Perfect Little Angels

by Andrew Neiderman

  “Hi,” she said. Justine just stared out at her. “Don’t you remember me? I’m Lois.”

  “Oh, yeah, sure. Come in,” Justine said, backing away.

  Lois entered tentatively and looked about the house. She was dressed in an oversized black sweat shirt with SANDBURG FOOTBALL SQUAD printed in gold on the back. Her jeans were dark blue and tight at the calf muscles. She wore a pair of light pink sneakers, and white tube socks.

  “Your parents went to the meeting too, huh?”

  “Yes. Yours did?”

  “Never missed one in two years. That’s how long we’ve been here,” she said. “You see, unlike Brad, I can remember,” she added. She peered through the entranceway as though she didn’t trust Justine and thought her parents might still be there.

  “Where are you from?” Justine asked.

  “Bridgeport, Connecticut,” Lois replied. She continued to look about the foyer, reminding Justine of a curious dog, sniffing and studying its environment.

  “So, how do you like it here?” Lois asked cautiously.

  Justine shrugged. “It’s all right, I guess.” She glanced toward the doorway as an image of the pool and the beautiful grounds flashed before her. “It’s very beautiful,” she added.

  “Uh-huh,” Lois said and nodded, as if confirming a diagnosis. She stared at Justine, then looked away quickly. “You’ve got a nice house, too. And I love your room,” she added, her voice a little louder. It was as if she were saying things so someone would hear them. Did she still think her parents were hiding behind a door?

  “Thank you,” Justine said, then thought a moment. “You were in my room?”

  “When you first moved in. I was with the other kids who helped. Don’t you remember?” Lois grimaced. “You don’t, do you?”

  “Yeah, I do,” Justine said defensively, but she really didn’t.

  “But you remember Dr. Lawrence visiting you, don’t you?” Lois said accusingly. For a moment, Justine just stared at her. The girl seemed so angry about it. She nodded, though she felt guilty, as if she were confessing to a crime.

  “Yes. He was here. We all sat in the living room and talked.”

  “And he brought you a present…his vitamins,” Lois said. “And you’ve been taking them,” Lois added as if finishing a story. She shook her head and turned back to the door. “I’ve got to go.”

  “Wait. Why do you have to go so soon? Can’t you stay awhile and talk? School starts tomorrow, right?” she asked quickly to keep the girl there.

  “Now you can’t wait, huh?” Lois asked, smirking. “When we first talked about it, you weren’t very interested.”

  “Well, it’s boring just doing nothing, and starting at a new school can be exciting,” Justine said. “Come on in. Nobody else is here,” she added, taking Lois’s arm gently to lead her. Lois reluctantly followed her in and sat on the couch. She looked around blankly. Justine sat on her blue chair and stared at her expectantly. “Are the boys nice?”

  “Just like any place else,” Lois said. “There are nice ones, and there are ones that aren’t so nice. The townies are different.”

  “Townies?”

  “Kids from Sandburg Creek who don’t live in Elysian Fields. You’ll see. They think we’re stuck up,” she said. And then she muttered, “And they’re right.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Look, I’ve got to get back and see what my little brother’s doing. I’m responsible when my parents go out.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Ten, and he’s a brat.”

  Justine nodded as if she knew. Lois got up abruptly. She was determined to leave.

  “Why did you come here if you had to go so quickly?” Justine asked. She wasn’t angry; she was just curious.

  “You wouldn’t understand. Not now. Maybe later,” she added, speaking rapidly. She started for the entryway. Justine rose quickly and followed her out to the door.

  “Why wouldn’t I understand?” she asked.

  Lois looked around. “You can’t when you’re in here—or anywhere on the grounds of Elysian Fields,” she said.

  “Huh?”

  “Forget it.”

  “This isn’t very nice, leaving me like this,” Justine said. “It makes me feel peculiar, like I did something to hurt your feelings.”

  “And that bothers you,” Lois said in a dry monotone, as if reciting something she had been hearing for years and years.

  “Yes. And that’s not fair,” Justine added quickly.

  Lois contemplated her a moment. “I came to tell you something, but I don’t know if it matters now.”

  “What?” Justine’s eyes widened with interest.

  Lois peered into her face, as if looking for a blemish. “Your tapes,” she said.

  “Tapes?” A smile froze on Justine’s face.

  “Janet smashed them. I saw her do it.”

  “Smashed them?” Justine tilted her head, then looked up toward her room. “Smashed them?”

  “Didn’t you find your cassette tapes smashed?” Lois asked.

  Justine didn’t respond.

  Lois shook her head. “I told you, it doesn’t matter now.” She opened the front door. “I’ll see you in the morning, since we all usually walk to school together. We meet at the bottom of the hill, by the security gate.”

  “Okay,” Justine said, realizing the girl was determined to leave. “Thanks for stopping by.”

  “Yeah,” Lois said, smirking again.

  Justine watched her go down the walkway to the road. Then she closed the door and started back to the living room, thinking about the things Lois had said. Something lingered in her mind. She looked at the stairway, and then started up to her room.

  When she got to her room, she went to her cassette container and peered inside. Her father had bought her a number of new tapes. They were still unwrapped. She had put them there herself.

  Why did he bring her the new tapes?

  What did Lois mean when she’d said that Janet had smashed them? Why was it so hard to remember unpleasant things about this place? And why had she forgotten her old friends—her old life—so quickly? She shrugged, and then went downstairs to wait for her parents. She fell asleep in her favorite chair, waiting, and woke up when she heard them come in.

  “What are you doing?” her mother asked her. Her parents stood side by side in the doorway looking in at her. They had strange expressions on their faces, scowls that suggested they had caught her doing something illicit. Justine rubbed her eyes, trying to remember what she’d been doing.

  “I just fell asleep in the chair, I guess.” She shrugged, unable to think of anything she had done to upset them.

  “You just sat there in a chair all this time?” her father said. “You didn’t pick up a book, or do something worthwhile with your time?”

  “I wanted to watch television,” she remembered, “but—”

  “Forget television. You can live without television for a couple of nights,” he snapped.

  Justine felt her face crumble.

  “How about we all have a nice hot chocolate?” Elaine said suddenly, “and relax,” she added, but she made it sound like some kind of psychological technique. “Come on, Justine. Help me in the kitchen.”

  Justine followed her mother out of the living room, walking past her father, who glared at her with a look of annoyance. She was frightened by the fire in his eyes, something she rarely saw there.

  “We had a wonderful meeting,” her mother began in the kitchen. “We met a lot of nice people, and had a great discussion. You’re going to love it here. We all will. And Dr. Lawrence…he is such a charming and resourceful man. We told him we were thinking about getting another car, you know, since I’ll be driving again, and he introduced us to a car dealer who practically made your father a rock bottom offer on the spot. Such cooperation…such eagerness to help one another.” She paused. Justine was standing in the kitchen doorway, listening. Elaine smiled.

&nb
sp; “Look at me, going on and on like a chatterbox. Can you ever remember me a chatterbox? You know how I hate sitting around and gossiping. I hate clubs and I hate organizations with weekly meetings and organized activities and…what’s the matter? Why are you staring at me like that?” She brought her small hands to the bottom of her throat.

  “Nothing. I don’t know,” Justine said quickly. “I was so bored. Mom,” she said, grateful for the idea that was returning. “You said I might be able to go to the city to visit my friends. You said we would talk about it.”

  “Absolutely out of the question,” her father said, coming up behind her. “Forget it.”

  “But Daddy, you said—”

  “I never said anything about it. It’s a bad idea.”

  “Yes, you did,” she continued. “Right before you two left for the meeting. I had just called Mindy and—”

  “And that’s another thing. I don’t want you to have anything to do with the likes of Mindy Boston. She’s a bad influence. Now that you’re out here—”

  “That’s not fair. You’re lying. You did say we could talk about it. You’re lying!” Justine exclaimed, her face reddening.

  “Justine!” Her mother stepped forward.

  “You’re both lying. And I hate you for it. I hate you!” she screamed and ran from the kitchen.

  She rushed upstairs to her room and closed her door. Then she went to the front window and stared down at the street. She wanted desperately to cry, but the tears wouldn’t come. It was as though they were being blocked, and the frustration was so great, it made her heart pound.

  She turned from the window in disgust and started for her cassette recorder, but almost as soon as she had inserted the tape, she stopped. There was a gentle ringing in her ears. She listened to it for a moment, then returned to the window.

  The streetlights of Elysian Fields made it look as though the sun shone only on the development, even at night. She could see the pool and the tennis courts and the pretty houses, all neatly arranged.

  “It is beautiful here,” she muttered in a monotone reminiscent of a recording.

  There was a soft knock on her door.

  “Justine?” her mother called softly.

  “Yes?”

  “We’re going to sleep now, honey.”

  She went to the door and opened it. Her father and mother stood there, both staring at her expectantly. Neither parent looked angry now.

  “Night, Mom. Night, Dad,” she said. Her mother kissed her.

  “Night, princess,” her father said. She kissed him. “Don’t you think it’s wonderful here?” he said.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I can’t wait for the morning,” her mother said. “I want to get right to my new painting. I can’t remember ever having such enthusiasm for my work. Dr. Lawrence was right—being in a beautiful, serene environment does stimulate the creativity. Aren’t you happy Daddy brought us here?”

  “Yes,” Justine said. “I’m happy.”

  “Great,” Kevin said, raising his arms in an overly dramatic gesture.

  Were her parents drunk? Had booze been served at their meeting? The possibility brought a smile to her face, but her father misinterpreted her amusement and his smile widened.

  “Sleep tight,” he said. “And don’t let the bed bugs bite.”

  “Oh, Kevin,” her mother said, “there are no bed bugs here.” They started toward their bedroom.

  “I know that. I’m just joking,” he said.

  Then she turned away from the door, and feeling very contented, got ready for bed.

  It was only moments after she’d pulled the soft cotton blanket around her that she fell asleep, unable and unwilling to think of anything at all.

  4

  There was something different about this morning, he thought as soon as he opened his eyes. He felt lighter, stronger, more alert. And the sunlight coming through the window didn’t have that usual yellowish tint that reminded him of banana skins. It was cleaner, softer, and brighter than ever. Most importantly, it filled him with an energy he couldn’t recall having for some time. He didn’t have this usual indifference to waking up, either. Now he was impatient with the nurse. She should have already come to unfasten the straps.

  He called out and waited, called out and waited. Soon he heard her ponderous footsteps in the hall, and the door opened. She stood there in her diaphanous nightgown, her large breasts pointed accusingly at him, the nipples like slices of carrot. She put her hands on her hips, and pressed her large, worm-colored lips together until she looked like a fish. Her dull black hair was unpinned, and it draped around her head unevenly, some of the strands curling up, some hanging limply.

  “I want to get up,” he said. “I have to go to the bathroom, and I want to get dressed and have breakfast and take a walk through the woods.”

  “I want, I want,” she said. “As soon as he reduces the dosages, you remember to want. I’m not a baby-sitter.”

  “You’ll have to change my diaper if you don’t let me up,” he said, and she laughed.

  “I forgot you have a sense of humor,” she said, coming over to him. She began to unfasten the straps, deliberately leaning across him so her breasts would graze his chest. They felt like two water-filled balloons.

  As soon as he was free, he sat up. He washed his face with his dry palms, excited by the feel of his own skin, by the realization that he was touching his mouth, his nose, and running his fingers over his closed eyes.

  “It’s me,” he said. “I’ve been sleeping with myself, for a change.”

  “Congratulations. You remember how to go to the bathroom, don’t you? You remember you’ve got to point your pecker at the toilet and not at the sink, right?”

  “Sure. No worries.”

  “Easy for you to say. You don’t have to clean it up. Go on,” she commanded, and he slipped off the bed and hurried to the bathroom. There was a moment when he had to actually consider the two porcelain objects and make a conclusion as to which was the toilet, but that moment passed quickly.

  When he was finished, he came out and dressed himself before she returned to tell him his breakfast was on the table. He put on his dark blue cotton, short-sleeved shirt, and a pair of light blue slacks that had been hanging in the rear of his closet for ages. They were still sharply pressed. For a moment, he recalled a scene in school—his friends kidding him about the creases in his pants always being so sharp, so perfect.

  As a result, one afternoon he had come home after school and had taken all his pants out of his closet. He’d put them on a chair and sat on them, ruining their sharp creases. His father had been upset, but his friends had loved it. He could still see them—dozens of kids standing up in the cafeteria when he entered, everyone applauding.

  “Eugene lost his crease; Eugene lost his crease,” they cheered.

  He smiled like an impish cherub who had deserted God and joined forces with Lucifer. In Hell, none of the sinners have a sharp crease in their pants.

  The memory faded almost as quickly as the images and words had appeared, and he looked around guiltily. His father might find out what he had been thinking about.

  He hurried out to the kitchen, looking at everything as though for the first time: the plaques on the walls; the family pictures; the grandfather clock, its face looking stern and austere; the place whose molding he’d nicked when he’d brought his bike in the house. His father had refused to have it repaired. It was to remain as a reminder.

  There were dozens of reminders all over the house—every tear in the furniture, every muddy fingerprint on the walls—symbols of the times he’d misbehaved as a child. The house was a museum, tracing his behavioral development. There would be no escape, no forgetting. “We must be haunted by our deeds; it’s the only way to grow,” his father proclaimed in his Ten Commandment style. In his dreams, his father stood bedecked in a long, flowing robe, looking out over Elysian Fields.

  “Behold what I have made,” he said, raisin
g his arms with a flourish.

  As soon as he got to the kitchen, he sat down and began to eat his breakfast. He gulped down the orange juice like one who was afraid all his food would be seized, and attacked the bowl of cereal, enjoying the taste and the crunchy sensation between his teeth.

  She was drinking a cup of coffee and standing against the far wall, peering at him over her cup. Then he heard his father’s footsteps and paused.

  “Eugene looks rather together this morning,” his father said, coming into the kitchen. He took a glass out of the cabinet and poured himself some orange juice.

  He couldn’t take his eyes off his father.

  “He didn’t need me to do anything for him this morning,” she said.

  “Oh?” His father turned around and studied him with clinical eyes, scrutinizing, peering down through an invisible microscope. “Yes, I see. So, Eugene,” he said. “What are you thinking about this morning?”

  “I wanted to go for a walk through the woods. Maybe just run between the trees, hop over stumps, plow through bushes, listen to the birds scream.”

  “You think the birds scream?”

  “When someone invades their place, yes.”

  He looked at the nurse as if to say, “See?” Then he poured himself some coffee, and came to the table.

  “You know you’re a sick boy, don’t you? You know I’m treating you myself, trying to make you better than you were before. You remember all that, right?”

  “Some of it,” he said. He didn’t remember anything like that, but he knew enough to agree. His father, still staring at him closely, nodded. Then he thought of a question. At first he was afraid to ask it, but his father sensed his hesitation. He was beginning to think his father could really see into his head. When he was younger, he had that fear because other kids his age, kids whom his father treated, told him they felt he could see into theirs.

  “What is it? Something’s troubling you, right? What do you want to know?”

  “What…what was wrong with me?” he asked. His cereal spoon remained poised between his mouth and the bowl. He looked quickly at the nurse to see if she would laugh at his question, but she seemed just as interested in the answer.