if not understand, the way she works.
There are the non-sequiturs. In Tim Burton’s version of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, Grandpa Joe is talking about working for Willie Wonka, when out of the blue, Grandma Georgina says, “I love grapes.”
I adore that scene. Abby and Grandma Georgina have similar conversational skills. At noisy family gatherings, Abby might bring all discussion to a halt by loudly announcing, “In third grade, I sat behind David Besom. He had red hair.”
Her father or I look at her and quietly say, “I love grapes.” It’s a signal, and most times she laughs and turns her attention back to what is going on around her. Abby does know that, by other people’s standards, she’s not quite right. She’s okay with that.
There’s what we call “Abby’s Pause Mode”. She walks through the house and stops, usually in the middle of a doorway. She stands there, stock still, and grins her lopsided grin, until one of us says, “Hey! You stuck?”
“Noooo,” she laughs and continues on her way. If we’re busy and don’t notice she’s on pause, she retreats into Abby-land. We find her stopped, still grinning, but no longer still. She sways, front to back, elbows bent, hands in front of her body. Her fingers dance; her eyelids flutter; and, if it’s been too long, her eyes roll back in her head. At these times, it’s harder to call her back.
“Abby!” Wait a beat. “ABBY!”
“Huh.”
“You stuck?”
“We haven’t had any snow days
this year.” Her replies are mundane and often of the “grapes” variety, and we assume they have something to do with happenings in Abby-land.
We go with it the best we can. “Nope. And as far as I’m concerned we don’t need any.”
“I want at least one.” She grins and moves off to wherever she was going before her little holiday.
And obsessive? You may think you obsess. You may have friends who obsess to the point you’ve suggested they require medication. But, they’re all slackers compared to a teenager with ASD.
A postcard reminds us it’s time to have our eyes checked, and she starts up.
“Did you make our eye appointments?”
“When are you going to make our eye appointments?”
“You really should make our eye appointments.”
“We need our eyes checked.”
On and on, until I say, “Yes! I made the appointments!” Obsession over eye check-ups leads to obsession over the dentist, the ear doctor, and the anything-else-she-can-think-of doctor. Regularly scheduled maintenance is very important to Abby.
There’s more. Some of it, like the rocking, are typical ASD behaviors; some of it is Abby-specific. She doesn’t sleep through the night. Most nights, she wakes up, gets out of bed, and spends an hour or so at her computer. Often, she sits in her bed and sings. Or rocks. Mentally and emotionally, in many ways she’s twelve; in others, she’s completely seventeen. It keeps things interesting. Worse is when she’s excited about something. It becomes the only subject of conversation for weeks, even months.
“Abby, did you empty the dishwasher?”
“Twyla’s birthday party is in three weeks.”
“Abby, dinner’s ready!”
“I’m going to wrap Twyla’s present in red.”
“Abby, do you know you’re a banana?”
“Twyla’s mom is going to take us to the party.”
“It’s okay, Abby. I love bananas. A lot.”
“Twyla’s favorite color is red.”
You get the picture.
Our life has a rhythm; it’s an odd rhythm, but it works. It’s my excuse for not noticing sooner that something was wrong. Most people with normal kids would have caught on at the first sign of weird. We’re so used to weird, we took it all in stride.
If I’m at the computer paying bills, lightning could strike the house and, as long as the electricity stays on, I won’t notice. Even so, when I looked up and saw Abby in my office doorway, I knew she hadn’t been there long, maybe a minute. Not long enough for her to go from simple pause to deep Abby-land. Yet, there she was, already into the eye-rolling stage.
“Abby? Abby! ABBY!” Three Abby’s deep is bad.
“You stuck?”
“He’s watching.”
That was a new one. I wasn’t sure I’d heard her correctly. “What?”
“He’s hungry.”
“Who’s hungry?”
“Idunno,” she said and shrugged.
In Abby-speak, that word—and it is one word—combined with a shrug does not mean she doesn’t know the answer. It means she doesn’t want to talk about it, and it’s always her final answer.
She walked away.
“Hey!” I called. “What did you want?”
She stopped and looked back, puzzled.
“Did you need me for something?” I asked.
“I forget.” She gave me her crazy grin and left.
Have I mentioned that Abby never forgets? Anything. Ever.
A few days later, I got a call from Abby’s teacher. Daytime calls from Ms. Colley were always bad and usually meant Abby had had a meltdown.
“What’s up?” I asked. I closed my eyes and hoped for a minor meltdown. Things were crazy at work, and I didn’t have time to go get her.
“Um,” Ms. Colley said. “I have a sort of odd question.”
“I’m Abby’s mother. Define odd.”
She laughed. “Good point. So, has Abby been watching movies that she’s not ready to cope with or process?”
I panicked. My first thought was sex. Attempts to discuss the subject with Abby, explaining appropriate and inappropriate behavior, had proven frustrating. I could never tell how much she understood or how much she already knew. But she was seventeen, and she was obsessed with the idea of having a boyfriend, even though she didn’t fully grasp the reality.
The previous year, thanks to a pregnant cousin, she’d figured out that one doesn’t have to be married to have a baby. After that, she’d told everyone she knew—and a few people she didn’t know—she wanted one. Dealing with that was loads of fun.
“What kind of movies?”
“Oh, the scary, gory, bloody, spattery kind.”
I was relieved. Bad movies, I could deal with. I was fairly sure Abby would never take an ax to a cabin full of teenagers.
“Not that I know of,” I said. “What happened?”
“Abby disrupted the math lesson with…lurid talk,” Ms. Colley said. “The two things she kept repeating were, ‘He rips their throats out,’ and ‘When he eats them, their insides get splattered all over.’ No matter how many times I told her to change the channel, or just to stop, she kept going.”
Change the channel was Ms. Colley’s version of I love grapes.
“She didn’t stop until Twyla cried. Then Abby cried, and they both had meltdowns.”
I was speechless. And appalled. We both knew Abby didn’t—couldn’t—just make things up. She could only lie in reply to yes or no questions, and she was bad at that. She could repeat verbatim things she heard or describe in great detail things she saw or did. Even when she went off on a tangent and imagination came into play, the what-ifs were always easily attributed to something we knew she’d heard, seen, or done.
“Are you still there?” Ms. Colley asked.
“Yeah. I’m clueless. We don’t watch many blood-and-gore movies and never when Abby’s around. Besides, she’s pretty self-censoring. If we watch anything that gets scary or makes her uncomfortable, she goes to her room and puts in an Anne of Green Gables DVD. Maybe she watched something on Netflix when she was home alone. I’ll check into it. Do you need me to come get her?”
“No. They’re both sitting in the Quiet Corner now. I think Abby feels bad for upsetting Twyla. They seem to be comforting each other. I just wanted you to know what happened.”
We hung up, and I thought about it. I dwelled on it—Abby-level dwelling. We didn’t have cable, so television was limited to Netflix, only hooked up in the living room, and DVDs. I wasn’t getting any work done, so I opened my Netflix account and checked the list of recently viewed items. Nothing there I didn’t recognize, nothing that explained Abby’s storytelling.
When I got home, she was at the kitchen table doing a word search.
“Abby, what happened at school today?”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t tell me ‘nothing.’ Ms. Colley called me.”
“Twyla doesn’t like moving pictures. They freak her out.”
I understood that. Twyla couldn’t cope with television or movies. Her parents kept the television in a locked cabinet and only watched it when she was asleep or gone. “What does that have to do with what happened at school?”
“I shouldn’t have told her about the moving pictures. It was mean.”
“What are you talking about? What moving pictures?”
“Idunno.” Shrug.
Great. “Abby, we really need to talk about this.”
“Mom. I really need to finish this.” She went back to her puzzle. And that was that.
I checked her room; maybe somebody at school had lent her a movie. I looked in her player and at her DVD collection. Anne of Green Gables, Emily of New Moon, A Little Princess—all I found were the sweet, slightly sappy movies Abby liked. I checked her known hiding places but only found a half-eaten bag of chocolate chips. (One minor mystery solved; I knew I’d bought those.)
Later, when Abby was in bed, I told my husband wh
at had happened. Jim couldn’t come up with an explanation either. We decided to take the wait-and-see route and not worry until we were sure there was something to worry about. It’s worked for us before.
◙
The night the lights went out, Jim and I were out to dinner with friends. Abby was home alone—we had only planned on being gone a couple of hours, not long enough to need a sitter. We waited about fifteen minutes in the dark, but when the lights didn’t come back on, we made our apologies and left. Not only did we want to check on Abby, but Jim was a policeman. A prolonged power outage meant alarm drops and people getting the stupids. There was a good chance he would be called in to work.
With Friday night traffic and no street lights, our ten-minute drive home took over a half hour. I asked what good it was to be married to a cop if you couldn’t have lights and sirens when you needed them. Jim just snorted. I made the same joke often.
The house was, of course, pitch dark, and Abby didn’t answer when we called. Jim grabbed his flashlight, and we headed upstairs.
She sat cross-legged on her bed, rocking. Her fingers danced. Her eyelids fluttered, and her eyes showed only white. To someone who didn’t know Abby, it would have looked like a seizure, but we knew she was deep in Abby-land.
The thing was, we had always assumed Abby-land was a happy place. When in Abby-land, she always smiled; in fact, she looked downright blissful. We were often sorry to call her home.
That night, however, her lips were pinched, in a straight line. On the side of her face, a jaw muscle throbbed. Her forehead was furrowed, her eyebrows so close together they became a uni-brow. Anything but blissful, her expression was one of intense—and worried—concentration.
“Abby! ABBY!”
She gave no sign she heard us and continued to rock.
I reached out to shake her, something we usually tried to avoid, but before I could, the lights flashed on, and she stilled. Her face was slack, her expression blank.
Deep Cuts Page 23
