Inflictions

by John McIlveen

  To Kimberly though, the stunted cucumbers and liquefied tomatoes were a harbor for countless wonders, such as the insect she had been scrutinizing when I approached her.

  “What’cha got there?” I asked her.

  “A bug. I think it’s a big grasshopper,” she answered.

  “That kind of bug is called a praying mantis,” I informed her, “and a fine one at that, I might say.”

  “He don’t move a lot, just his legs. Why is he prayin’?”

  “Oh, I don’t believe he’s really praying.” I leaned closer to her and the bug. “They just have legs like that to hold their food.”

  “What do they eat?”

  “Mostly other bugs, I believe.”

  “Yuck!” She exclaimed, wrinkling her nose at the thought of something so distasteful. “Who are you?” She swapped subject matter the way a juggler changes hands, taking me mildly by surprise.

  “My name is Joseph Randall, but my friends call me Papa Joe.”

  “You’re Cuddles’s friend!” she said, apparently pleased.

  “Oh yes, Cuddles. He’s a bit clumsy, but he’s about the best friend someone could ask for.”

  “I think he’s funny. Where do you live?”

  There are times a person has to consider all possibilities, and issue an answer that will cover all the points and angles for self-preservation, in a minimal amount of time … sometimes too minimal.

  “Here,” I said, believing it was the proper answer. As you will find out, it was not. I now had to design a proper departure to evade the barrage of questions that would follow.

  “Where’s your bedroom?” she asked.

  “Can I answer your questions later, Kimberly?” I asked, upon realizing my error. “Right now I have to hurry and tend to some errands.”

  “Okay. How come you know my name?”

  “Cuddles told me all about you.”

  “Really?” she said, delighted, and then looked back to the mantis.

  “He sure did. Please don’t try to pick him up,” I said, motioning to the insect. “I hear they can give a pretty mean bite. All right?”

  “’kay.”

  I walked to the corner of the house and turned to see Kimberly waving. Returning the gesture, I continued around the side of the building.

  When I was out of Kimberly’s sight, I retraced my steps back to her side. I was now out of her or anybody else’s view. I followed her back into the house, expecting her to present her mother with a full account of her visitation from Papa Joe. To my surprise, I had to shadow her to the dinner table before I was so much as mentioned.

  Bruce Hanson and his two children were seated at the table casting yearning glances at the large boiled dinner Karen had just placed before them. It looked delicious, but I regret to say that, with the final beat of the mortal heart, olfactory, as well, departs.

  Karen finally seated herself, much to her family’s gratification, and began serving the meal.

  “Supper looks scrumptious,” Bruce complimented.

  “Yeah,” Scott agreed. “Sure ain’t the cabbage from our garden.”

  “No thanks to you,” accused Bruce.

  “Let’s be fair,” Karen said. “We’ve all had our share of excuses when it came to the garden, or whatever that thing out there is.”

  “I saw a prayin’ mantis out there, today,” Kimberly said.

  “That’s nice honey,” Karen said absently, but Scott’s interest was captured. He had probably never seen a real one before.

  “How’d you know it was a praying mantis?” Scott challenged.

  “’ Cause he was praying. They don’t really pray, they just have their legs up there so they can hold the other bugs when they eat them,” Kimberly explained, gloating.

  “That’s very good, Kimba. I’m impressed,” said Bruce. “I never realized you even knew what one was.”

  “I thought it was a big grasshopper, but Papa Joe told me it was a prayin’ mantis.”

  “Who’s Papa Joe?” Karen asked, sounding a little bit wary.

  “A nice old man I saw in the garden,” Kimberly said.

  “In our garden? Did he touch you?” Bruce asked. It came out as a harsh bark. I would have been insulted, but I can sympathize with a protective father.

  “No, he just told me not to touch the prayin’ mantis because it might bite me,” she said, to Bruce’s relief.

  “Did he say where he lives?” Karen asked.

  “Yup, here. And he knows Cuddles too! He made Cuddles not be ascairt of the thunder storm.”

  Now Karen looked concerned, as well as confused. “Did he tell you that?” she asked.

  “No. Cuddles did when it was stormy out.”

  “Your teddy bear?” Scott asked. “Do you mean Papa Joe, or ‘Papa Smurf’?”

  “Papa Joe,” Kimberly answered, as Scott made little circles near his ear with his index finger, signifying that his sister was a little undone.

  “Friend,” Bruce said to Karen, then mouthed the word “imaginary.” Karen nodded that she understood.

  That is what I wanted to see. I was content. I left the room.

  As intended, my scheme was successful and Kimberly’s imaginary friends, Cuddles and I, were accepted as exactly that … for a short while. It amazes me how the experienced are usually the shorn lambs of self-destruction. Very much like a professional racecar driver who is killed on the highway, I fell victim to my own over-confidence.

  “Three strikes, you’re out”; “Bad news comes in threes”, “Going down for the third time”, as the sayings go. What follows only solidifies the fact, for me, that these are more than mere quips.

  My first crucial misadventure occurred in the second week of the Hansons’ fifth month in my home. I had become the topic of everyday conversation for Kimberly, and rightly so, considering I spent every possible moment entertaining her. I became so enthralled in Kimberly, and her interest in me, that I began neglecting the true sensitivity of the situation. I was supposed to be non-existent in everyone else’s eyes.

  On this sunny morning, Kimberly and I made a game of sitting in opposing corners of her bedroom and tossing a ball back and forth between us. I failed to notice the footsteps on the stairway. When the door opened I was able to eliminate myself from the picture, but the flight of the ball was another story altogether.

  Karen simply stood there, mouth agape, as the damned ball bounced right in front of her feet, between her legs and out the door. To another’s eyes, the sight may even have been comical, but for me it was devastating. I had been caught. Naturally, she hadn’t exactly seen me, but the seed had been planted.

  Slowly turning to Kimberly, Karen asked, “Kimberly, how did the ball do that?”

  “Papa Joe threw it,” was her response, as if it was the most obvious answer in the world. If I could have died, I would have again.

  “I think we better go downstairs,” Karen said in a flat voice, then led Kimberly down to the first floor.

  I was distraught. I stood helplessly in the corner of the living room as Karen paced to and fro, nervously explaining with animated gestures what she had witnessed.

  “Could the ball have deflected off something?” Bruce asked. “Maybe Kimberly threw it and you came in when it rebounded.”

  It sounded good to me. I hoped she’d buy it.

  “Rebound off what?” she asked. “There’s nothing in that corner but a couple stuffed toys. Rebounds come back fast. This just floated like it was tossed softly.”

  “I don’t know, Karen. It’s too much to swallow,” Bruce said doubtfully. “I’m sure there’s a logical explanation.”

  “What? The Cabbage Patch doll threw it?”

  “Come on, Honey, let’s not get hysterical,” Bruce said, trying to calm her down.

  “Come on, yourself! You weren’t here. You don’t see what I see while you’re at work. That’s all she talks about all day, Papa Joe this, Papa Joe that. Can’t you see there’s more than just …” She dropped her
arms heavily to her sides and looked beseechingly at Bruce.

  “Can’t you see?” she continued. “When a child has an imaginary friend, it’s usually an escape from boredom or a scapegoat for wrong doing. Those are the times you hear about them, but with Kimberly, Papa Joe is constant, every waking hour she is either calling for him or talking to him.”

  She stood up again. “Christ, you should hear it. I’ve heard five-year-olds talk to imaginary friends before; they usually do the friends talking, too. This is like listening to one side of a phone conversation.”

  “Well, what do we do?” Bruce asked. “I mean, there’s nothing concrete. We have no solid proof that there’s a ghost, gremlin, demon, or what have you wandering around the house.”

  “I have all the proof I need,” Karen snapped.

  “From a silly rubber ball?” Bruce asked. “Let’s be somewhat reasonable. First of all, you saw a ball. Did you see anyone throw it?”

  “No, but …”

  “No,” Bruce interrupted, “and you know as well as I that those balls can make some really interesting bounces. Right? And in your thirty-one years, have you ever actually seen a gremlin or a ghost? Huh?”

  “No,” Karen answered, sounding somewhat defeated.

  “Kimba has been talking about this ‘Papa Joe’ for about a month now. If he actually existed, and was at all dangerous, wouldn’t we know it by now?” Bruce reasoned.

  “I guess so,” Karen agreed.

  “If it makes you feel better, Kimba can sleep with us tonight.”

  “Please?”

  “Fine, now how about some dinner,” Bruce suggested.

  If it was physically possible, my sigh of relief would have parted their hair. For the time being, I was off the hook.

  I considered myself fortunate, and decided not to test my plummeting luck.

  The following morning, I became the obedient, indiscernible specter I was supposed to be. Taking advantage of the few free seconds Karen took to get the mail—the only time Kimberly would be out of her sight all day—I quickly informed Kimberly that I would be away for a few days. For a few days, I would be unseen and unheard by all.

  I had no idea that by five-thirty that evening I would encounter the proverbial “strike two.” I was stationed in my usual post—standing between the couch and the television when Bruce walked through the front entrance. I sensed that something was not proper by the look on his face, but his first words erased any doubt.

  “We have to talk,” was all he said, and then he went into the kitchen.

  “Bruce, what’s wrong?” Karen asked urgently as she followed him.

  He sat at the table running shaky, claw-like fingers through his hair.

  “On my way home, I stopped at Concord Supply, the hardware store, to get some paint for the garage doors.”

  “Yeah … so?”

  “Well, there was this old coot named Crane that waited on me.”

  At that point, I knew what was about to be said. Gerry Crane was as much a landmark in Concord as the gold-domed capitol. In the Forties, Gerry worked for a local dairy farm, overseeing operations. As you well know, I was the town vet. The rest is explanatory.

  “We got to talking about fixing up our houses, and then he asked me where I live. When I told him, he said: ‘Oh, The old Randall house?’ He knew a Joseph Randall.”

  “Will you get to the point, Bruce?” Karen nearly screamed in frustration.

  “When he started telling me about Randall who was a veterinarian, he called him Papa Joe.”

  Karen’s face, already pale, inconceivably became whiter. She simply stood there, thunderstruck, staring at Bruce.

  “He said Randall died in the mid-Forties by some freak accident,” Bruce went on, his voice quivering like a piano wire, “crushed by some horse or cow, or something.”

  Karen’s knees suddenly let go, and she would have fallen if she hadn’t been leaning on the table.

  “I knew it!” she hollered. “I knew it, but would you listen?” She went to the sink. “Damn! We have to get out of here. We don’t own this place. We can just pack up and get an apartment for now … before something really bad happens. Can we do that? Please?”

  “Well, we can’t stay here because Kimberly is obviously at risk,” Bruce said, barely audible, but to me it may have been a roar.

  With those few words, my whole existence, odd as it may sound, collapsed. That day, fifty-seven years ago, when my Melissa died, came storming back. All the pain, the tears, the devastating feeling of loss, it was all happening again!

  I couldn’t take it, all the anguish. I fell to my knees in distress and screamed my anger. “NOOOO!”

  I realized, too late, that this was my third and final error.

  Bruce and Karen sat like statues in the kitchen, as the walls rung in the resonance of my scream.

  From upstairs, there came two fearful voices.

  “MAAA!” cried Scott, but the voice that I heard so effectively was Kimberly’s. I still can hear her cry.

  “PAPA JOE!”

  I sprang up off the floor and ran to her.

  You must understand. I didn’t mean to do it. I was acting in fear. They were going to take her away from me!

  When I saw her standing on top of the stairs, what else could I do? It was the only way I could keep her.

  I made sure I pushed her hard enough so she wouldn’t suffer.

  She’s here with me now.

  She’s all right. She’s already getting used to it.

  Now they want to burn my house! Can’t you see? They’ll be burning both of us with it!

  Please understand. I did it because I love her!

  Papa Joe.

  Signs

  Well, the first sign weren’t no big deal, it was the same one Lenny n’ me always saw comin’ outta the 3 Sisters Bar & Grill. You know the one I’m talkin’ ’bout, the dancin’ hog carryin’ a tray-a dead meat. Lenny says the pig looks like Gina, but I think it could be any of them three sisters. They ain’t much to look at, but they sure serve up a mean mess a grub. I s’pose them sisters cook so good ’cuz they ain’t got nothin’ else for doin’, ain’t no one in a right mind would wanna fuck ’em.

  Huh? Oh yeah … the sign. Sorry. Like I was sayin’, you know the space under the dancin’ hog where they switch them letters round ’n say what’s on special? Okay. So we come outta the 3 Sisters ’cuz it’s still dark, but we can see the sun’s comin’ up. That’s when Gwen, you know she’s the sister that runs the night shift? Well, she makes us leave so the breakfas’ people don’t have to see us drinkin’ folk fallin’ all about. So, ’cuz it’s dark, the sign under the dancin’ hog is all bright an’ says Here yer dollah gits you a hilla beans, sumpin’ like that, right? So we get in Lenny’s pickup an’ start for his house, but when we get to leavin’ the parkin’ lot, the sign now says YER AN ASSHOLE!

  So Lenny says to me, “You catch that?”

  I says, “Un-huh.”

  “That sign there done called you an asshole.”

  But I says, “No, I think it was callin’ you an asshole, ’cuz ain’t signs meant for the driver?”

  “Rekin’ you might be right, there,” Lenny says. “Why you think it’s up to callin’ me an asshole, Carl?”

  “Ain’t right sure, Lenny. Maybe ’cuz you are an asshole.”

  “Yeah, s’pose there’s that,” Lenny says.

  So we pull outta the parkin’ lot an’ Lenny says, “Ain’t what it said when we come outta the 3 Sisters.”

  “Nope, t’aint,” I says.

  “How you rekin’ it changed so fast?”

  How the sign changed so fast is beyond me. Ol’ Joe does all the sign changin’, but he’s in Coventry ’til Sunday, so I didn’t say nuttin’. I’m figgerin’ you must know why the town outlawed them sisters from climbin’ that ladder any more, right? Yessir, three hundred fifty pounds of woman in a muumuu perched ten feet up can raise an eyebrow or two, ’specially since none of them ever think to
wearin’ panties. Just a gander can twist yer guts ’round some. They still call ’em panties if they’s big as a circus tent?

  Oh, right, back to the story. What’s a dolt?

  Well, so anyhow, I’m guessin’ we just let it go, ’cuz we ain’t so much as mentioned it again, but then that second sign done comes up.

  We was jus’ kinda drivin’ along an’ you know them big green an’ white signs that tell you what town’s on up ahead-a you? Well, this one here usually says Farmington 6 mi. You know the one I’m talkin’ ‘bout? It’s prob’ly ten miles outside Farmin’ton? Right … that one.

  Well last night it didn’t say Farmington 6 mi. a-tall, but it did say COCKSUCKER in big white letters, bright as all get-out.

  So Lenny, he says to me, “Now that ain’t right, it calling me a cocksucker like that. I ain’t no cocksucker.”

  But I says, “I don’t know ’bout that, Lenny. You tend to take a pull or two from mine once you get to drinkin’, an’ you drink a lot.”

  So Lenny says, “I s’pose that’s true ’nuff, but I ain’t too keen on advertisin’ it.”

  “Appears someone is.”

  “Think it might be Butch?” Lenny says.

  I says, “Might be.”

  You know Butch the plumber? Lenny fetched him to roto-root his shitter after he tried flushin’ a dead rat. Big fucker. When Butch finished, he settled in for a few drinks an’ next thing you know, he’s over every night since, totin’ a fresh bottle a Turkey. Don’t right like Turkey myself, I prefer Black Label. Lenny likes Turkey. Y’ever puke Wild Turkey? Ain’t pretty.

  How’s that? Is a buffoon like a dolt? They’s related? Well, hot shit, who’da figgered?

  Okay, okay … back to the signs. Keep ya boots on.

  So, after the cocksucker sign, we commence to thinkin’ that it was Butch yankin’ Lenny’s chain. We both knows that ain’t the truth of it, but we ain’t sayin’ nuthin’, hopin’ that was the end of it, but then we passed the bank. You know the Farmin’ton Five an’ Dime at the four corners, how it went an’ got itself a new sign with lights an’ shit? An’ how the lights slide … yeah, scroll … that’s it! However, last night it weren’t tellin’ us we can ’ford a new home for some percents an’ stuff. Instead, it just says MOTHERFUCKER, with them big red letters sliddin’ outta one side an’ into the other.