by Lonni Lees
The words that tumbled from his grinning mouth were vile, making his temples throb.
Charlie was invited to a birthday party.
He had never been to a real birthday party before.
He smiled as the door opened before him.
CHAPTER TWENTY
“Come on in,” the fat lady said to Charlie Blackhawk. “Meg is expecting you.” Betty held out her hand to him as Charlie stood motionless in the doorway. He looked at her fingers, short and plump as pasty links of uncooked pork sausage. He did not offer to shake her hand. “I’m Betty, Meg’s roommate, and I don’t bite,” she laughed. “Now come on in, the party’s inside.”
Charlie stood on the front porch, trying to shake his frustration before stepping inside. He held Sabrina’s birthday present tightly against his chest. He had thought only Meg and Sabrina would be there. He had come prepared, he reminded himself, as his right hand encircled the small bottle of chloroform in his jacket pocket. The jacket was new, a burgundy suede chosen just for this occasion. He bought it for a stranger, the man named Charles Black, the man that Meg and Sabrina could trust. He had to look the part—for now. It was just going to be happy birthday Sabrina, and then he would rescue her and make her safe. Fast and simple.
But the fat lady answered the door.
And voices came from inside.
And laughter.
Meg had not said there would be others. It should have been just the three of them. Why was she messing up everything?
He looked at Betty, a smile frozen across his rugged face. She repulsed him, reminded him of that giant banana slug in Oregon. It had been bigger than a Great Dane’s turd and he could have sworn the thing raised its head and grinned at him. He didn’t like it one bit. He had covered it with dried leaves and set it on fire with his cigarette lighter. The ground had been damp, so it smoked and sizzled for a long time before he stomped out the smoldering leaves with his boot.
The fat lady wore a huge red caftan and the slug’s smile, as if she knew what he had in his pocket—and what thoughts were swirling about inside his head. Like he was not really invisible at all. Charlie knew he would have to step easy. He walked past the sideshow freak and into the room. Meg entered, licking icing from her fingers, and introduced him to Betty and Jason Mittleman. Her sticky fingers pushed her hair from her face as she motioned Charlie to sit. The chair was in a corner, next to the TV, away from where Jason and Betty sat like Laurel and Hardy on the couch. This is real comic shit, he thought with a grin, trying his best to relax in this room full of strangers. Betty and Meg—and some faggot named Jason. It wasn’t too bad…there were only three of them…but where was the girl they called Sabrina?
She was the reason he had come.
Charlie held the present on his lap as Jason broke the silence.
“I’m Meg’s agent,” he said. “Is she beautiful or what?”
“Agent? You mean Meg is a real live movie star? Wait until I tell the guys back home,” he said in his best golly-gee, country boy voice. Practice makes perfect, he thought with pride.
Meg stood across the room and shrugged. Jason scowled at her lack of enthusiasm.
He heard Sabrina call her mother from in another room. When Meg returned, her daughter stood at her side. Sabrina’s hair was pulled back with a blue ribbon that matched her dress and blue velvet slippers. The kind one finds in Chinatown, studded with tiny pearls and rhinestones. She stood nearly as tall as her mother and was every bit as beautiful. It was hard to believe this was a child of of twelve.
“Check out my shoes,” she said. “Mrs. Cooney gave them to me for my birthday. She said she doesn’t need fancies anymore—that is what she called them—fancies. Isn’t that cute? Aren’t they pretty?”
“Real nice,” said Charlie. Second hand with fake pearls, he thought. I brought you something nice and new. When he handed her the package she thanked him, and placed it with the other gifts. Why couldn’t she open it now? Nothing, absolutely nothing, was going as planned. Why wasn’t she wearing the Girl Scout uniform? That was how he had rehearsed it. And her mother was the only one there and when she left the room he would take Sabrina and she would say, “I missed you, Charlie” and he would say, “I saved you.”
That was how it was supposed to go—unless she didn’t recognize him right away.
Then he would use the chloroform.
His exterior was calm as they all small-talked, but his insides shook like a jackhammer. Maybe he could just kill Meg and Betty and the faggot. It would be fun. But it might scare the girl. She might not understand it was right. He did not like having to come up with a Plan B. Especially at the last minute.
“Grubs on,” said Betty.
Limp paper plates balanced on their laps while they laughed as if nothing was wrong.
“Cake?” Betty stood over him, balancing three plates. Had he missed singing happy birthday? Had he sung along? Had Sabrina already made her birthday wish? All he could remember was sitting there watching Meg swill champagne like there was no tomorrow, and wanting to tell her there well might not be. Not if he had his way.
“Grab one before they drop,” she said, drawn into the intricacies of his face. She felt a chill. But Meg had been right about one thing. He looked like a handsome movie cowboy. Randolph Scott had a twinkle in his eye, but not Charles Black. For a split second a dark cloud passed over his face, blocking the sunny facade.
“Thank you, ma’am.”
Betty turned from Charlie, toward the warmth of the room.
Sabrina had begun opening her gifts. They were piled in front of her, except for one large package that sat on the floor by the TV. She unwrapped Charlie’s forest green cardigan. “It’s to match your Girl Scout uniform,” he said. “For when you get cold.” She thanked him and tossed it aside, then unwrapped a big, red suitcase from Betty. Meg and Betty exchanged glances when she asked when she would ever use it. Jason had given her videos. “Look,” she said, “It’s Rambo—and The Terminator!” Then Jason walked her to the big package on the floor and she opened a VCR. “This is the most fantastic birthday present ever,” she said.
Charlie looked over at the crumpled green sweater that lay forgotten in its box.
Meg walked over to where her daughter sat on the floor and handed her a thick envelope. Sabrina opened it. “Tickets? Two airline tickets to Connecticut? For tomorrow?” She looked puzzled.
“How would you like to meet your grandmother?”
“I—you’re really going to let me meet my grandmother?”
Meg handed her a slip of paper with a phone number on it. “Why don’t you call her and tell her we’re coming? She is expecting your call.” Sabrina raced to the kitchen phone and dialed. The room was silent as she dialed the number.
Jason paced the room, then finally spoke to Meg. “This was supposed to be a surprise for you Meg, but you can’t go tomorrow. You have an interview.”
“Well, I can’t go on an interview tomorrow.”
“Read my lips, kid. You are one of only three that got a call back on that new series. It’s practically yours.”
Again, she showed no enthusiasm as she thought things over. “Okay,” she finally said, “I’ll change my flight to late afternoon and meet Sabrina there.”
Charlie looked at Jason. Just look at him, he thought, with his high-powered phony bullshit. The little prick did not fool Charlie at all. Mr. Big Shot was nothing but one more stupid little shit. Charlie lit a smoke.
Sabrina’s voice filtered from the kitchen. “Flight 70, and then in St. Louis we get flight 318 into Hartford/Springfield; it arrives at 11:32 p.m. Yeah, I know that’s kinda late. We could take a taxi…you will? I’m looking forward to meeting you too, Grandma—Grandmother.
Sabrina ran into the room. “Grandma will meet our flight!” she said, bursting at the seams.
“Betty, do you think…?” Meg began.
“Why don’t you let me take her to the airport?” Charlie said.
“
Thanks, but you’re heading back to New Mexico tomorrow, remember?”
“I forgot. I guess I forgot.” He shifted nervously in his chair. Time. There’s still time. I’ve got all the time in the world, he thought. He leaned back in the chair, took a long drag from his smoke, and smiled to himself. He was setting his new plan in motion and for the first time that day he felt in control.
Meg poured herself another glass of bubbly.
Doesn’t she ever get enough? Charlie wondered. A boozing slut is not a fit mother, even if she could hold her liquor. It dulls the senses, affects ones judgment,
IT KILLS CHILDREN!
“Congratulations on the interview, Meg,” said Betty. “Now I can tell the world that I’m shacking up with a movie star. It will do wonders for my image. And yes, I will be happy to take Sabrina to the airport for you.”
“But you work….”
”You call that work? Get serious. This is more important and it will give me an excuse to take the day off.”
Charlie stubbed out his cigarette. Black gook had collected around the cigarette slots on the ashtray. It looked as if it had not been washed in a month. He set it on the floor beneath his chair and toyed with the zipper of his suede jacket as Meg, Betty and Jason continued in conversation. He was odd man out. He was The Invisible Man.
They hardly noticed he was there. Well, that was just fine and dandy.
Slowly, Charlie continued to zip and unzip the jacket as he watched them.
All the time in the world, he thought.
Zip, unzip. Zip, unzip. Zip.
He stood up abruptly. “Thank you so much,” he said. “They say city folks are cold, but you showed real hospitality to a total stranger and made me feel truly welcome. God will surely bless you for your kindness.”
“Do you have to leave already?” said Meg, but she didn’t really sound sorry at all.
“Time to go pack it up so I can hit the road early in the morning. Home awaits.”
And he left.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“There was a lady doctor who touched me in bad places,” Amy said. “But I liked the other lady. We talked. I was mad because I told Mrs. Petroff about the bad dreams and they took me away. But Ms. Flores said that sometimes grown-ups make mistakes but I could tell her things. She said I could visit her again.”
It was Monday and today Amy got to miss school. “We’re going to see her today,” Jerry said.
“I am sorry I told Mrs. Petroff about the dreams, Daddy.”
Jerry had been shocked when Ms. Flores had revealed their contents. Shocked and confused that his daughter could conjure such images. Disconcerted as to where Amy might have heard such things. “Don’t worry about it, Amy,” he said.
“But you were mad. I saw you. They thought bad things.”
He tried to be honest with her. He told her that he had been furious, but had never been upset with her. “But the more I thought about it, the more I understood. Bad things sometimes happen to children, and if such actions can save one child from suffering, then it is worth it. This time they were wrong, but maybe next time they’ll be right. Can you understand what I am trying to say?”
“There’s horrible things in the world, aren’t there, Daddy?”
“Yes, but there are good things, too. Like you.”
Amy understood.
He hugged her and kissed her forehead. She closed her eyes and felt warm and loved and safe, and she knew that those feelings were some of the beautiful things of which her father spoke.
“We are not infallible,” Ms. Flores said. “But I hope you understand that our initial avenue of investigation was justified.”
Jerry looked at the psychologist. She was the first voice of sanity in this mess and he liked her. Her demeanor made him feel less confrontational.
“Amy feels abandoned—first by her birth mother and now by your wife,” said Ms. Flores.
“And I feel helpless. Like I’m failing her.”
“Mr. Hamill, in Amy’s dreams the scenario always happens to someone else. This is so much like the classic personality split that many children develop as a means of dealing with abuse.”
“She is not abused! You just said yourself that….”
“Just calm down. I agree with you. I believe you. But it leaves so many questions.”
“If you believe me, then this legal charade should end now.”
“It is more complex than that. Please be patient. I want to help Amy as much as you do, but it is going to take time.”
“It has taken too long already.”
Ms. Flores walked over to Jerry and put her hand on his shoulder as she spoke. “Mr. Hamill, progress is being made already, but it’s not simple. I really feel that it is essential that Amy—and you—continue with these sessions.”
“Legally, you are on thin ice. You and I both know that.”
“Try to separate the issue of legality from our mutual desire to help her. Amy made an odd statement to me. She said, “Even when my mother was with us, something was missing. Like part of me was empty.”
“What an odd statement,” Jerry said.
“If we cooperate with each other, maybe we can figure things out.”
Charlie Blackhawk grunted as he swerved the Sterling into the Van Nuys Flyaway lot. His guts were flip-flopping beneath his belt buckle. He had wiped the car clean, even the ashtray, and wore driving gloves so as not to leave fresh prints. He was invisible and intended to stay that way. It was time to get his Nova. His own car was as comfortable as an old easy chair.
Only today he had forgotten where he parked.
He finally spotted it and quickened his step, as he whistled a disjointed tune. He heaved a sigh as its familiar interior hugged him, welcomed him. He gunned the motor, pulled out of the space, and crawled toward the exit. He liked a motor he could hear. One that growled rather than purred. The old Nova strained and lurched, as if on some level even the corroding metal knew to fear him.
“When you get to the call back, will you see movie stars?” Sabrina asked Meg.
“You never know.”
“You are so damned calm,” Betty said. “I’d be pissing puppies.”
“I guess I’m still in shock.”
“But you deserve it all,” Sabrina said to her mother. “You’ve earned it.”
“Maybe I’m afraid to dream. The first time I did, I got kicked in the teeth.”
“Well, just spit out those loose teeth and go on,” said Betty. “Otherwise life just keeps on kicking.”
“Yeah,” said Sabrina, pushing away from the table. “I do like Chuck Norris—when life punches me in the gut, I just kick back.” She did a karate kick, barely missing the stove. “Pow! Watch out for Roboscout!” Meg admired her kid’s moxie. She knew when to kick back—hard. The kid had character and courage and good old-fashioned balls.
“She is right on,” Betty said. “Introspection will rot your brains, Meg. Just grab it and growl and don’t analyze it to death. Sometimes life does hand us a gift.”
Later that morning, Jerry Hamill took the stairs two steps at a time, knowing Amy would be busy with her catch-up assignments. But he was surprised to find that she was not in her room. He ran down the hall and stood in the doorway of his own bedroom. Amy sat at the dressing table, so engrossed that she didn’t notice as he watched.
She looked grotesque.
She had painted her face with her mother’s make-up. Bright blues and shocking pinks covered her delicate features like the paint of a ridiculous clown. There were tears in her eyes and the corners of her mouth frowned with determination.
“Amy?”
She looked up with a start. She reeked of familiar perfume and she had a knit shawl twirled around her neck.
“What are you doing, sweetie?” He asked.
“Do I look pretty yet?”
“You always look pretty.”
“No, I’m ugly. Mommy even said so. But if I make myself pretty maybe she will come bac
k.”
It’s Ms. Flores’s fault, he thought, filling her head with psychobabble, putting emphasis where it did not belong.
“You are the prettiest girl God ever created. It was my fault your mother left, not yours.”
“I heard what she said.”
“People say things in anger that they don’t mean—do not even think about it.” But he knew the words haunted her. And he knew that placing blame was not the solution.
“I’m stupid and I’m ugly and you only say I’m pretty ’cuz you love me.”
“That’s what makes us pretty, Amy. Loving and being loved. So you see, you are overflowing with the kind of beauty that really counts.”
“You mean like what God sees? People can’t even see that!” Amy lifted the eyebrow pencil with determination and painted a thick line across her brow. She looked even more like a clown than before, like a French mime with a sad smile and a painted tear.
But Amy’s tears were real.
“She will come back,” Amy said stubbornly as she stared into the mirror. “If I can make myself pretty enough, she will come back.”
Charlie Blackhawk held his head. It was as if atmospheric disturbances were short-circuiting his brain and it hurt. He felt lost, alone, abandoned. The desert sun touched the distant ridge, its reflection turning his face the color of an old penny. Motionless tumbleweeds hugged the desert floor like sleeping hedgehogs. He stood there, his body stiff and unyielding, his mind twisting.
First he blinked.
Next an arm twitched.
Then he bent his knee, kicked up clouds of sand with his boot, and shrieked like a scalded cat into the thick desert air. He was forgetting—and he was remembering. His mind spun out like a renegade asteroid.
God put mothers on this earth to teach kids their bible verses and to obey God’s will. No need for school. No need for anyone beyond their four walls to know they existed. Momma would clutch her bottle and her bible and she would tell them so and when night fell she would find her own pleasures within those walls. And pretty soon she wanted more and she wanted him to play with Lucy Mae, too—and it was her fault he had made Lucy cry.