The Maddening

by Andrew Neiderman

  On the porch, he sank to his knees and cupped the Cabbage Patch doll to his chest gingerly, as though it were fragile. Of course there must be a million of these dolls, he thought, but he was positive this one was Sooey. In fact, as he lifted it again he could almost hear his daughter pronouncing the name.

  The discovery flooded him with excitement. The odd feelings he had had earlier must have been on target. Almost on cue, he heard the sound of a child’s laughter chime out again. Sensing someone nearby, he looked up and saw the woman’s face in the window again. Her look of terror and fear alerted him to his own danger, but far too late to avert events.

  The chain flew down over his head and was tightened around his neck before he could offer any resistance. The doll seemed to jump out of his hands. He remembered reaching out for it and thinking Sooey as he was jerked backward and dragged down the porch steps. The links of the chain cut into his neck under his chin. He reached up in vain to relieve some of the pressure but by the time he took a secure hold of the metal, he was already on the threshold of unconsciousness.

  Gerald was not happy about having to tow the car into the woods, even though he had successfully maneuvered it into place behind the blue Ford. In the fall, with the trees leafless, both vehicles would be quite visible to anyone who ventured off the road and over the knoll. Granted, hardly anyone but hunters would penetrate this far into the countryside, but even so, he didn’t like the cars being there. One was okay. Trespassing hunters would think it was an abandoned stolen car left by teenagers, and then forget about it after they’d finished their sport. But two might be puzzling—and memorable. He would have to figure some other way to conceal them. It occurred to him that he could bring the backhoe out and dig a pit. Of course, he would have to do it at night. One of his nosy neighbors would be sure to come around if he did such work during daylight hours.

  As he drove his tractor back to the house, however, he felt cocooned by a sense of contentment that was akin to security. When the man looking for the woman and child had first pulled up he couldn’t help being afraid for Irene. There was always the chance the man would circle back; there was always the danger of discovery. Now the possibility of discovery seemed quite remote.

  All this made him hungry and he thought about the good meal Irene had been working on all day long. He was sure that when he got back to the house, the scent of her apple pie would be strong. His stomach churned in anticipation.

  There were so many good things about Irene. She was certainly a great cook, a perfectionist when it came to following his mother’s old recipes. And she was so neat and organized as she busied herself with the task of feeding him. She kept the recipes on lined two-by-four cards in a small file cabinet in the cupboard above the sink. She had her appetizers, entrees, and desserts separated by tabbed index cards.

  She did their books the same way, employing her abilities for meticulous detail to add up household expenses to the penny. Pa never appreciated her for that. He didn’t set much store by those things. He was wrong, Gerald thought defiantly, feeling safe within the confines of his own thoughts. Of course, it was always easier to be critical of his father when he was away from the house. It was difficult, if not impossible, to do so inside. There were too many reminders, too many of his father’s possessions lying about, staring him in the face, threatening him.

  Pa often could be like Uncle Harry: ridiculously stubborn. How many times did his mother tell them the story of Uncle Harry’s refusal to use indoor bathroom facilities? “The outhouse was good enough for my father; it’s good enough for me,” he would proclaim. Eventually he gave in, of course, but what was the point of the resistance in the first place?

  “He had to grow into it,” his mother explained when as a young boy he probed her. “Just like your father, he had to grow into everything that wasn’t there before. They trust only what they know. Don’t you be like that. Don’t you be a stubborn old fool.”

  He missed his mother often these days. He missed their talks; he missed her witticisms and homespun philosophy. At least there was some chatter in the house and you weren’t haunted by the echo of your own voice. Or worse, by Pa’s voice, babbling away, screaming accusations, acting erratic, volatile…

  He felt sorry for Irene in those last days, in the early years of his marriage, but what could he do? He couldn’t throw the old man out of the house that had been his, could he? She’d slap her hands over her ears and grimace and beg Gerald to make his father stop. “Do what he wants; give him what he wants,” she’d cry.

  Sometimes he did; sometimes he quieted him down. But most of the time, the old man wanted things that were impossible to give or to get. He, Gerald, couldn’t muscle the farm back to the way it was, could he? Not by himself.

  He cut these thoughts short when the house came into view and he let his mind drift back to the woman upstairs. The memory of those erotic moments brought a flush to his face. He had a greater hunger, one he knew would become all-consuming. There was really nothing to prevent him from satisfying it, and that knowledge brought him the kind of excitement he had almost forgotten existed. It filled him with joy and optimism. There were going to be good days ahead. Shirley had her playmate; Irene had her peace of mind and happiness; and he…he would have his distractions.

  Marlene had almost been a distraction. She was darker, not as pretty as this woman, but somehow more compliant. She had tried to seduce her way out from their grip, being weaker in spirit than the new woman, who constantly resisted and probed for means of escape. But Gerald was more repelled than attracted to Marlene, so he hadn’t done anything when she tried to foist herself on him, dressed in sheer gowns, calling to him when Irene was cooking and he was passing through the hallway. He’d clamped chains on her just to keep her in line. Still, it hurt him to have to do away with her. He couldn’t have Irene see her that way, crying and screaming.

  An image flashed into his mind: Marlene’s head caving in as he struck her again and again with the shovel, mounds of hay behind them in the barn where he’d taken her…

  He gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles whitened, then he shook his head to free it of the image. He was good at this kind of control, and soon the image sank back into the dark corners from where it had stirred.

  Gerald sighed, then parked the tractor beside the barn and carried the chains back to the barn. When he came out, he squinted into the light from the west. The weakened rays of the departing sun left a glow in the thick green foliage. Shadows had begun to swell into large pools of darkness, looking to him like creatures of night emerging to cannibalize the daylight. Somewhere on the highway to the southeast a car horn sounded and then died.

  Even though he and Irene now spent most of their time on the farm, he was always vaguely conscious of the world that lay just beyond the four acres of forest bordering their property on the south and east. He knew that in that world darkness neither dropped so quickly nor so securely around the homes. Streetlights held the shadows at bay and there was nowhere near as much silence.

  People seemed afraid of the silence. They surrounded themselves with as much noise as possible. They couldn’t work without radios playing; they couldn’t eat without talking. He had a theory that they were afraid of their own thoughts.

  Irene never complained about the farm’s isolation. She was a shy person from the start. Why, she hadn’t even gone out on one real date before he had met her. In school, she was a loner just like he was. Ironically, though, she was afraid of her children being alone.

  “I don’t want them to be like I was,” she told him. “It’s no good to have only yourself, Gerald. Loneliness is the worst thing. It makes you…it makes you shrivel up inside.”

  She was thinking of Arthur, of course; but he knew it was ridiculous to blame what happened to him on his having no companionship. If anything, companionship would have frustrated him. He wouldn’t have been able to do the same things his playmate could do and he would have cried out of frustratio
n.

  But Shirley was a different problem. In regards to her it was easier to accept Irene’s theories. Shirley wasn’t learning anything or learning fast enough. It was important for her to be around other people. Her little brother, Arthur, hadn’t been much help, though she inflicted herself on the paper-thin, ailing boy who cried whenever she was around.

  “You know, when kids play,” Irene said, “they don’t just play; they teach each other things. That’s why it’s so important that they get a chance to play.”

  Her theory made sense, he thought. Shirley hung around him a great deal, but he couldn’t teach her anything she needed to know. During the school year, other kids didn’t want to come around and none of them ever invited Shirley to their houses. She was always alone. It wasn’t fair; it wasn’t right. But most of all, it made Irene terribly unhappy.

  He started for the house, but she was at the back door before he reached out to open it.

  “What happened to the man?” she asked. He stared over her shoulder.

  “I’m starving,” he said. “Wow, does that pie smell good.”

  “Gerald? She stepped back when he glared at her. “What happened to the man?” she repeated in a softer voice.

  “I don’t want to talk about him now. There’s time for that later. Just don’t worry. Where are the children?”

  “I have Shirley running the bath. Donna is filthy. They were playing savages.”

  “What about…what about Marlene?”

  “Oh, she’s resting comfortably,” Irene said. “The poor thing is so tired. She tried to undress herself and stopped in the middle.” Irene had apparently stumbled on the woman in the half-dressed state Gerald had left her in.

  “What did you do?”

  “I undressed her and tucked her into bed. Later tonight, I think I’d better help her take a bath, don’t you think?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I’ll go check on the children.”

  “Oh, would you? Thank you, Gerald. I was about to set the table.”

  “The kids should be helping you.”

  “Oh, they will; they will. Tomorrow night. Shirley is just so excited about having a playmate.”

  “Still, they have to learn to do their chores.”

  “I know, Gerald. Don’t start. I know.”

  He stared at her for a moment. He could see she was waiting for him to soften, but his stern expression remained. His father’s coffee mug glared at him from the small shelf above the stove. It was a large, dark brown ceramic cup used by his father for years. He had been tempted to use it at times, but never could get himself to do it.

  “I’m hungry,” he repeated.

  “As soon as the kids are ready, we’ll eat.”

  “Then I’ll move them along.”

  He went on through the house and up the stairs, pausing at the woman’s doorway. He looked in and saw her head turned to the right, the covers tucked snugly around her body and up to her chin. Shirley’s shout from the bathroom pulled his attention away.

  She had the little girl in the tub. The water was coming out of the faucet full force and the girl was crying and struggling to get out. He pulled Shirley away roughly and felt the water.

  “This is too damn hot,” he said. “Can’t you tell that?”

  “Mommy said to make it hot.”

  “Not this hot. You want to scald her? You want to hurt her and not have a playmate?”

  “No.” Shirley looked down at the floor. She was naked, too, and he saw where she had painted black circles around her budding breasts.

  “What the hell…why’d you do that for?”

  “What?”

  “Paint yourself and her there?”

  “I saw it in a magazine. Want me to get it?”

  “No, damn it. Just get into this tub,” he commanded and turned the faucet on cold until the water cooled to lukewarm. He helped them into the tub, then handed the little girl a washrag and another one to Shirley. “Scrub off that shit,” he said. “And make it fast. I want to eat.”

  Tami looked up at him, her face wrinkled with fear and pain. She kept herself from bawling aloud, but she couldn’t keep her chin from trembling.

  “I want my…mother,” she said.

  “Get clean first. You can’t let your mother see you like this, can you?”

  “She did before,” Shirley said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “We heard her calling and went to the door and she asked me to get Donna, and so I did.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “She started to scream so I pulled Donna ’way and we went to the basement.” She had forced the bawling Tami into the Bad Box again as further punishment, closing the lid with the leash hanging out. But after several moments, she had grown bored and set her free again—neglecting to mention this to her father now.

  “So that’s what happened. All right, clean up,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Gerald,” Irene called from the foot of the steps. “Should I come up to help them?”

  “No. It’s all right. I’ve got this under control. Just get dinner ready.”

  “Okay,” she said. He heard her walk back to the kitchen. He hesitated a moment and then went to Stacey’s room. The only light within was the light that came from the hallway. He flicked on the switch and walked to the bed. He waited a moment, but she didn’t move. He pushed her shoulder. He heard her groan, but she didn’t turn his way.

  Slowly, he lowered the cover down over her body. Irene had told the truth. She had stripped the woman nude. He stared down, feeling the excitement build within him. He wanted to do something, but he wasn’t sure what. He sat on the bed and ran the palm of his hand up her leg to her buttocks, where he stopped to prod her soft parts. Then he followed the small of her back to her shoulders. His fingers gripped the back of her neck as he lost himself in fantasy, punctured when Shirley began to call.

  He unfolded the cover back over Stacey’s body, tucking it in the way he had found her. He went back to the children. Tami stood awkwardly as Shirley wiped her body roughly with the bath towel.

  “Not so hard,” he said. “Do you have to be rough about everything you do?”

  She backed away quickly and began to wipe herself. Tami looked up at him fearfully. He studied the child for a few moments. He could see that she would grow to be soft and beautiful like her mother. The differences between her and Shirley were emphatic. Shirley was big-boned and wide in the back and waist. He doubted that she would ever have a woman’s gentle curves. Her thighs were already too heavy, and her ankles and wrists were thick like a boy’s should be. There were marks of beauty on her—like the high cheekbones—but those distortions of her features erased whatever effect they might have had. Sadness engulfed him.

  “Come on, let’s get her dressed,” he said.

  He pulled the dress over Tami’s head and then told her to put on her own shoes and socks. Shirley watched stupidly until he reprimanded her. When they were finished, he herded them out of the bathroom. Tami stopped tentatively in front of Stacey’s room, but she didn’t attempt to enter. Gerald scooped her up into his arms.

  “Carry me, too; carry me, too,” Shirley cried.

  “Just walk,” he said. She grimaced and then glared at Tami with an expression mixed with envy and hate.

  Tami nearly lost her breath when Gerald picked her up so abruptly. Again she wanted to cry out and again she recognized that it was dangerous to do so. Gerald’s grip was too firm; his fingers pressed into her thigh. He had grasped her under the skirt of the dress, brushing her private parts, and the roughness of his hands chafed her tender skin. But she didn’t struggle against him. She held her breath and bit her lower lip, bracing herself in subconscious anticipation of what was yet to come.

  6

  Chicky Ross pulled into the parking lot at the station and turned off the car engine quickly in order to stop the rattling of his obviously loosened exhaust pipe. He cursed his brother-in-law under his
breath. The bastard did a half-assed job again. It was a no-win situation. He couldn’t go to another mechanic because if he did, Maggie would be insulted. Hell, Sonny would be insulted, even though the son of a bitch screwed him almost every time just because he got labor free and wholesale prices on parts. I’d rather pay the whole toll, he thought, and get the work done right.

  He sat back in the car seat and reached into his top pocket for his cigarette. For the last two weeks, he had carried only the one in an attempt to stop smoking. It was a promise he had made to himself, to Maggie, and to Doctor Martin. There was also something about losing thirty pounds. He put the cigarette in his mouth, but left it unlit. Instead, he sat there imagining the taste of the tobacco. He started to draw on it and then felt stupid and quickly put the cigarette back into his pocket.

  No one had seen him. It was after six. The post office had closed and there was very little traffic on the street fronting the police station. As well as keeping in touch with developments on the Oberman affair, he had been investigating a burglary at the home of Florence Siegle in Mountaindale. She owned a bungalow colony, and it looked more and more to him that the solution lay with the handyman. He felt positive the guy had taken the money and the jewelry and hidden it somewhere on the property. In a few days, he would be gone. Chicky was sure of it. In the meantime he called in and asked Harry to complete a rundown on the man.

  Throughout the day, however, he couldn’t keep his attention off the missing person’s case. He kept reviewing the conversation he had had with David Oberman and the discussions he had had with Cynthia Grossman, Judy Davis, the state police, and some of the local police who patrolled the route she should have taken. He had asked David to check in with him during his search, but so far he’d received no radio call. It was odd, very odd.

  Oberman’s neighbor, Cynthia Grossman, had confirmed that the Oberman marriage, although not in trouble, wasn’t an Alice-in-Wonderland affair. Apparently Stacey Oberman had been complaining more and more about how her husband’s work took him away from the family.