Perfect Little Angels

by Andrew Neiderman

  “Justine’s been a city girl all her life, and she had to leave all her friends,” her mother replied.

  “So? You were a city girl all your life,” Kevin Freeman said. “And you left friends behind.”

  “I’m not a teenager, Kevin.” Elaine shook her head and frowned at Christy. “Men. Such sensitive types!” Both women laughed.

  “Nevertheless, you’ll be amazed at how quickly Justine adjusts and forgets her past,” Christy said. For a moment, Justine felt as though she weren’t there, or as if they were observing her through thick glass walls and didn’t think she could hear what they said. “Like Dr. Lawrence always says, Elysian Fields has a way of winning you over,” Christy added, turning to her husband. “Right, honey?”

  “That’s what he says,” Michael confirmed. “The man himself. He says Elysian Fields has a way of protecting its inhabitants.” He took a deep breath and looked around. “It embraces us.” He spoke about the development as if it were a living thing.

  “That’s his house on the hill, right?” Elaine asked just before they all started for the front door. “The one with the fence around it?”

  “Uh-huh,” Michael said, smiling. He looked up at it with admiration. “We’ve become good friends, rather good friends. For me, it’s like having the brother I never had. An older and wiser brother. He’s helped Christy and me in a number of ways,” he said, glancing back at Justine. “And he will be able to help you, should you need him.”

  “I meant to ask you last time, Michael. Why does he have a fence around his land?” Elaine asked. Curious, Justine moved a little closer to hear the response.

  “His was the first house constructed in the area. Back then, Sandburg Creek was so rural, the fence was a necessity. When Elysian Fields was built, he never removed it. He likes his privacy. But don’t let that fool you,” he added quickly. “He’s a very sociable man. And creative in many ways. You know, he designed this place, even down to the shape and quality of the streetlights.”

  “Really?” Justine’s mother turned to look at the streetlights.

  “When those lights are on at night, it’s like daytime out here,” Michael said with great pride. Justine noticed he was gazing up at the streetlights the way people look up at a statue of Jesus in a church.

  “They do have a strange design,” Elaine said.

  Justine studied them, too. The blue-tinted, incandescent bulbs were housed in a rust brown, wood-faced container that seemed to be a natural extension of the pole. But the container was an unusual shape—wide in the center and narrow at the top, which pointed directly at their house like a finger of accusation.

  “Anyway,” Michael said. “I’m sure you’ll be impressed with Dr. Lawrence when you meet him. You’ll be surprised at his interest and concern for the development and all its inhabitants. He happens to be the president of the Elysian Fields Development Organization. We’ve elected him unanimously for the last ten years.”

  “Ten years? I thought you were here only five,” Kevin said, a quizzical smile on his face. Michael and Christy looked at one another as though to confirm.

  “Well, it seems like ten,” Michael said and laughed. “Right, honey?”

  “I’ve lost track,” Christy said. “Days and months just merge into one another and become a single line of time,” she said.

  Elaine Freeman nodded thoughtfully, but Justine thought the whole thing sounded weird.

  Probably only something a couple of artists would appreciate, she thought. She turned to look up at the house on the hill again, as though her eyes were drawn to it magnetically.

  “What kind of doctor is he?” Justine asked. The question just slipped out like a burp. She was embarrassed about it, but Michael Duke smiled.

  “He’s a psychologist. Started his career by working in schools, matter of fact. But he’s also well known as a nutritionist these days. We’re all proud to have him in our development.”

  “What’s his wife like?” Elaine asked.

  “That’s a tragedy,” Christy said. “She was killed in a car accident.” Her face took on what Justine thought was an exaggerated look of sorrow. It reminded her of an elementary school teacher reading a story to first graders.

  “Oh, that is terrible. And his children?” her mother asked.

  “His seventeen-year-old son was driving. They had only the one boy. The terrible thing was, his son was on marijuana,” Michael said. His face assumed a somber expression.

  Justine looked from him to Christy, then back to him. Because of their dramatic facial expressions, the couple seemed comical, even though they were discussing a tragic event.

  “My God. He lost his wife and son?” her mother said, moving closer to her father instinctively.

  “No, his son lived, but he had some problems. Guilt…whatever,” Michael Duke said, his expression changing to utter disgust.

  “How terrible,” Elaine said. “Institutionalized?”

  “No, he lives in the house. The doc has a nurse there full time.”

  “He’s in that kind of shape?” Kevin asked.

  “Well, he suffered a rather traumatic experience. But Dr. Lawrence is devoted to helping him, and is willing to go to any expense.

  “Anyway,” Michael said, his voice taking on a happier tone, “I’m sure Dr. Lawrence will make it a point to stop by and see you before long. He likes to greet newcomers personally, and he always brings a valuable gift along.”

  “What kind of gift?” Elaine asked, picking up the upbeat tone. “Something for the house?”

  “Better. Something for the inhabitants. As I said, he’s a nationally known expert in nutrition, and he has designed his own vitamin. You’re going to get more than a year’s supply for the entire family, and believe me, they make a difference. You know that Christy, my kids, and I have not had a single cold since we began taking them. Right, honey?”

  “Mike’s right,” she said. “I don’t even have headaches, anymore. I used to get horrible sinus headaches from time to time.” She turned to Justine. “And the vitamins make the boys so energetic. It even helps their brain power,” she said, pointing her forefinger at her temple.

  “Really?” Justine said dryly. She couldn’t see how anyone could get so excited about vitamins, even in today’s health-crazed world.

  Sensing Justine’s skepticism, Christy stepped back to her. “Really,” Christy said, putting her arm around Justine. “I’m so glad you’re here, honey. You’ll love it; you’ll see.”

  Justine smiled at her. Maybe there was something to the vitamins. Christy had such vibrancy. She was like a woman who would never age.

  “I can’t wait until he gives those vitamins to us,” Elaine said.

  “Neither can I,” Kevin added. “Justine can use some brain power.” He laughed.

  “Very funny, Daddy.”

  “I’m sure you won’t have to wait long,” Michael Duke said, smiling. “Dr. Lawrence knows you’re here.” As he turned to look up at the house again, Justine sensed that odd, religious air about him. And this time, though she couldn’t explain why, it gave her the creeps.

  She stared up at the house, too, and thought about Dr. Lawrence’s son. That aspect of Elysian Fields was interesting—the most interesting thing in the whole development, she thought.

  He stood in the bathroom with both hands held high, each of his forefingers bandaged tightly. They are still bleeding, he thought. Underneath the bandages, they are still bleeding, only she can’t see so she doesn’t know. If he didn’t hold his hands up like this, all of his blood would drip out on the tile floor. And then, he would collapse in a fold of skin and bones. His father would take his remains and hang them out on a clothesline in the back. After he shriveled and dried sufficiently, his father would put him in one of his albums, paste him to a page, and label him, “Homosapien Failure.”

  He would invite his puppet friends up here for a drink of carrot juice, and when they were all sitting around in the living room, he would say,
“Oh, by the way, does anyone want to see what became of my fucked-up son?”

  Of course, they would all want to see, and he would bring out the album and open it to the page. He would look up at them with disc eyes because, amazingly, he would still be alive even though pasted to the page. He would scream with this miniaturized voice, like the man who had become a fly in the first version of that horror film…“Help me, help me, help…” But no one would hear. Or even if they did, they would only look up and smile at his father. Who would smile back and say, “That’s his favorite word.”

  “You can put your hands down,” she said, snapping him out of his dream. He didn’t do it. “Put your hands down,” she commanded, and he did so immediately.

  All right, he thought. She’ll be sorry; she’ll have to clean it up.

  “What’s going on in here?”

  He turned to see his father, dressed for work, distinguished looking, as perfect as a mannequin. Where were his blemishes? Where were his cold sores? Where was his dandruff? Didn’t he miss a single hair when shaving? His skin was like alabaster. Maybe his super vitamin did work.

  “He went a little wild this morning,” she told him. She was putting the bandage wrappers into the wastebasket, being aseptic, neat, the immaculate nurse. No germs would ever touch those hands.

  “Wild? How?” he scowled.

  He hates to look at me, he thought. It puts him into pain. He could almost see the line of pain just under the skin of his father’s forehead, shooting back and forth like submerged lightning. He wondered if the electricity in his own head was as visible.

  “He punctured each forefinger and started writing on the window in his room.” She stopped working, put her hands on her wide hips, and considered him alongside the doctor.

  He stared back at them both. They were beginning to look like twins. She was growing his face. Something from his face contaminated her face, burrowed in her fat cheeks, and was now taking it over. Already she had his eyes and his mouth. The nose was coming. Soon the nose, then the forehead.

  “How did he puncture his finger?”

  “He got a hold of my needlepoint needle,” she said in the tone of a confession. The doctor’s eyebrows lifted. “I realize it was careless of me to leave the room without taking it,” she said quickly. “It won’t happen again.”

  “See that it doesn’t,” he said. He turned away, and then stopped. “What did he write on the window?”

  “He wrote ‘Help,’” she said and shrugged.

  The doctor smiled. “Interesting. Very interesting. Later on today, give him a note pad and a pen, but be sure he doesn’t puncture his skin with the pen, and let him write whatever he wants.”

  “Very well.” She nodded, then watched as the doctor left the room. “You see how you got me in trouble?” she snapped. “Take off your pajamas and step into the shower. Move it!”

  He did so, and she turned on the water, keeping it ice cold. As always, he stood under the spigot, screaming while the water ran over his body.

  “Scrub yourself,” she said, handing him the soap. “Then rinse off.”

  After he did that, she handed him a towel.

  “Wipe yourself dry and go to your chair.”

  “No food?” This morning, he remembered what his mouth and his teeth and his tongue were for, and the memory encouraged him.

  “Afterward,” she said. “You’ll be hungry. We’ll both be hungry.” When he was dry, she took his towel and nudged him down the hallway to the room with the chair. The door was opened, so he walked in and sat down.

  He faced the windows that opened to the rear of the house. From this room, he could see only the wooded area his father had not permitted to be developed. In fact, no land above their house had been touched. Images of himself playing in the forest flashed across his eyes, but all of them were disjointed. It was like turning the channels rapidly on a television set.

  He saw himself camping out, running, chopping wood, and hiking through the forest. Someone was walking alongside him in a few of these images, someone he liked a great deal. Who was it? She held his hand, but when he turned to look into her face, she had no head. He struggled with that visual memory, but struggling did no good.

  Suddenly there was a humming in his ears, and then he heard the nurse enter behind him. Without saying a word, she walked past him. She was totally naked. Her stomach ballooned like the belly of a pregnant woman, and her skin was almost as white as her uniform. Rolls of fat under her breasts jiggled as though they were small, rubber tubes filled with water.

  She didn’t look at him, but merely walked across the room to open the other door. The familiar hum emerged from the connecting room. Like Pavlov’s dog, he anticipated what was next, and shifted in his seat, spreading his legs to make himself more comfortable. He heard that high-pitch ringing, and suddenly his penis became erect, rising like a mole that had been sleeping between his legs. He looked down at it with surprise.

  A moment later, she reappeared, a smile on her face. She came to him and put her right palm on his chest. He looked up at her and saw that she was miraculously changed. She was beautiful. She looked like Rhonda Thomas, that girl he’d had such a crush on when he was a senior. Her eyes were just as blue; her nose was just as cute and small; her long, flowing red hair gleamed as richly.

  She had Rhonda’s body, too: well-shaped, firm breasts that peaked at the nipples, a slim torso, and a narrow waist. Her peaches and cream skin looked so inviting. He wanted to press his lips everywhere on her body.

  “Come on,” she said, taking his hand. “You’re cooked.” He heard her laugh, but it was a distant sound, as if it came from the television set in the other room. He rose from the seat and followed her to the bed.

  She lay back, then pulled him to her, working him between her legs as though he were made of clay and she had to mold him. She fit him to her, then placed her stubby hand on his buttocks and pulled him forward roughly, her hands like cold claws.

  “My fringe benefits,” she said, and she laughed again until her laughter ended with a series of moans.

  Oh, Rhonda, he thought, I love you so. I mean it; it’s not a line. I’m not just saying this to get you to be with me. You are the most beautiful girl in Sandburg Creek.

  He kept his eyes closed. Somehow, it was all right. He was really making love to Rhonda again. The hum from the next room grew louder and louder until he climaxed, and then it turned back into a high-pitched ringing.

  She pushed him away from her and dismounted the bed. Then, she went back into the next room. A moment later, she reappeared, a smile on her face.

  Why was she smiling? he wondered, and didn’t she look disgusting without clothing?

  “Breakfast is on its way,” she said, “and then we’ll go into the laboratory and finish the work your father set out for us to do.”

  He watched her leave the room; then stared at the chair. Wasn’t he just sitting on it? How did he get to this bed?

  Why did he have these bandages on his fingers?

  And who was that woman holding his hand in the forest, the woman with no head?

  He brought his hands to his ears and pressed as hard as he could. If only he could crack his head open and spill the answers out on the floor. He had to find a way to do that; he had to.

  Justine stood by her father’s Mercedes in the driveway and gazed forlornly at the moving men as they carried one piece of furniture after another from the van to the house. With each piece of furniture lugged from the van to the house, the reality was driven home. She was here, separated from her friends, ripped out of the world she had known and loved. It all seemed so unfair.

  Saying good-bye to her friends had been painful, even though everyone had promised to visit. She thought Mindy Boston would probably be the only one to actually make the trip, and that was only if Justine’s parents permitted Mindy to visit. She knew her father didn’t like Mindy, but she couldn’t help feeling sorry for the girl for exactly the reasons her fa
ther disapproved of her.

  In Justine’s mind, she was Mindy’s best friend. Although Mindy had other friends, none of them helped keep her out of trouble as much as Justine did. Whenever she was with the others, she was apt to smoke pot or shoplift or get a little too wild.

  Of course, Justine’s parents were afraid it would work the other way around. Instead of her influencing Mindy for the better, Mindy would influence her for the worse. She could understand their fears; she just felt she was stronger than they thought she was. And, anyway, there were other things about Mindy that she liked. Justine liked the wild way her friend dressed, sometimes looking like Madonna, sometimes looking like Vanity; Mindy had once “jazzed her hair,” streaking it green! No one else she knew had the nerve to do things like that. Mindy was special. Justine liked her offbeat view of other kids, and her cynical view of school. Mindy was a renegade, but she could also be a lot of fun.

  Justine turned and looked at herself in the window of the car, straightening a few strands of hair. She knew she looked much older than fifteen, and it wasn’t only because she had a full bosom and a firm, mature body. She had developed a look of sophistication, an awareness that suggested experience beyond her years. It had come naturally to her. She was very bright and very perceptive, even though she was the first to admit she rarely applied her intelligence fully to schoolwork.

  Physically, she resembled her father. She had his rusty brown hair and his hazel green eyes, and often took on some of his facial expressions, like pressing her teeth down on her lower lips and nearly closing her eyes when she was angry or frustrated. She was two inches taller than Elaine, but she had Elaine’s graceful hands and shoulders. Although she had Kevin’s smile, she had Elaine’s diminutive features.

  She was about to go back into the house to help her parents unpack when she noticed the half dozen teenagers coming up the hill toward her house, walking so closely together they looked attached. They were led by Brad Duke.

  “Hi,” Brad said as they came up the driveway. Justine thought he had rich looking, light brown hair, even though he kept it too short and wet looking. Brad’s big, vividly blue eyes were unforgettable. She couldn’t remember being so taken by a boy’s eyes. There was a hunger in them, a curiosity. Her mother had told her Brad inherited his father’s intense look, but Justine found more innocence in the way his eyes fixed on her. It was as if she held as much interest for him as would a teenage girl from another country.