Cradle Robber

by Staron, Chris

  Teens praised their peers for their sexual prowess. In the locker room and during lunch they bragged about “conquests.” But the second someone got pregnant they abandoned each other.

  All of the teens took health class and sex-ed. They watched enough movies and television to know where babies came from. Yet it was always a surprise when it happened to them. Their entire lives were turned on their heads for one night of passion. The ugly truth was that it often amounted to little more than an hour of fun, followed by the boys calling for a ride or walking home before her parents suspected anything. The young women played a losing game when they sought the love of a man in the arms of a boy. Their self-worth depended on this attention. And once they completed the deed, the man-child went home to finish his homework. It was the young woman who lay in bed, in shock of her actions.

  What a paradox. Nobody was happy when they got what they wanted. Not even the boys. Wade shook his head, running the scenario over and over.

  Why the destruction? Because they ignored the consequences of their actions.

  In his experience, men preferred the abortion option. It was quick, inexpensive, and it did no physical damage to them. Abortion meant a clean slate for the guy. He needed an excuse to leave, be it work or prospects in another town. One way or another, the men exited the picture leaving the burden behind for the women.

  Thankfully Wade didn't have to sit and listen anymore. No more holding hands and providing options. He left the protest without cleaning up or talking about strategy. Still, what he saw there haunted him.

  The young stranger at the abortion clinic door seemed a clear cut case of a woman beaten back by society. No doubt.

  A new opportunity came into focus. Once again an innocent person needed him to set the world back on its axis. The dark calling beckoned at his doorstep. Another young woman needed his assistance.

  Angry, he stepped on the gas. He was inhuman, almost godlike. The struggles of the people were his struggles. He controlled the future. The power rested in his hands.

  As soon as he got home, he jumped from the truck and went to work.

  # # #

  Gasp!

  Tom sat in bed, stiff, straight. His pajamas twisted around him, heavy with sweat as if he recently finished a workout.

  Breathe. Breathe. Don’t choke.

  The silk pajamas tangled around his ankles. He shook them loose, frustrated. Nothing to worry about. He was in bed, in his own house, safe. Only the click of the air conditioner in the window broke the silence.

  Linda’s gentle breathing continued uninterrupted. Thank goodness. She lay next to him, her arm wrapped around a pillow like a football player running for a touchdown. Peace. She was at peace. All was well. For now, anyway.

  He rubbed his forehead. What happened with Wade? They’d never argued before. That fire in his eyes…

  Tom slid out of bed. May as well let Linda sleep. He crept out the door without turning on the light. The halls were so familiar he didn’t need lights. Thirty years in the same place had its advantages.

  In the kitchen he put hot water on for tea. The white cabinets stood out against the yellow paint on the walls, even in this darkness. Her colors. Linda said she always wanted a yellow kitchen, so he gave it to her. He plopped down in the breakfast nook and waited for the water to boil.

  What to do about Wade? A fuse blew in his brain, that much was clear. Ten years of living in that little house all by himself––it drove Wade mad. Nobody to talk to, no fresh air. No wonder he freaked out in polite society. His only company was those incendiary late-night talk shows on AM radio. Goodness knows what they filled his head with. Conspiracy theories? Fear of his fellow man?

  Perhaps they moved too quickly. It was his fault. He wanted to reintroduce Wade to the world all at once. Linda cautioned him, but Tom kept pushing against her. Wade accompanied them on outings all around Indiana. That was fine, but introducing him to Darcy? Such a mistake. What did a recluse have in common with a woman as active as her? Nothing. She said she had a nice time, but maybe she was trying to be polite. It’s a wonder Darcy didn’t get a restraining order. She might have if she attended the rally in front of the clinic.

  The teapot squealed. Tom helped himself to a tall mug of green tea and settled back in the wooden chair. Steam rolled off the cup, opening his pores. A full moon lit the backyard in its ghostly glow. The house settled as wind pushed from the west. A nice night. Why couldn’t he get his mind onto better things?

  Did Wade really mean it? Vigilante justice…? It sounds nice on television when the pundits are yapping, but in real life? No, it could never work. What did it mean that Wade thought such things? He was an old man, almost fifty-five. What could he do? With his experience in the Department of Defense, probably more than Tom was willing to admit.

  He must keep a tighter leash on Wade. No more letting him run his mouth in public. When they were out, he was in charge. And he should never leave Wade alone. Not with Linda, not with anyone.

  Period.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Rob sat propped up in a living room chair, holding an ice pack to his nose where Maggie punched him hours earlier. He'd spent a long time on the floor, unconscious, before the growl of a garbage truck woke him. The side of his face was numb, and a knot all but overtook his cheekbone. Their altercation played over and over in his head. He should have known better than to stand up to Maggie. The abortion happened despite his protests.

  He lost every argument. What could he do against her violence? She controlled him and she knew it.

  At first she took charge of the simple things. If they went out, she picked the restaurant. His tastes varied enough that he could eat anything. She made the decisions. She wore the pants.

  Then she took more. Six months into dating him she threw away all his old clothes and bought new ones on his credit card. They weren’t fitted like his old shirts, but baggy sweaters and khakis. He went from being a sharp dresser to a shapeless mass. But it’s what she liked, so he dealt with it.

  Rob sat alone in their pastel living room, staring at the vertical blinds. It didn’t matter if she never came back. Better for her to stay away, or he could leave. He could be on the highway in ten minutes. He didn’t need much. She was the one who insisted on all these decorations, the big TV, the heavy wooden furniture. Ten minutes and he could disappear. But his legs were unwilling to move.

  The front door opened and closed. Tightness seized his body. She’d come back to finish him off.

  Maggie entered the living room, slipped off her shoes, and stood in the doorway. She looked down at him, tears in her eyes. Rob gulped hard. She was back.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice low. “I didn’t want it to happen this way.”

  He did not respond, but continued to stare at the blinds as they danced by the air emanating from the floor vents. She leaned against the door frame and grunted, taking in their worldly possessions. Off-white furniture, expensive paintings. An opulent life. They wanted for nothing, so long as his opinion was not included in the equation.

  “I guess things got complicated and I panicked.” Her voice broke. She covered her mouth with one hand. “I panicked.”

  The regret of a thousand previous arguments bounced off the walls. Rob wouldn't give her the satisfaction of eye contact. Even as she stood there apologetic, he would not accept her lies.

  Maggie picked at her fingernails. “The doctor said I should be okay soon. A few days from now and.…”

  She fell quiet. A tear rolled down Rob's cheek, gliding around the curvature of the icepack pressed to his nose. Maggie wrapped her arms around her shoulders and rocked like a little girl. Back and forth, back and forth.

  Good. Let her see what she's done. Let her wallow in it.

  Maggie pushed off the wall and walked to the dusty piano that sat untouched ever since their first day in the house.

  “Do you remember our honeymoon when we ate dinner out on that peninsula overlooking the
water? I had the fish and you tried the lobster, even though you hate lobster. You wanted to impress me. I said you were cheap and that’s why you wanted the soup, so you went and ordered the most expensive thing on the menu, right? To show me that you could, even though you hate lobster.”

  She was giddy, like a little girl. The rocking continued, amplified with each sentence. Her big red lips pouted, pronounced against her pale skin.

  “When it came to the table your eyes…, your eyes were huge. It was the biggest, reddest lobster the world has even known and there it sat, dead on a plate next to a cup of butter. You took one bite. One bite. Pretty soon we’re in a taxi, getting you to the hospital. You never told me you were allergic to shellfish. Instead, you ate it to prove your point. You’re not as cheap as I thought. It was stubborn, but you made your point.”

  More silence. Maggie sat down on the couch next to him. Though they shared the same sofa, they were miles apart. She pulled her legs under her and coiled her hands around the armrest, running her fingers over the woodcarvings resembling the paws of miniature lions. His muscles tightened, expecting the blow to come.

  “I pushed you too hard and you showed me. You showed me that you could take it. Even if it meant spending the third night of our honeymoon in the emergency room.”

  She straightened her clothes, fidgeting. She ran her fingers up and down her legs, as if seeing them for the first time. Her voice was quiet, measured.

  “Robby, I’m strong-headed. You know that. Sometimes things get out of control and I feel…, well, I feel trapped. You box me in and I get claustrophobic, I guess, and then bad things happen. People get hurt. You shouldn’t box me in like that, Rob. That’s how it starts.”

  Her hand glided across his arm, sending a chill through his body. Her hand. He once desired her touch, but now it stung him, cold, limp like a corpse. He did not retract his arm from her, but stared straight ahead as another tear rolled down his cheek. She wiped it off and started to cry herself.

  “Oh, baby, don’t cry,” she said. “Don’t cry, don’t cry. Baby, I need you not to cry, can you understand that? Do you hear me saying that I need you not to cry?” She wiped the tears from her own face and pulled his head into her hands. He relented, but would not look at her. She knelt on the couch gazing at his stoic figure sitting in judgment against her.

  Let her gawk at him. Let her see the hollow shell her nagging left. She found the power intoxicating. When that no longer worked, she pretended to care for him.

  This wasn't love, it was guilt. Guilt fed her moodiness. She gained weight and then lost it in a fit of exercise, only to do it again a month later. Her blood pressure confounded her doctors as it spiked and sank between regular checkups. At night her laughter descended into rage. She was a roller coaster. Yes, he could leave, but she would never let him get away.

  “Remember that, darling? The beach and the waves? The trinket stores that sold necklaces made of gathered glass and seashells? Carts selling warm pretzels on cool evenings as lovers walked by? The ocean, Robby. Do you remember the ocean?”

  She held the icepack to his face and wiped away the excess condensation that clung to his skin. The bruises, the welts. Her fingers touched each of them, sailing over the red and purple that trailed down his chin.

  “I did a bad thing, Robby. I didn’t mean to hurt you. Look at your face. Look at that. I didn’t want to hurt you, you have to believe that. You believe me, don’t you? You know how I get when you box me in like that. I only wanted….”

  She stood and straightened her clothing. He studied the movement of her body out the corner of his eye, concentrating on her fists. They were the barometer. If her hands lay straight at her side, there was nothing to worry about. But if they balled up.…

  Her gait differed now. She bobbed and bounced like a child on Easter morning. The emotional tide turned once more, as if a gale blew away the memories of the last few minutes on the couch.

  She pointed to the kitchen. “I got some burgers. Why don’t I throw them on the grill and we can eat outside, okay? We might even have a cantaloupe left over. Wouldn’t you like that? Doesn’t that sound perfect right now? A burger?”

  He didn't move a muscle, his silent protest. “My handsome boy,” she cooed. She squared her shoulders and skipped to the refrigerator.

  How could he resist her?

  Their child died, struck down by its own mother. Rob prayed he would be next.

  # # #

  Wade entered the abortion clinic through a back window leading to the small kitchen. A refrigerator hummed away in the darkness next to a small stove top and a microwave oven. An assortment of instant teas and coffees littered the counter, waiting for someone to partake. Old cabinets lined the walls. It was musty in there, dank.

  He closed the window and waited for his eyes to adjust. Aside from banging his knee on the window frame, the plan was working. The buzz from breaking in perked him up, a blessing this late at night.

  Wade slinked through the kitchen and into a short hallway. The building’s simple layout amounted to little more than a small entryway with a few chairs and a reception desk with high privacy counter tops. A narrow hallway shot from the reception area to the back kitchen. Three medical treatment rooms sprang from the hall along with a small office lined with medical books.

  He’d pictured vast offices, a clinical dungeon, reeking of antiseptic and the screams of children long since dead. Instead he found a modest, clean, and humble setting. Pictures of calm landscapes on the walls, fake plants, and racks of brochures in every vacant space. The examination rooms were large and well appointed. It closely resembled his general practitioner’s office. Funny. Not at all what he expected.

  He navigated across the laminated floors, self-conscious of the sound of his shoes, though nobody remained in the building at this hour. He’d counted the number of workers from across the street as they left. No question, he was alone.

  Peeking in windows Wade scoped it all out, waiting until just before midnight in case someone lingered inside. No sense in rushing. Why miss a key piece of information in a hurry? This should only take a few minutes. In and out.

  Wade crept to the reception area. Papers covered the desk, as if the secretary got frustrated and left in the course of her record keeping. A dozen different folders waited in the inbox which Wade flipped through. Each contained forms for a patient who visited the office in the last twenty-four hours. A black stamp on the second page of the files indicated the date and time of the appointment. He needed to know where to find the woman he saw earlier that day, the innocent whose boyfriend forced her to kill her child. If he was going to help her he needed information, an address, a description of her case.

  He joined the march in the early evening, probably between five and six o’clock. The altercation between the volunteer and the woman happened right around that time, so he could assume her appointment was—

  WHAM.

  Something hit the front door, not ten feet away. Wade dropped to the floor, staring wide-eyed in the direction of the sound.

  Someone was coming.

  A beam of light from the streetlights shone through the entryway, projecting the shadow of a person onto the wall right behind him. Someone came back.

  “Blasted key,” said a man’s voice, shaking the door handle.

  “You sure you have the right one?” A woman. What were a man and a woman doing here this late at night?

  The man rattled a large key ring. “I open the door every morning. Don’t you think I know by now?”

  “Not if you’ve been drinking.”

  “I had one glass of wine.”

  “And a scotch and soda.”

  “Three hours ago.”

  Click. The lock slipped and the light in the foyer grew brighter as the door opened.

  “Deadbolt sticks. How many years do we have to put up with this? Slumlords….”

  Wade sat on the ground in a heap behind the reception desk. Caught red-handed. Th
ey’d nab him and lock him away. The cops would search his house and find the machine. Game over.

  Wade shoved his aging body into the foot well of the desk and pulled the roller chair in front of him. It provided a minimal amount of cover. Even a casual glance in his direction would reveal his frame poking from the cramped space, but he was out of time.

  High heels clicked on the floor. The woman entered the waiting room. “You’re liable to break something.”

  “I’ve unlocked this office a thousand times.”

  “Not drunk you haven’t.”

  “I’m not drunk.…”