Deranged

by Lonni Lees

  Amy got tired early that night. She pulled on her flannel nighty and crawled into bed, happy she was home. She kept the light on. The darkness had become her enemy. And when she slept the dreams came. She was exhausted, but fought the urge to close her heavy lids. Despite her efforts, her eyes soon closed and she began to drift. Aware that she was slipping away, she forced her eyes open and stared at the light. Finally her eyes closed again. The sandman had won.

  And the dreams came.

  But, for once, the dreams were beautiful visions that granted her peaceful sleep. She saw a beautiful girl with flowing auburn hair. The girl danced in a field of flowers and when she laughed, Amy laughed with her. When the girl twirled, Amy twirled—when she leaped, Amy followed like a mirror image through the wrong end of a telescope. The girl bent to pick crocus blossoms and when Amy bent down their eyes met.

  And Amy knew her and she knew Amy, and when they hugged it felt as if two pieces of an interlocking jigsaw puzzle were fitting perfectly into place.

  The image caused Amy to smile in her sleep.

  Perhaps because of the darkness, Meg Stinson did not notice the black Sterling as it followed her to the Safeway. Her mind was on getting home and cheap Andre Champagne and long-distance phone calls and memories she strained to keep buried. She shoveled dirt over those memories, pulled into a parking space, turned off the ignition, and went inside the store.

  “If this isn’t a fine coincidence,” the voice said, circling around her from behind. She did not look as she continued to shove oranges into a brown sack.

  “Surely you remember me,” the voice said. Was he speaking to her? She turned and looked into the tanned face with its patchwork lines. Something was familiar, like an old-time western hero. She held the oranges against her chest, blonde hair tumbling forward as she moved.

  “This morning,” the man continued. “I bought the Girl Scout Cookies, remember?”

  “Sure. Hi,” she said, forcing a smile as she turned the cart away from him.

  “I thought maybe….”

  She pretended not to hear him as she pushed the cart away and entered the next aisle. The wheels wobbled as she tried to steer a straight line, hoping he wouldn’t follow. Men made her uneasy. In the frozen food aisle she looked up and there he was again, determined to hold her attention.

  His voice was soft and gentle. “I’ve been here on business and hoped you might want to join me, you and your daughter….”

  “Sorry, I do not date.”

  “We don’t have all these great sights back in…New Mexico. It just don’t—doesn’t seem right going alone but I am downright determined to see a few things before I head back on Monday. I thought maybe….”

  “No, not interested.” But she was weakening. He was polite, well-dressed. Cowboy boots. Why did she keep thinking about cowboy boots? This man was knits and tweeds, and everything he wore looked brand new. She detected the faint aroma of Irish Spring. Okay, he certainly seemed harmless enough. But still.

  “No. No, I’m sorry.” She headed for the check-out line.

  The parking lot lights cast long shadows that followed Meg as she pushed her cart to the car. She sat the heavy brown bag of groceries on the roof of her car while she searched her purse for her keys.

  The black Sterling rolled silently into the empty space next to Meg’s Volkswagen. Out of the corner of her eye she could not help but notice the shiny car. Maybe some day she could trash her old heap for something nice like that. The interviews were rolling in and it was encouraging. And dreams were a new luxury. They were already pushing away the dark clouds, if only in intervals. But it was a start. You’ll be driving a fucking Ferrari! Isn’t that what Jason had said?

  “Just one more try,” came the voice from the Sterling, the voice of the man from inside the store.

  “Don’t you ever give up?”

  Here on business he had said. Be gone Monday. What would be the harm?

  “No strings?”

  “No strings,” Charlie Blackhawk promised. “Charles Black’s the name.” Easy as pushing out abscessed teeth with root-rot, he thought to himself, just gotta know where to apply the pressure.

  “Meg Stinson. And my daughter is Sabrina. No time for sightseeing, sorry, but Sunday is her birthday if you would like to join us to celebrate. Nothing fancy. Just a small daytime get-together at our house.”

  “Sabrina, what a pretty name,” Charlie said, but he knew she was lying. Why, her name was not Sabrina at all.

  Meg scribbled her address on the cash register receipt and handed it to Charlie.

  “Until tomorrow then,” he smiled.

  That night Sabrina lay in bed staring at the ceiling. In her mind’s eye she found herself tying and untying the knots that had earned her a merit badge. Tying and untying them and trying to remember their names and uses. Before long she felt herself floating, like she had on that other night, floating high above her body and looking down, seeing herself on the bed below. This time it wasn’t as frightening. She had told Betty about it and Betty, well-read as she was, told her that she’d read a book once about something called astral traveling. That it was a gift some people were just blessed with. Sabrina would have written it off as just so much bullshit voodoo, like reading Tarot cards and telling fortunes from the lines on someone’s palm—had she not experienced it herself.

  So when it happened again, she felt awe rather than fear.

  She was not going to panic.

  Not this time.

  This time she willed herself to the bedroom door and beyond, all the way to Betty’s room. She knew she had a gift if she could learn to control it. The need to be in control was strong in Sabrina, perhaps because everything around her so lacked structure. Their entire lifestyle was more suited to a loft in Greenwich Village back in the beatnik days.

  Control was important. It helped to mold things into the right places.

  Her form floated above the doorway of Betty’s room. She concentrated hard and soon propelled herself above Betty’s bed. Sabrina listened to Betty’s heavy breathing, rattling like an asthmatic child as she slept unaware beneath the girl’s hovering form,

  and then,

  THUD!

  Sabrina was in her bed again.

  “Shit!” Next time, she told herself, next time I will not let that happen. Next time I will be in control.

  Meggie was sleeping restfully at her side as Sabrina fell into a deep sleep. She did not awaken until mid-morning and when she awoke she was a year older.

  It was Sunday and it was her birthday.

  Late the previous night there was a loud banging on the motel room door. Charlie pulled back the curtain to see who it was. Nobody knew he was here. It took a minute for things to register. It was the pimp. The Magic Man.

  Charlie left the chain on the door and opened it a crack.

  “What the hell do you want?”

  “Let me in.”

  “Get lost. Go away.”

  “There be something we needs to discuss. Let me in.”

  Hesitantly, Charlie undid the chain and opened the door. The Magic Man was almost half the height of Charlie, who nearly filled the doorway as The Magic Man pushed past him and entered the room.

  “We have gots a small problem we need to take care of,” he said.

  “And what’s that?” Charlie had his antenna up and smelled trouble.

  “You failed to pay that fine lady I sent to you this morning.”

  “She screwed everything up, Magic. I told her the rules and she messed it all up. She nearly hurt that sweet little girl. She didn‘t earn a fucking dime.”

  “You still gotta pay for her time. For their time. You think that was an easy order to fill?”

  “No way.”

  The Magic Man pulled out a gun, which certainly added some clout to his lack of stature, and aimed it at the center of Charlie’s forehead. “Let’s be reasonable about this,” said the pimp.

  Damn, I wish you hadn’t done that, Ch
arlie thought. I really wish you hadn’t.

  “ Okay, okay, as long as you put it that way,” he said. “Just cool it and I’ll get your fucking money.”

  Charlie turned from the pimp and walked over to the night stand, picking up his wallet. He could still feel the gun aimed at his back. He turned and walked back to where The Magic Man stood, still aiming at him—staring at him with his shifty, intense eyes.

  “Hey, no hard feelings,” Charlie said as he rifled through his wallet and took out the money. “Let’s just settle this. How much did you say?”

  The pimp changed his focus to the money which Charlie held in front of him. He had diverted his attention just long enough for Charlie to grab the gun. He punched the pimp in the gut, hard, and as the man doubled over in surprise and pain, Charlie landed an uppercut which caught the man off balance and he fell on his back onto the carpet. Charlie pinned him down and reached over for a bed pillow, placing it over his face. He wanted to strangle him with his bare hands. He liked the feel of doing things up close, but this guy was a wiry little shit and much stronger than Charlie had anticipated. No time for a scuffle. It was not worth taking the chance of being overpowered, unlikely as that prospect might be. Or for the man to recapture the gun. Or to give him the chance to make any unnecessary noise.

  Charlie lifted the gun and shoved it against the pillow, squeezing off one good shot into The Magic Man’s head. One less pimp in the world. But the result was pretty damn bloody and Charlie liked things tidy. This was one of the reasons he hated guns. There was always a mess. The pillow had muffled the sound, hopefully enough that it did not draw any attention.

  He waited a long time, sitting next to the body bleeding out on the floor. No commotion. No knocks on the door. It was the middle of the night and if anyone had heard a gunshot, it had gone ignored.

  He looked out the window several times. The parking area was devoid of people.

  When he felt it was safe, he rolled the pimp into a blanket and threw him into the trunk of the car.

  Charlie drove the alleyways of Hollywood. It was dark and quiet except for the occasional drunk—or faggot on the prowl—or crack whore looking to turn one last trick.

  Damn, but he loved this town.

  He turned into an unlit alley, pulled up next to a dumpster behind a restaurant, then looked around before opening the trunk. The dumpster was overloaded with trash and boxes and rotting garbage. He lifted the man’s body up and threw it onto the pile of debris. Charlie gave him back his gun. Fair was fair, right?

  One more piece of garbage for the trash collector.

  Problem solved.

  He left The Magic Man—as well as the motel with its blood-stained carpet—behind him.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Amy stretched, aware of the frailty of her own body. It startled her—as if pounds had melted from her bones overnight. Her thin arms reached toward the ceiling as her spindly fingers opened and closed in calisthenic gestures. It was Sunday. She rolled over on her side and closed her eyes to the morning light.

  Another restless night. She found herself sleeping less and less in an attempt to prevent the dreams that haunted her. But the ones that happened during the day, when she was awake, were even harder to deal with. And far more difficult to rationalize.

  As Amy turned her body, her feet kicked against something at the foot of the bed—something heavy that did not belong there. She pushed herself up with her elbows and opened her eyes, the dark shadows beneath them more pronounced than only a week ago. Her pixie features now bore the look of an old marsh crone peering through the grasses of a misty bog.

  Amy’s father stood across the room. On the foot of the bed sat a package topped with a big pink bow. Then she realized the significance of this day. Somehow, with all the events tumbling around her, it had completely slipped her mind.

  “Happy birthday, Amy,” Jerry said as he walked over and sat on the edge of his daughter’s bed. “Go ahead and open it.”

  Her tiny fingers fought the ribbon and the paper until they fell away. She slid the cover from the box and peeled away the tissue that held her birthday surprise. “Oh Daddy, it’s beautiful,” she said as she lifted the dress from the box. The chiffon felt like a billowy cloud in her hands. “It’s for a princess,” she said.

  “You are a princess. How would you like Sunday Brunch today at Le Chateau Bistro? Would that be nice enough for her highness?”

  “Really, do you mean it? That’s a fancy grown-up place. Really?”

  “Really.”

  Amy hopped from the bed, dress in hand, and danced to the closet, ignoring the weakness in her legs.

  “Daddy…,” she said as she hung up the dress, “do you think Freddy could come too?”

  “I’ve already asked him.”

  “Great!” she said. “And Daddy…those people keep saying they are helping me but I still can’t make the dreams go away. They are getting more and more worser.”

  Again, Jerry felt helpless.

  “It’s going to take time,” was all he could manage.

  On Sunday afternoon Jerry Hamill, Amy, and Freddie sat at their table in Le Chateau Bistro. The tablecloth was white and on the table were two candles in porcelain candlesticks. The room was carpeted a bright kelly green and the walls were painted the same color beneath lacquered white latticework. It was like a summer garden, with potted ferns in greenhouse windows. A lone violinist strolled the room, dressed in a white tuxedo. His black moustache and curly hair gave him the appearance of an exotic spy in an old Peter Lorre film.

  Amy looked pretty in her new dress. Her soft hair shone and her eyes, unable to mask her excitement, sparkled with delight. This place was special. Fun. It made her feel all grown up. Freddy sat to her left, fidgeting with the nautical brass buttons on his best blue blazer. He straightened his bow tie and cleared his throat. “This was really nice of you, Mr. Hamill.” Then turning to Amy he said, “You should have gotten a double order of that pasta stuff, Amy. You are starting to look…kinda skinny.”

  Ignoring his remark, she turned to her father. “You’ve made today so special.”

  “I love you, angel,” he said, knowing she must feel hurt that her mother had not called on her birthday. But she never called. The heartless bitch. Amy was tickled that Freddy had come and Jerry enjoyed the boy who spoke incessantly of computers and municipal bonds and his plans for the future . Freddy’s fondness for Amy was obvious as he fussed over her. It was as if the boy chose each word with the sole purpose of building her self-esteem. He was insightful for a young boy. And kind. Amy was lucky to have found such a good friend.

  They were two really great kids.

  Reaching into his pants pocket, Freddy retrieved a small white box. He wiped the perspiration from his forehead using the sleeve of his blazer and pushed up the horn-rimmed glasses as they slid down the bridge of his nose. He handed the box to Amy. “Happy birthday,” he said. “I picked it myself.”

  Amy took the box from Freddy and opened it. She held up the silver locket and smiled. It was shaped like a heart and etched on its front was a prancing unicorn. “It’s beautiful,” Amy said. “I will wear it forever.” She leaned over and kissed his blushing cheek.

  “Here, let me show you,” he said, reaching for the locket. He pried it open with difficulty as his fingernails had long ago succumbed to his nervous habit of biting them to the quick. “See, there is a place for you to put two photos.” He put the locket around Amy’s neck, fumbling with the clasp until it held.

  “Amy, you look beautiful,” Jerry said. “Freddy, you could not have picked a more perfect gift.”

  “Yeah, it’s really rad, huh.”

  “Rad?”

  “You know, rad—bad. It’s really bad,” he said, puffing up with pride at his knowledge of a slang word used by the kids who were far more hip than he would ever be.

  Amy’s body shuddered—her eyes opened wide. “Bad,” she whispered, “Very bad.” She stiffened in her cha
ir, raising her hands to her throat. “Bad—bad man.” The words came out in a whimper as she stood, knocking over the chair. Turning in a motion to run, she tripped and fell face first onto the carpet. She was all arms and legs as she scrambled to a sitting position.

  Before Jerry could register what was happening, Freddy was on the floor beside Amy. He put his arms tightly around her and rocked her. “It’s okay Amy—it’s okay,” he repeated. Jerry ran over to where they sat. The other restaurant patrons turned their attention to the disturbance.

  “The bad man,” she said. “He’s coming…he’s coming back again.”

  Jerry reached for his daughter.

  “It’s okay, Mr. Hamill, she’ll be okay in a minute.” Freddy continued holding her. “It happens lots at school—she’ll be okay.”

  It happens lots? Jerry thought. What else didn’t she tell him?

  Jerry knelt on the floor next to the children.

  “Oooh,” Amy groaned, then screamed, “Help me! Help make it go away!” She choked and gasped, staring wide-eyed to a place far beyond them, then muttered the word, “Danger.”

  Jerry looked up. People at the surrounding tables were pointing and muttering. He lifted her into his arms. With a helpless motion of his arm, Freddy tried to cover his friend from the staring strangers.

  “What the hell are you looking at?!” Jerry yelled across the room. “Just what the hell do you think you’re staring at?!”

  At that same moment, nearly forty miles away on a run-down street in Hollywood, Charlie Blackhawk knocked on a door. He held a large box wrapped in green paper. The package was topped with a perfect white satin bow. He felt exhilarated as he hummed a new rendition of The Birthday Song, swaying back and forth to his own melody, mumbling lyrics which held meaning to no one but himself.