Motherless Child

by Glen Hirshberg

  The kid’s eyes welled with tears, and Mother grunted again. Somehow, the Whistler had imprisoned them all, turned them into characters inside one of those horrible cheating songs he insisted on singing and Whistling every goddamn night, a full-blown Nashville weepie. Broken hearts and bad intentions all around. So be it.

  She stepped toward the kid and then, for one moment, halted. If she hadn’t known better—if the near century adrift in the current-less, depth-less dark hadn’t forced her to acknowledge the truth—she might have mistaken this feeling for heartache. Or regret. One of those useless, half-invented, paralyzing emotions humans spent their entire adult lives pretending they hated feeling. In their songs—crammed with witty, worthless words, infused with melody those words didn’t deserve and couldn’t sustain—they called it everything but what it really was: rote nostalgia, nothing more, for something they’d lost the moment they were born. A tangible connection to anything else that lived.

  Not that calling the sensation by its name helped much. Because oh, it was powerful, even to Mother. She caught herself now just looking at this kid. Pale, paltry boy, so lost and thin and in love with the music he must have just learned how to hear. He would worship her, if she let him. Already did, in fact. Would stare at her for years to come out of eyes still haunted by the world as he saw it right now. The one he still believed had something better in it than what he’d known so far, if he could only find it.

  She still found it just a little intoxicating, honestly. That ghostly trace of hope …

  Is its pull still strong enough that I could take him with me? Transform this kid and move on? Leave the Whistler to his Destiny, for all the happiness he’d find there? Is it my own emotion, or the kid’s, that needs to be strong enough to make whatever happens happen?

  As had occurred more than once in Mother’s long, long existence, that split second of hesitation placed her in danger. And the ferocity of resolve that always followed saved her. Because at the exact moment the little mama drove the scissors into her neck, Mother was already lunging forward to kill the boy. And so, though both blades bit deep, driving into her spinal cord and then ripping upward, they just missed severing things as her own teeth locked around the kid’s carotid and ground together. The pain was stunning, even frightening, she’d felt nothing like it for so impossibly long, and she roared through clenched jaws and jerked sideways and actually beheaded the kid without intending to. Straightening, she watched his head bounce once on the carpet and land sideways, facing her, the eyes astonished, still aware, and—wow, that could really happen?—blinking. Welling up. Understanding.

  Well. Mother always did love providing clarity.

  She turned her back on the spurting, expiring kid and slammed Jess over the dining room table into the wall. Reaching over her shoulder, she caught the curved top of the scissor handle—barely, because the little mama had driven it almost all the way down into the skin, had good and meant it, Mother had to give her that—started to pull, half-screamed with the thrill of the agony, and then stopped. Stared down at Jess where she lay in a heap against the baseboards.

  She’d leave the scissors right where they were. Let the little mama see.

  The little mama saw. Oh, yes, she did. Although she came closer to hiding it than any living thing Mother had interacted with in a very long time. Fascinated, she watched the mama watch her.

  Then the mama stirred. Let herself wince, just once. And said, “You’re what happened to my daughter.”

  Mother burst into a grin. If she’d known it could be like this, she would have broken up with the Whistler decades ago. “I’m much worse,” she said, kneeling down, feeling the delicious, warm wet spreading through the carpet around her and staring the little mama squarely in the face. “I’m what happened to what happened to your daughter. Now, let’s see, here…”

  Standing, still a little wobbly, the scissors making an actual clink somewhere in the back of her chest like her own personal bell clapper, Mother finally got the moment she needed to assess the room. She didn’t love what she saw. To get at the Whistler in this space, she’d have to let him in. And once he was in, with so little room for surprise or maneuvering, they’d just be fighting. Mother was far too much the realist to like her chances that way. Her eyes alighted briefly on the reedy boy’s head, which was no longer blinking, just wide-eyed. Little spurty pumpkin head. For a second, she thought that the pathetic croak she’d just heard came from there. Then, finally, she saw the bassinet.

  “No,” moaned the little mama, before she could stop herself, and Mother felt that grin flicker on her face again. Like heat, almost. Like actual happiness. She went straight to the bassinet, bent over it, found one baby sleeping, the other rubbing his eyes. They’d missed all the fun, the little dears. She’d see to it they didn’t miss any more.

  “This is going to take awhile,” she said. “Need to get ready.”

  Turning to make sure the little mama understood what was about to happen, Mother was astonished to find the woman halfway to her already, dragging herself sideways along the carpet. Which had to hurt, in her condition. Whatever her injuries actually were, they were severe enough to slow her, make anything she thought she might try utterly futile. And yet here she came.

  “You know, I could get to like you,” Mother said, and drove the spiked heel of her boot straight down into the back of Jess’s hand. Wow, is that floorboard I’m feeling? Mother thought. Did that really go all the way through?

  The little mama cried out. Stopped slithering. But her head didn’t drop. And her eyes, behind their shattered lenses and a cloudburst of tears, left Mother’s face only once, to shoot a glance at the window. As though she’d suddenly come up with the idea of escaping, instead of attacking. But Mother suspected this woman would not be thinking that. If only because she’d know better. She was a realist, too, this one. Like Mother. Except for the believing-she-could-do-anything-about-this part. They stared at each other, now. Mother and mother. The little mama’s eyes riveted. No more window glances.

  “What do you want?” the wounded woman asked.

  Mother was so delighted that this resilient little creature could even speak and so gratified by the clarity of the question that she actually lifted her heel momentarily. Not that that probably eased the mama’s pain, any, since the movement still left half a boot heel embedded in the hole in her hand.

  “Right,” she said. “That’s so right. That’s the heart of everything, isn’t it? What do I want? Have I mentioned I’m just impressed as peaches with you?”

  As a cautionary measure—and because she really was impressed—Mother drove the heel back down, spiking Jess to the floor. “Here’s the thing, little mama. I’ve been thinking about that a lot. For days, really. See, I know what he wants. My man. My … ex, is that what today’s woman calls them? He wants your daughter. And see, I’ve barely even met your daughter, but I’m pretty perceptive, as a rule, and I understand exactly what she wants, too. She’s just a whole mess of wants, actually. None of which she’s going to get, I’m afraid.

  “But me?” On sudden intuition, Mother glanced over her own shoulder at the window. And saw a window, with mostly drawn curtains. Blackness outside. Faint hiss of ocean susurration seeping through. With a shrug, she returned her attention to Jess. “At first, I think I thought I wanted him back, if you can believe that. I guess I’m pretty much an old-fashioned gal, at heart. But then, of course, I started wondering why. For what? I mean, he’s right, what he says, never mind the vain, stupid way he says it: I probably never exactly loved him—whatever that means—in the first place. Any more than he did me. So nope, I don’t want that, either.”

  Under her heel, the woman stirred, and Mother bore down still harder, saying, “Hold on, hold on, now, you did ask. My next thought, and I just bet you’ll understand this, was that I wanted to make him pay. As a matter of fact, until about sixty seconds ago, I still thought that.”

  With a sigh, Mother dropped her gaz
e to the little mama’s. Peered right into those icy blues behind their shattered lenses. “But you know what? As it turns out? I just want to be the last one standing.”

  Yanking and then shaking her heel free of Jess’ ruined hand, she turned and moved through the inch-deep puddle of the kid’s still-spouting blood back to the bassinet. Bending, she scooped up the first squirming babe, then glanced fast back at Jess, half-expecting her to have writhed forward once more. Apparently, though, the woman had finally broken. She just lay there, staring at the window, as though she couldn’t bear to watch. Well, Mother liked when they watched. So she waved the kid in the air.

  “I’ll need this,” she said, bent again, and grabbed the other kid. “This, too. Ah, that’s better.”

  And it was. Jess wasn’t just watching; she’d even whimpered again. Just once, before controlling herself. But so sweetly and pitifully. Holding both kids under one arm, stacked like bread-loaves, squeezing just enough to keep them from squirming, Mother went to the kitchen and collected an apron with side pockets into which she could tuck the carving knives. “Need these,” she said, and rattled the knives together as she strolled past Jess into the bedroom, where she caught sight of the cotton-ball guy, about whom she’d all but forgotten. He’d yet to stir, was just lying where Mother had dumped him. Or, actually—and Mother liked this even better—where the little mama had shoved him as she’d struggled out from underneath.

  Gazing down, she thought a moment, then shook her head. “Can’t think of any reason I need that, though.” She lifted her boot to drive it through the guy’s skull.

  Yet again, the little mama cried out. Mama paused with her boot in the air and glanced that way.

  The woman had her lips clamped shut, as though she regretted reacting. Was biting any additional reaction back.

  “You might as well let it out, dear,” Mother said. “What are you saving it for?” Then, unsure exactly why, she lowered her boot next to the cotton-ball guy’s head. Rested her toe against it and thought awhile. Abruptly, she moved back to Jess, knelt before her. She clanked all over the place, the knives in the apron and the scissors against her spine. Strangely satisfying.

  “Tell you what, little mama,” she said. “In just a little while, we’re going to put my plan into action. And I’m going to offer you a deal, of sorts.”

  Jess’s expression didn’t alter, and her eyes never wavered.

  “Here it is. See, I don’t actually care if you die. You understand? I don’t even care if the children die, though realistically, the chances of both of them, or maybe either of them … the point is, you’re all just means to an end. So if you stop trying to stick things in me, and you do exactly what I say, exactly when I say it, maybe we can…”

  Her voice trailed off, and she stared just a bit longer into Jess’s face. The feeling that filled her at that moment felt more like an actual emotion than any she’d experienced in so impossibly long. Years and years and years. She didn’t have a name for it. But she was pretty sure it had something to do with sorrow.

  “You’re right,” she said. “Never mind.” Standing, she hauled the little mama to her feet by the scruff of her neck and settled both babies against the knives on her hip. “Let’s take a walk.”

  PART THREE

  UNDER THE BOARDWALK

  21

  Leaving Natalie shuddering and whimpering in the front seat, Sophie threw off the reeking tarp under which she’d huddled for yet another eleven hours and staggered out of the car into the evening. Which was finally dark enough. Dark enough. Plenty dark enough. Standing in the middle of the empty street, in this dump of a town that reminded her mostly of the not–Myrtle Beach shitholes her mother had been able to afford for their two-day summer seaside escapes, she threw her arms wide and closed her eyes and let the coolness funnel over and around her. Salt spray and sea wind and moonlight. Best shower ever. Partly because it came at the end of this dismal day—a second straight day, for God’s sake, as in not-night, under the tarp in the back, baking, listening to Natalie whine while her skin sizzled and the car jerked all over the road but somehow just kept going, because Natalie just had to go now, right now, even if it killed her, even if she wound up useless when they arrived, which was pretty much what had happened—and partly because Natalie was still blubbering away back in the car. Out of earshot. Which left Sophie alone in the air.

  Of course, Sophie had to give it to her friend, on one level. She’d actually done it. Driven the sun down. All those merciless hours. But that didn’t mean Sophie wanted to be locked in the same space with her even one second longer.

  And besides. She wanted to see her Roo. Who, if Hewitt was right—he’d blurted out where Benny called from before Natalie had even gotten the Waffle House phone off its cradle—was in that corner condo over there, not fifteen yards away.

  Her Roo. Waiting for her. She half-imagined she could hear him already. His hungry little seagull-cry. His little feet. She took two strides toward the condo, just past the streetlight poking its weak, yellow beam through the fog, and stopped.

  Why did I stop?

  Instinct, that’s why.

  Natalie wouldn’t have cared. Would have ignored every alarm bell shrieking in her brain and stormed in there. Would, in fact, be doing that momentarily, the second her skin cooled enough to let her. Which would be so stupid. So very Natalie. But then why, Sophie wondered, did the thought trouble her so much?

  Because I’m not storming in there. Because I am apparently capable of resisting that urge. Because …

  With a grunt, she hunched into her coat and hurried off the sidewalk into the bushes so she could creep to the condo’s lone front window. Whoever was inside had drawn the curtains almost completely. But not quite. Sophie could see a sliver of yellow. Even right beside it, crouching low, she couldn’t hear anything over the drumming of ocean against sand across the street. But if she stood, stuck an eye in that sliver, she might just see.

  She stood. Saw blood, so much blood, spattered all over the walls, completely coating the shade on the table lamp, dripping off its edges like fringe from a shawl. A body on the floor, still pumping sludge out of its headless top like an uncapped oil well. Natalie’s mom lay curled crazily against the wall near the dining room table, while the dark woman stood over her and suddenly turned this way—

  Did I duck fast enough? For a long moment, Sophie crouched, ready, at the opening of the door, to flee into the darkness, just flat run. But the door didn’t open. The curtains didn’t even move. She hadn’t been seen. Not by that woman. The Whistler’s companion, or mother, or pimp, or whatever she was. Sophie’s instincts had been dead right; they were already here. Although she hadn’t seen the Whistler himself yet.

  Which means he is right behind me.

  She whirled, scraping her shoulder against the splintery white wall, and found nothing. Fog, floating spray. The GTO, with Natalie’s shape still huddled in it.

  So, not behind me, then. But near. In there, probably.

  Had Jess seen me? Sophie’s glimpse had been momentary, and the blood and that woman’s presence had distracted her. But somehow, Sophie suspected Jess had, indeed. The suspicion came less from anything she’d observed than from knowing Jess. But Sophie felt pretty certain, anyway. She edged her eyes up over the sill once more, peered through. Caught Jess looking right at her and ducked again.

  So. Yes. For whatever good that could possibly do.

  Then she processed the rest of what she’d seen, the second time. That woman no longer over Jess, but standing by the bassinet. Holding her Roo.

  Lunging to her feet, Sophie started inside, glanced back, saw the GTO’s door open. On instinct—yet again—she reversed course and moved back down the sidewalk toward the car, keeping to the shadows. When she heard the condo door open, she almost threw herself prostrate in the stairwell of the nearest building, hoping it would hide her, then just kept going, fast, not even letting herself turn her head.

  She found
Natalie on her knees, shielded by the shadows and her open door from the sight of whoever might have emerged from the condo. She was still weeping, though she’d stopped whining, and had her arms out to catch the cooling air on her skin, which somehow looked even more pale than usual and also blazing red all at once. Why the sight of her like that—helpless, at least for a few seconds longer, not yet aware of what was happening down the block—caused Sophie such relief she couldn’t have said.

  “You look like a poached egg,” she said. “With ketchup.”

  Only then did she let herself glance back, just in time to see the procession. That woman, with a body slung over her shoulder and some bundles under one arm. Jess stumbling before her, almost doubled over, arms tight to her ribs, head down. As Sophie watched, they crossed the street and vanished down the wooden steps that led under the pier to the beach.

  Turning back, she found Natalie staring at her. Halfway up off her knees, eyes clearing. “Well?”

  For just a moment, Sophie considered. But there was nothing for it. Nothing else to do or say but the facts. And how could there be, under the circumstances? Eventually, she shrugged. “She has him,” she said, watched Natalie tilt sideways, grab the door, bite back a shriek. “She has them both.”

  Just like that, Natalie got hold of herself. Went still. “Has who? Who has them?” She pulled herself to her feet.

  This time, Sophie almost felt like applauding. Or just laughing at her. NatQueenCold. Risen from the dead. Again. “That woman. The Whistler’s woman. She has my Roo. And Eddie. She already killed somebody, maybe a couple somebodies, ’cause there is a lot of mess, and now she’s got the kids and your mom over there down by the—”

  So predictable, Sophie thought, watching Natalie’s back as it hurtled away from her, straight for the beach. And so obviously the wrong move. Tactically ridiculous.

  But there was that voice again, nagging deep down in her brain where she couldn’t quite reach to strangle or bury it. Pointing out that she was still just standing here.