by Mary Rickert
At least their Timmies had a chance. Mine had had none.
The last Timmy was Maddy’s. She was hiding in the closet, actually. The mothers had to pull her out, and she was doing some serious screaming, let me tell you. She was also cussing everyone out. “I never agreed to this!” she yelled. “I hate all of you!” She held her baby so tight that he was screaming, too. You know, baby screams. Maddy looked right at me and said, “Don’t do it. Please don’t do it.” Even though the mothers told her it’s not like the babies were dying or anything; hopefully they were flying somewhere safe. I didn’t answer her. That wasn’t my job. Besides, I was sort of distracted by my wings. I couldn’t believe no one had noticed them.
Maddy was the worst. They had to hold her shoulders and her legs, and then two other mothers had to pull on her arms to open them, and another mother was standing there to grab her Timmy. By the time she handed him to me, everyone was freaking. I held Maddy’s Timmy out to the sky, like I did with all the others, and I opened my mouth to say, “We are such stuff as dreams are made on,” but he tore away from me and flew straight to the cornfield. Just in time, because right then there was a shout and all the police guys came around to the window, screaming and pointing. I shouted and waved to distract them. The mothers pulled me away from the window, then put the boards up and nailed them shut.
Later, when I go to my room, I undress in front of the mirror. My body looks different now. My nipples are dark, I have a little sag in my belly, and my hips are huge. But the biggest change has got to be the wings. When I take my clothes off, they come out of their secret hiding place and spread behind me—not gray like the babies’, but white and glowing. Unfortunately, they seem to be for cosmetic purposes only. I jump off my bed and try to think of myself as flying, but it doesn’t work.
The mothers are crying. Rod Stewart sings louder, trying to get the eternally sleeping Maggie to wake up. Some man on the loudspeaker begs us to come out, and promises that they won’t hurt our babies.
We are such stuff as dreams are made on.
I sit at the edge of my bed and think about how things have been going lately; my parents both dead, and my baby too.
We are such stuff as dreams are made on.
I lie back on the bed, which is sort of uncomfortable because of the wings, and stare at the pimply ceiling. I am having a strange déjà vu feeling, like I’ve figured this all out once before, but forgot. I hope I remember this time.
THE MOTHERS
The worst days of our suffering were reports of winged children being captured and shot. We crowded into the dark living room and wept in front of the TV set; turned it on full volume, so we could hear the gloating of marksmen and hunters over Rod Stewart’s singing.
Oh, our babies! Our little boys, shot down like pheasants, tracked like deer, hunted like Saddam Hussein.
The worst of these worst days were when the camera panned over the little corpses, lingered on the dark wings, always at some distance. Artful, you might say, but torture all the same, for us, the mothers.
We could not identify them. There was solace and madness in this fact. Sometimes a mother became certain that the baby was hers. For some, this happened many times. There are mothers here who have been absolutely sure on several occasions that their babies have just been killed. They walk about the house, weeping and breaking dishes. Other mothers haven’t suffered a single fatality. These mothers are positive their sons have escaped, alive. They are the ones who insist we maintain this charade, though, frankly, the jig is almost up.
After the film of murdered babies and hunters grinning broadly beneath green caps, the news anchors raise neatly manicured eyebrows, smile with bright white teeth, joke, and shake their heads.
“What do you think, Lydia, about the standoff in Voorhisville? Do you think it’s time for authorities to move in?”
“Well, Marv, I think this has gone on long enough. It’s clear these mothers have been taking advantage of decent folks’ good intentions. Who knows, perhaps they’re even sending their babies out to be shot, hoping to generate more sympathy, though I would say their plan is backfiring. It seems to me that the authorities have taken every precaution to safeguard innocent civilians from being harmed. The fact is, even if there are children in that house, they are not innocent. We’ve seen the bodies with their dangerous wings. Homeland Security has taken several into custody. My understanding is that they are holding them on an island off of Georgia. My point being, these are not your average little babies, and we have a right to protect ourselves. The authorities need to go in there and deal with this mess before it drags on into Christmas. It would be nice if they could do it without anyone getting hurt, but that just might not be possible.”
The house is getting smaller. Maddy Melvern is eating it. She thinks no one has noticed, but we have. Sylvia Lansmorth and Lara Bravemeen are having an affair. Cathy Vecker paces through the rooms, weeping and quoting Ophelia. Some of the mothers think she is trying to seduce Elli Ratcher, but the rest think not. At any rate, Elli does not seem to care about Cathy, or anyone.
We have noticed a strange smell coming from Elli’s room. There are rumors that she nurses the decomposing corpse of her firstborn baby there.
We have let Elli keep her old bedroom all to herself. This is a tremendous act of generosity, given how the rest of us crowd into the small rooms of this old house, but we thought it was the least we could do, considering what happened to her family. None of us want to investigate the odor. It is getting worse. We know that soon we will have to deal with it. But for now, we simply hold our breath when we are upstairs; and, frankly, we go up there less and less.
They have shut the power off. We no longer know what anyone is saying about us. Those of us with husbands or lovers no longer get to watch them being interviewed and saying incredible things about how much they love us, or how they never loved us, or how they’ve had to get on with their lives.
We have lost track of the calendar. It is cold in the house all the time now. The apple tree, which can be viewed through the bullet holes in the left panel of wood over the kitchen window, is bare. Jan thinks she saw a snowflake yesterday, but she isn’t sure.
We will not last the winter. We may not last the week. This could very well be our final day. We don’t know if we’ve done enough. We hope we have. We hope it’s enough, but doubt it is. We are disappointed in ourselves. We are proud of ourselves. We are in despair. We are exultant.
What we want for our babies is the same thing all mothers want. We want them to be happy, safe, and loved. We want them to have the opportunity to be the best selves they can be.
Rod Stewart no longer sings. The silence is torture. They are coming for us. We will die here. But if any babies, even one baby—and all of us hope that the one left is our own—was saved, it is … well, not enough, but at least something.
We do not know what our children will grow into. No mother can know that. But we know what we saw in them; something sweet and loving and innocent, no matter what the reporters say, no matter what happened to the Ratchers. We saw something in our children that we, the mothers, agree might even have been holy. After all, isn’t there a little monster in everyone?
WE WANT TO WARN THE WORLD! Be careful what you do to them. They are growing (those who have not been murdered, at least). And, whether you like to think about it or not, they are being raised by you. Every child must be reined in, given direction, taught right from wrong. Loved.
If you are reading this, then the worst has already happened, and we can do no more.
They are your responsibility now.
Copyright © 2014 by Mary Rickert
Art copyright © 2014 by Wesley Allsbrook
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