by Mort Castle
Then she burst into tears and ran into her house.
— | — | —
Twenty-Three
“Mom!”
Missy raced into the kitchen. Vicki wasn’t expecting her back so soon. Uh-oh, Vicki thought, setting down the pen that still had not managed to write a full line to Carol Grace. One look at Missy’s flushed face and Vicki intuitively decided there’d been some sort of falling out between the little girls at Amy Lynn’s house.
Just as Vicki was about to ask what was wrong, the telephone rang, and she got an answer—more or less.
A furious Willa Elliot informed her, “I do not care at all for your daughter’s dirty games.” Mrs. Elliot proceeded to briefly describe those games, based on what her none too coherent daughter had told her. And Mrs. Barringer had better keep an eye on that child of hers. There was something wrong with her, something positively sick.
“Mom!” Missy protested, shaking her head, in regard to Vicki’s worried look, “I didn’t do anything bad! I didn’t. We were only playing.”
Pressing the yammering phone between shoulder and ear, Vicki put a silencing finger to her lips.
“…and in the future, Missy Barringer and her…lesbian tendencies had better stay away from my Amy Lynn, who is a nice, normal, little girl...”
Willa Elliot declared it would be a good idea for the Barringers to consult a psychiatrist about their child’s deep-seated, serious mental problems. And then she hung up.
Vicki put down the receiver. Striving for a reasonable tone of voice, she asked, “What did you do to Amy Lynn?”
“Nothing!” Missy shook her head. “We played school in Amy Lynn’s playhouse. She got mad ’cause she didn’t want Dorothy to be principal…”
Vicki interrupted, “I am not talking about that and you know it.”
“Then I don’t know what you are talking about,” Missy said, eyes down as though her shoes were suddenly fascinating.
“Go to your room, Missy,” Vicki said. “We’ll talk about this…soon.”
Without looking up, Missy said, “Are you angry at me, Mom?”
“I’m not sure. I don’t know if I should be.”
“Are you going to punish me?”
“I don’t know that, either,” Vicki said.
“Mom…”
“Your room. Now!”
Missy slunk out of the kitchen.
Vicki picked up the telephone and dialed Blossom Time. The line was busy. She could bet Willa Elliot was talking to Laura Morgan, giving her an earful.
More likely than not, Vicki thought, this was one of those “much ado about nothing” episodes, innocent childish foolishness that gets magnified, amplified, and blown totally out of proportion by greater adult foolishness. It was the kind of thing that served as the shaky premise for so many situation comedies in the early days of TV, the parents making utter nincompoops of themselves and the kids settling everything with a shared ice cream cone!
But why did she feel so nervous, so downright twitchy, if she truly thought this wasn’t anything worth getting all worked up over?
She had to calm down.
The telephone rang. It was Laura Morgan who had indeed heard from Willa Elliot. But Laura was not she assured Vicki, terribly worried, and she thought Willa would cool off once she had time to think about it.
“But what did Missy do?” Vicki asked. “I’m still not clear on that.”
“She kissed Amy Lynn,” Laura said. “That’s pretty much what I got from Willa’s ranting and raving. I guess it was kind of a French kiss or something…”
“Oh,” Vicki said. “Oh, my.”
“Hey,” Laura said, “don’t make more of it than it is.”
“Are you saying it’s nothing?”
“I’m saying it’s the kind of things kids do.”
“Is it?”
Laura Morgan laughed lightly, and Vicki was a touch annoyed at her casual attitude. “Come on now, Vicki, kids play all sorts of games. ‘You show me yours, I’ll show you mine.’ Hey, I remember giving my cousin Marty all my Halloween trick or treat candy so he’d let me look at his wee-wee.”
“You did?”
Laura laughed again. “Sure did, but he didn’t let me touch it until I gave him a dollar besides.”
“But that was…”
“Vicki, children are curious. If every kid who played doctor had a real problem, there wouldn’t be a soul who didn’t wind up in the looney bin.”
“Maybe you’re right,” Vicki said.
“I have been every once in awhile,” Laura said.
“I probably ought to talk with Missy and explain that I can understand what happened, but that you just can’t…touch people…”
“…in certain ways,” Laura completed the thought for her. “Okay, every month the women’s magazines tell you how the ideal mother talks about stuff like this to her kids, but it never seems to have much to do with talking to your very own kid, does it?”
“No,” Vicki said. Though confused about what she’d do next, she was considerably relieved. She didn’t know exactly what she would say to Missy, but whoever said it was easy being a mother?
“I’m sorry to bother you, Warren.”
“No, no, that’s all right.” Vicki’s knock on his study door hadn’t disturbed him. Ordinarily, he hated being interrupted when he was writing, but he wasn’t writing. The sheet of paper in the Underwood was blank, and Warren Barringer’s mind was just as blank.
He pushed the chair away from the desk and turned to look at his wife.
“Missy’s finishing her bath,” Vicki said. “If you could, she wants a bedtime story from you tonight.”
Missy’s bedtime already? He glanced at the clock on his desk. It was 7:45. He’d been sitting at the typewriter since 6:30, writing nothing.
“Story from me?” he said. Vicki usually read to Missy before bed.
Vicki nodded and smiled thinly. “I think she’s had enough of me for one day.”
What did she mean by that? Warren wondered. Oh, right, right. Vicki had filled him in as soon as he’d got home. A hassle with Missy’s friend. No big deal.
“How’s your novel going, Warren?” Vicki asked.
“Hmm, what’s that?”
“Your writing. I haven’t been hearing the typewriter for a while.”
He held up his hands, palms out. “Sometimes you’ve got the words, sometimes you don’t. It’ll be okay.”
He said, “Tell Missy I’ll be right with her.”
“Sure.”
For five minutes after Vicki left, he sat looking at the empty piece of paper in the typewriter. He did not stare. Staring is an act of intensity, of concentration. He only looked at it.
Then he went upstairs to Missy’s room. “So you want a story, kiddo?”
“A good one,” Missy said. “Not from a book. I want you to make up a story.” Missy, sleepy-eyed, lay beneath the covers, her head next to Winnie-the-Pooh’s on the pillow. Alongside the bed, the nightstand lamp glowed and, in the outlet by the closet, the Mickey Mouse nightlight shone its pinkish, happily retarded smile.
“A made-up story,” Warren said, sitting down on the side of the bed. “That’s hard to do.” He scratched his head. “Help me. Get me started.”
“Once upon…” Missy said.
“Once upon…What comes next?”
“You know!”
“Once upon a dog biscuit!”
“Dad!” Missy giggled.
“Once upon a midnight dreary, let’s watch a movie with Wallace Beery.”
“Do it right, Dad. Be for real.”
“Okay, okay.” Once upon a time…what? His mind seemed not unpleasantly filled with cotton, but he couldn’t think of a thing.
Ah, he had it.
“Once upon a time, there was a rat. He was a big rat and a strong rat…” His throat tightened.
“Was he a mean rat, Dad?”
“I…I don’t know. The thing was, he didn’t want to be a r
at.” A rat? What in the hell was he saying? And why in the hell was he saying it?
“You see, Missy, he didn’t want to be a rat, didn’t want to ever do anything wrong. And he never, never ever, wanted to do anything to hurt anyone he loved. But”—he looked at his daughter—“he couldn’t help it. He just couldn’t help it.”
“Dad,” Missy said quietly, “you’re crying.”
He was. Goddamn, he didn’t understand it any more than he understood what he was saying, but there were the slow tears rippling down his face.
Missy sat up. She touched a fingertip to the tip of the tear trail on his left cheek, then his right. “Don’t cry, Dad. It’s all right. Let me tell you a story, Dad.”
He nodded. He needed her story. He needed her love.
“Once upon a time there was a little girl who loved her dad very much.”
Warren nodded again. He loved his little girl very much. He needed her.
“And she wanted to make sure her dad would always love her forever and ever and ever. So she learned how to do magic.”
Missy’s eyes became dreamy. “It was a special magic. One night, she took off all her clothes. Then she took a big sharp knife. Her dad was asleep. The little girl went up to him then, and with the big sharp knife, she cut a hair off his head, and that was the magic. After that, no matter what, her dad would always love her.”
Missy smiled. Warren felt a warmth within his chest, an assurance.
“I’ll always love you, Dad, and you will always love me.”
“Yes,” Warren said. Slowly, he stood up. He felt detached from the present moment, from the whole world, even from himself but he knew and understood that everything was okay.
“Dad,” Missy said, “there’s something I want to give you. It’s a present.”
It was a gift for him—a secret gift.
He told Vicki he’d be working late, but he got no writing done. He sat at his desk in his study, trying to think and unable to.
Every few minutes, he picked up the round glass paperweight, tracing the swirls and folds of the rose within it, the rose inside her gift.
— | — | —
Three: o Drom Le Beng
The Way of Evil
Paramitsha are stories the Roma tell their children and grandchildren, fairy tales of wonder and mystery, of delight and dark fear—a dancing frog and a weeping violin made of flowers; the flying vurdon which travels from one cloud to the next, saliya machka, the laughing cat, whose mouth drips silver coins. This is the lighthearted imagination we find in paramitsha.
But the Darane Swature are not stories for children, nor are they stories for all adults. The darane swature are to be heard by those who wish tshatsimo, the truth, those who not only seek the truth, but who have the courage to confront it.
This is a swato of the Rawnie, the Great Lady, Pola Janichka:
“Once there was a young man, a shav, no longer a child but not yet ready to be a Romoro, a married man. He was a serious youth, too serious by far, for he did not dance, and he did not sing, and he did not joke, and he did not say flattering and foolish endearing things to the girls, as you might expect of one his age.
“A pity, then but the shav’s time was spent in thinking, thinking of the most serious kind, and, as we know, too much thinking must lead to profound unhappiness. It makes us realize that there is ever so much evil in the world, and that one must constantly be wary of Beng in all its many forms.
“And this is exactly what the shav did realize! Beng was everywhere! Evil was in the earth and evil was in the water and evil was in the air. The shav was terribly afraid. He feared being lelled, overcome by evil, and so, he sought the counsel and guidance of an ababina, a sorceress skilled in the practice of the old ways.
“‘Kako, Puri Dai,’ he said with deep respect. ‘Please, Old Mother, I am so afraid of the evil of this world. Can you sell me drabas, charms and enchantments, so that I might be safe against all the wicked spirits, the puvushi vilas of the earth and the nivashi vilas of the water and the zracnae vilas of the air?’
“The ababina nodded. ‘Indeed, there is draba to keep you safe from the puvushi vilas in the earth, and this is it.’ The draba was exceedingly powerful, employing as it did a silver knife, a tshuri, and three lungs and three livers of frogs. More than this, I cannot tell you, as the draba is not mine to share.
“And when the draba had been worked, the shav said, ‘Now I need not fear the puvushi vilas.’
“‘You are safe from the earth’s evil,’ said the ababina. ‘Now, please, Puri Dai, a draba against nivashi vilas.’
“‘There is draba to keep you safe from the water’s evil and this is it.’ The draba was most potent, making use of 13 playing cards, a glass of plum brandy and the tail of a pig.
“‘And now I need not fear the nivashi vilas,’ said the shav.
“‘You are safe from the water’s evil,’ said the ababina.
“‘Then, please, Puri Dai, a draba against zracnae vilas.’
“‘There is draba to keep you safe from the air’s evil and this is it.’ The draba was complicated, requiring black garlic, the tail feather of a raven, a seashell, and a crucifix, but such a charm had marvelous strength.
“‘And now I need not fear the zracnae vilas,’ said the shav.
“‘You are safe from the air’s evil,’ said the ababina.
“For the first time in many years, the shav was happy. ‘I need not fear the puvushi vilas, the nivashi vilas, or the zracnae vilas. I am safe against the evils of the earth, the water, and the air. No beng can touch me!’
“At this, the ababina smiled, but her smile was mocking and knowing and more than a little sad. ‘Oh, but there is yet one more evil, my little shav, and it is the most cunning and fearsome evil. Yes, it is the greatest of all evil spirits.’
“‘Kako, Puri Dai,’ the shav said, a black cloud in his head and a roiling emptiness in his middle. ‘Please, Old Mother…’
“The ababina shook her head. ‘No, my dear little shav, there can be no draba against this evil spirit.’
“‘Then I am lost!’
“‘No, no,’ the ababina consoled him. ‘You can be aware of this evil spirit and thus always be on guard against it. Though you cannot rely on charms and spells, you can use your own mind and your own heart and your own soul to combat this wickedness, to resist both its attacks and its even more dangerous enticements. And now I will show you this evil.’
“And the ababina did.
“She held a mirror before the young man’s face.”
— | — | —
Twenty-Four
“I hate him. I hate his fucking guts.”
“But you don’t want to hate him?” Selena Lazone deliberately kept her tone neutral. But she was pleased to hear Kristin Heidmann vent her rage against Poppy. Anger directed against others was not anger that was directed against self, and it was self-anger and self-hate that had turned Kristin into a suicidal prostitute.
Kris had come a long way since the breakthrough, Selena reflected. In just under two weeks, you could see the change. The 14 year-old’s hair was now a single color, no longer a multicolored symbolic defiance. Kris spoke instead of snapped, replied to questions with words rather than a popping of gum or a bored, irritated sigh. Once or twice, Selena had caught the girl smiling instead of sneering.
“I guess I’m a shit for feeling like that. Hell, you shouldn’t hate your own grandfather.”
“Let’s not worry about ‘shouldn’t’ right now, Kris. Don’t worry about right and wrong. What do you feel?”
Kristin did not look at Selena. Her fingers were white-knuckled on the arms of the Danish modern chair. “Selena, I…I’m sorry he’s dead, you know, because if Poppy were here right now, I think I could kill him. Yeah, I know I could…”
Her voice trailed off.
“You’re that angry?” Selena said. She sat in her usual place, chair set so that with a slight turn of the head her clients could talk t
o themselves, to the wall or to their therapist, as they wished.
It was 9:25, halfway through Kristin Heidmann’s appointment. They’d changed Kristin’s time to Saturday mornings. Over half of Selena’s practice consisted of children and young adults; she reserved midweek evenings and Saturday mornings for the kids. They typically needed order and stability in their lives, had to feel like everybody else, and certainly did not need to miss school for an appointment with the shrink.
“Yeah, I’m mad,” Kristin said. She rocked forward, twisting to face Selena. “I’ve got a right to be, don’t I?”
“Why?” Selena challenged. “Didn’t you tell me Poppy told you that you were the one responsible?”
“Yeah, that’s what he kept telling me, but I wasn’t.”
“You were the one who led him on?”
“I didn’t! I was only a kid!”
“A rotten kid,” Selena said, her voice flatly condemning. “A no-good, wicked, born-evil kid. Six years old and hot to trot. You were a sexy, seductive, luring slut of a kid who turned a white-haired, pipe-smoking, mild-mannered, lemonade-drinking, sweet old Grampa into a dirty rotten child molester!”
“Bullshit!”
“Bullshit?” Selena’s eyes met Kristin’s and demanded a response.
“Yeah!” Kristin said. “Bullshit!”
Selena smiled. Quietly she said, “That is absolutely right, Kris. Bullshit.”
Kristin rubbed the knuckle of her thumb on her lower lip, perhaps to hide the twitch of a smile. She dipped her head and gazed at Selena through her eyelashes. “I see what you’re up to.”
“Tell me. Then we’ll both know.”
“You’re making me look at things, well, the way I ought to look at things.”
Out of the mouths of babes, Selena thought.
“Oh?” was Selena’s noncommittal response, the classic psychologist’s answer.
“It’s hard,” Kristin said.
“What’s that?”
“Seeing things the way they really are.”
Kristin abruptly rose and walked to the office window. With her back to Selena, she ran a finger along a slat of the Venetian blind. Then she too casually said, “I don’t know if I’ll ever see things the right way.”
