by Dean Koontz
“No,” Mama said. “And don't think you can sneak behind my back and get the money on your own hook. My name's on that account along with yours. You're still a minor, don't forget. As long as I can, I'm going to protect you from yourself. I'm not letting you throw your college money away on trendy new clothes you don't need or on some other silly bauble you've just seen in a store window.”
“It isn't new clothes I want, Mama.”
“Whatever. I won't let you—”
“It's not a silly bauble I want, either.”
“I don't care what sort of foolishness—”
“An abortion,” Amy said.
Her mother gaped at her. “What?”
Touched off by a fuse of fear, the words exploded from Amy: “I've had some morning sickness, I missed my period, I'm really pregnant, I know I am, Jerry Galloway got me pregnant, I didn't mean for it to happen, I'm so sorry it happened, so very sorry, I hate myself, I really do, I really hate myself, but I have to get an abortion, I've just got to have one, please, please, I've just got to.”
Mama's face suddenly turned white, chalk-white. Even her lips were pale.
“Mama? Do you understand that I can't possibly have this baby? I just can't go ahead and have it, Mama.”
Mama closed her eyes. She swayed, and for a moment she looked as if she would faint.
“I know what I did was wrong, Mama,” Amy said, beginning to cry. “I feel dirty. I don't know if I'll ever feel clean again. I hate myself. And I know that an abortion is even a worse sin than what I did. I know that, and I'm afraid for my soul. But I'm even more afraid of going ahead and having the baby. I've got my life to live, Mama. “I’ve got my life!”
Mama's eyes opened. She stared down at Amy, and she tried to speak, but she was too shocked to be able to get any words out. Her mouth moved without producing a sound.
“Mama?”
With such speed that Amy hardly saw it coming, her mother raised a hand and slapped her face. Once. Twice. Hard.
Amy cried out in pain and surprise, and she raised one arm to protect herself.
Mama grabbed her by the blouse and dragged her to her feet in a disconcerting display of strength.
The chair fell over with a crash.
Her mother shook her as if she were a bundle of rags.
Crying, frightened, Amy said, “Mama, please don't hurt me. Forgive me, Mama. Please.”
“You filthy, rotten, ungrateful little bitch!”
“Mama—”
“You're stupid, stupid, so damned stupid!” her mother screamed, spraying her with spittle as hot and stinging as venom. “You're an ignorant child, just a stupid little slut! You don't know what could happen. You don't have the slightest idea. You're ignorant. You don't know what you might give birth to. You don't know!”
Amy was unwilling and unable to defend herself. Mama pushed her, pulled her, jerked her from side to side, this way and that, shook her, shook her, shook her ferociously, until her teeth rattled and her blouse tore.
“You don't know what sort of thing might come out of you,” Mama screeched maniacally. “God knows what it might be!”
What is she talking about? Amy wondered desperately. She sounds as if she's heard Jerry's curse and believes it'll come true. What's going on here? What's wrong with her?
Second by second her mother was becoming increasingly violent. Amy hadn't really believed that Mama would kill her. That's what she had told Liz, but she had been exaggerating. At least she had thought she was exaggerating. But now, as her mother continued to curse her and shake her, Amy began to worry that Mama would seriously hurt her, and she tried to squirm away.
Mama refused to let go.
The two women tottered sideways and bumped solidly against the table.
The nearly empty mug fell over, spun around twice, dropped off the table, scattering droplets of cold coffee, and smashed into a dozen pieces when it hit the floor.
Mama stopped shaking Amy, but her eyes were still demented and wildly lighted. “Pray,” she said urgently. “We've got to pray that there's no baby inside you. We've got to pray that it's a mistake, that you're wrong.”
She pulled Amy down roughly onto the floor, onto her knees, and they knelt side by side on the cool tiles, and Mama began to pray loudly, and she held Amy by one arm, held her so tightly that Mama's fingers seemed to pierce Amy's flesh and touch the bare bone, and Amy wept and pleaded to be released, and Mama slapped her again and told her to pray, demanded that she pray, and Mama asked the Holy Virgin to be merciful, but Mama wasn't merciful when she saw that Amy's head wasn't bowed far enough, for she grabbed her daughter by the back of the neck and forced her face toward the floor, forced it down and down until Amy's forehead was touching the tiles, until her nose was pressed into a wet splotch of spilled coffee, and Amy kept saying, “Mama, please,” over and over again, “Mama, please,” but Mama wasn't listening to her, because Mama was busy praying to everyone, to Mary and Jesus and Joseph and God the Father and God the Holy Spirit, and she prayed to various saints as well, and when Amy gasped for breath a couple of drops of coffee slipped up her nose from the small puddle into which she was pressed, and she spluttered and gagged, but Mama held her down, held her even harder than before, squeezing the back of her neck, and Mama wailed and whined and shouted and beat the floor with her free hand and thrashed about and shuddered with religious passion, begged and wheedled and whimpered for mercy, mercy for herself and for her wayward daughter, howled and wept and pleaded in a fashion which Catholics usually disdained, in a devout frenzy that was more suited to the fundamental Christianity for the Church of the Nazarene, flailed and babbled fervently, until she was finally all prayed out, hoarse, exhausted, limp.
The ensuing silence was more dramatic than a thunderclap would have been.
Mama let go of Amy's neck.
At first Amy remained as her mother had left her, face against the floor, but after a few seconds she lifted her head and rocked back on her knees.
Mama's hand had cramped from maintaining such an iron grip on Amy's neck. She stared down at the clawlike fingers, massaging them with her good hand. She was breathing hard.
Amy raised her hands to her face, wiped away the coffee and the tears. She couldn't stop shaking.
Outside, clouds passed over the sun, and the morning light streaming through the kitchen windows rippled like bright water, then grew dimmer.
The clock ticked hollowly.
To Amy, the silence was frightening, like the endless instant between a skipped heartbeat and the next sound of your pulse, when you could not help but wonder if perhaps that vital muscle in your chest would never again expand or contract.
When Mama spoke at last, Amy jerked involuntarily.
“Get up,” Mama said coldly. “Go upstairs and wash your face. Comb your hair.”
“Yes, Mama.”
They both stood.
Amy's legs were weak. Her skirt was rumpled, she pressed it down with her quivering hands, smoothed the wrinkled material.
“Change into fresh clothes,” Mama said, her voice flat and emotionless.
“Yes, Mama.”
“I'll call Dr. Spangler and see if he has an opening in his appointment book this morning. We'll go in right away if he can take us.”
“Dr. Spangler?” Amy asked, confused.
“You'll have to take a pregnancy test, of course. There are other reasons why you might have missed your period. We can't really be sure until we get test results.”
“I know I am, Mama,” Amy said shakily, softly. “I know I'm going to have a baby.”
“If the test is positive,” her mother said, “then we'll make arrangements to take care of things as soon as possible.”
Amy couldn't believe the implications of that statement. She said, “Take care of things?”
“You'll get the abortion you want,” Mama said, glaring at her with eyes that contained no forgiveness.
“You don't really mean it.”
/> “Yes. You must have an abortion. It's the only way.”
Amy almost cried out with relief. But at the same time she was afraid, for she figured that her mother would extract a terrible price for this amazing concession.
“But . . . abortion . . . isn't it a sin?” Amy asked, struggling to comprehend her mother's reasoning.
“We can't tell your father,” Mama said. “It's got to be kept a secret from him. He wouldn't approve.”
“But . . . I didn't think you would approve either,” Amy said, bewildered.
“I don't approve,” Mama said sharply, a trace of emotion returning to her voice. “Abortion is murder. It's a mortal sin. I don't approve at all. But as long as you've got to live in this house, I won't have such a thing as this hanging over my head. I simply won't have it. I won't live in fear of what might come. I won't go through that terror again.”
“Mama, I don't understand. You talk as if you know for a fact that the baby will be deformed or something.”
They stared at each other for a moment, and Amy saw more than anger and reproach in her mother's dark eyes. There was fear in those eyes, too, a stark and powerful fear that transmitted itself to Amy, chilling her.
“Someday,” Mama said, “when the time was right, I was going to tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
“Someday, when you were ready to be married, when you were properly engaged, I was going to tell you why you must never have a child. But you couldn't wait for the proper time, could you? Oh, no. Not you. You had to give yourself away. You had to pull up your skirts the first chance you got. Still little more than a child yourself, and you had to throw yourself at some high school boy. You had to rush out and fornicate in the backseat of a car like a worthless little slut, like the worst kind of pig. And now maybe it's inside of you, growing.”
“What are you talking about?” Amy asked, wondering if her mother was completely mad.
“It wouldn't do any good for me to tell you,” Mama said. “You wouldn't listen. You'd probably even welcome such a child. You'd embrace it just like he did. I've always said there was something evil in you. I've always told you that you had to keep it in check. But now you've loosened the reins, and that dark thing is running free, that evil part of you. You've loosed the evil in you, and sooner or later, one way or the other, you'll have a child, you'll bring one of them into the world, no matter what I say to you, no matter how I plead with you. But you won't do it in this house. It won't happen here. I'll see to that. We'll go to Dr. Spangler, and he'll abort it for you. And if there's any sin in that, if there's mortal sin for someone to bear the burden of, it will rest entirely on your shoulders, not mine. You understand?”
Amy nodded.
“It won't matter to you, will it?” her mother asked meanly. “One more sin won't matter to you, will it? Because you're already destined for Hell anyway, aren't you?”
“No. No, Mama, don't—”
“Yes, you are. You're destined to be one of the Devil's own women, one of his handmaidens, aren't you? I see that now. I see it. All my efforts have been in vain. You can't be saved. So what's one more sin to you? Nothing. It's nothing to you. You'll just laugh it off.”
“Mama, don't talk to me like that.”
“I'm talking to you like you deserve to be talked to. A girl who behaves the way you've behaved - how can she expect to be talked to any differently?”
“Please . . .”
“Get a move on,” Mama said. “Clean yourself up. I'll call the doctor.”
Confused by the several twists that events had taken, baffled by her mother's certainty that the baby would be deformed, wondering about Mama's sanity, Amy went upstairs. In the bathroom she washed her face. Her eyes were bloodshot from crying.
In her bedroom she took another skirt and a clean blouse from the closet. She stripped off her sweat-streaked, wrinkled clothes. For a moment she stood in bra and panties before the full-length mirror, staring at her belly.
Why is Mama so certain that my baby will be deformed? Amy asked herself worriedly. How can she know such a thing for sure? Is it because she thinks I'm evil and that I deserve this sort of thing—a deformed baby, a sign to the world that I'm the Devil's handmaiden? That's sick. That's twisted thinking. It's ridiculous and crazy and unfair. I'm not a bad person. I've made some mistakes. I'll admit that. I've made a lot of mistakes for someone my age, but I'm not evil, damn it. I'm not evil.
Am I?
She stared into the reflection of her own eyes.
Am I?
Shivering, she dressed for the visit to the doctor's office.
7
ON SUNDAY the carnival moved to Clearfield, Pennsylvania, by highway and rail, and on Monday the sprawling midway was erected again with military efficiency. Big American Midway Shows gave its own people and its concessionaires a four o'clock show call for Monday afternoon, which meant that every attraction-from the least imposing grab joint to the most elaborate thrill ride—was expected to be operational by that hour.
Conrad Straker's three enterprises, including the funhouse, were in place and ready to receive the marks by three o'clock Monday afternoon. It was a cloudless, warm day. The evening would be balmy. “Money weather,” the carnies called it. Although Fridays and Saturdays were always the best for business, the marks would flood in on a mild, breezy night even if it was at the beginning of the week.
With an hour of free time before the fairground gates were opened to the public, Conrad did what he always did on the first afternoon of a new engagement. He left the funhouse and walked next door to Yang Barnet's ten-in-one Freak-o-rama, a name which some carnies found offensive, but which drew the marks with greater efficacy than honey ever drew flies. A luridly illustrated banner stretched across the front of Yang's tent: HUMAN ODDITIES OF THE WORLD.
Yang had as much respect for show calls as Conrad did, and except for the fact that the human oddities would not arrive from their trailers until four o'clock, the joint was ready for business well ahead of schedule. That was especially commendable when you knew that Yang Barnet and a few of his freaks always played poker Sunday night, into the wee hours of Monday morning, accompanying the game with a considerable amount of ice-cold beer and Seagram's, which were combined into murderously potent boilermakers.
Yang's place was a large tent, divided into four long rooms, with a roped-off walkway that serpentined through all four chambers. In each room there were either two or three stalls, and in each stall there was a platform, and on each platform there was a chair. Behind each chair, running the length of the stall, a big sign, colorfully illustrated, explained about the wondrous and incredible thing at which the mark was gawking. With one exception, those wondrous and incredible things were all living, breathing, human freaks, normal F minds and spirits trapped in twisted bodies: the world's fattest woman, the three-eyed alligator man, the man with three arms and three legs, the bearded lady, and (as the barker said twenty or thirty times every hour) more, much more than , the human mind could encompass.
Only one of the oddities was not a living person. It was to be found in the center of the tent, halfway along the snaking path, in the narrowest of all the stalls. The thing was in a very large, specially blown, clear glass jar, suspended in a formaldehyde solution, the jar stood on the platform, without benefit of a chair, dramatically lighted from above and behind.
It was to this exhibit that Conrad Straker came that Monday afternoon in Clearfield. He stood at e restraining rope where he had stood hundreds of times before, and he stared regretfully at his long-dead son.
As in the other stalls, there was a sign behind the exhibit. The letters were big, easy to read.
VICTOR
“THE UGLY ANGEL”
THIS CHILD, NAMED VICTOR BY HIS FATHER, WAS BORN IN 1955, OF NORMAL.
VICTOR’S MENTAL CAPACITY WAS NORMAL. HE HAD A SWEET, CHARMING DISPOSITION. HE WAS A LAUGHING BABY, AN ANGEL.
ON THE NIGHT OF AUGUST 15, 1955, VICTOR’S MO
THER, ELLEN, MURDERED HIM. SHE WAS REPELLED BY THE CHILD’S PHYSICAL DEFORMITIES AND WAS CONVINCED HE WAS AN EVIL MONSTER. SHE WAS NOT ABLE TO SEE THE SPIRITUAL BEAUTY WITHIN HIM.
WHO WAS REALLY THE EVIL ONE?
THE HELPLESS BABY?
—OR THE MOTHER HE TRUSTED, THE WOMAN WHO MURDERED HIM?
WHO WAS THE REAL MONSTER?
THIS POOR, AFFLICTED CHILD?
—OR THE MOTHER WHO REFUSED TO LOVE HIM?
JUDGE FOR YOURSELF.
Conrad had written the text of that sign twenty-five years ago, and it had expressed his feelings perfectly at that time. He had wanted to tell the world that Ellen was a baby killer, a ruthless beast, he had wanted them to see what she had done and to revile her for her cruelty.
During the off-season the child in the jar remained with Conrad in his Gibsonton, Florida, home. During the rest of the year, it traveled with Yang Barnet's show, a public testament to Ellen's perfidy.
At each new stand, when the midway had been erected again and the gates were about to be opened to the marks, Conrad came to this tent to see if the jar had been transported safely. He spent a few minutes in the company of his dead boy, silently reaffirming his oath of revenge.
Victor stared back at his father with wide, sightless eyes. Once the green of those eyes had been bright, glowing. Once they had been quick, inquisitive eyes, filled with bold challenge and self-confidence beyond their years. But now they were flat, dull. The green was not half so vibrant as it had been in life, years of formaldehyde bleaching and the relentless processes of death had made the irises milky.
At last, with a renewed hunger for retribution, , Conrad walked out of the tent and returned to the funhouse.