Make Believe

by Joanna Scott

  Eddie’s mother, in contrast to his father, treated life as one long frolic and became more susceptible to fad and rumor with every year that passed. She danced when King Edward abdicated, wept when she heard the news of the Hindenburg disaster, and in 1938 dragged her family up to the Canadian town of Callander to see the exhibition of the Dionne quintuplets. In 1940 she had the kitchen in their farmhouse redesigned to include three work centers — a sink and dishwasher center, a range and serving center, and a refrigeration and preparation center. She wore nylon stockings and contact lenses and once a year went with her three sisters on an extravagant weekend trip to New York City.

  Eddie, everyone agreed, had his father’s sober temperament, and as he grew older and more self-aware, his disapproval of his mother’s behavior grew more pronounced. She wanted whatever advertisers told her to want; she laughed too raucously, dressed too flamboyantly. Still, Eddie always showed her proper respect and mourned with proper sorrow when she died of heart disease in 1961. His father died two years later, and Eddie and his two brothers inherited the farm. By then Eddie had his job with Worthco and had moved to Hadleyville, a town dry in practice if not in law. He sold his portion to his brothers, and they turned around and sold the farm a year later. Eddie came to believe that his brothers had swindled him in the deal — since 1970 he hadn’t spoken to them, though the wives had continued to send Christmas cards.

  In general Eddie expected little from life, and he accepted the losses and betrayals as his burden, having learned that God always gives the afflicted their right and those who hearken and serve Him will complete their days in prosperity.

  The most powerful love he’d ever felt, besides his love of God, was his love for his first wife, Isabelle, a small-hipped woman with chestnut hair and a spray of freckles across her nose, a woman who matched him in sobriety and honesty. He’d loved her according to the covenant of marriage, but he’d found himself loving her even more after she passed away, finding that love could be nurtured by absence and believing as he did that her spirit had knowledge of his most secret thoughts.

  But even such ethereal love couldn’t be sustained. Twenty years passed between her death and his second marriage, and by the end of that time Isabelle Gantz was a hazy presence in Eddie’s life. Eddie turned to Marge for distraction — she took Isabelle’s place and gave him a new sense of purpose, especially in those first few years when Eddie still enjoyed sinking into the warm cushion of her body. And when he lost interest in the physical aspect of their marriage he found in Marge a perfect companion — reliable, dutiful, attentive.

  And then the child arrived to disrupt Eddie’s perfect world, to test the limit of his previously unlimited patience. Eddie would suffer because of his efforts to help this boy, and out of suffering would come redemption. The strain of depravity in the child must have a purpose, Eddie believed. All suffering had a purpose. If nothing else, Eddie would learn from the experience of raising a wicked boy that there was a limit to his influence. And if at the end his efforts to help the boy failed, he would have to accept the failure. He was no more than God’s humble servant, a worthy man only by the grace of God.

  If your right eye causes you to sin, pluck it out. Answer yes or no when you are challenged — anything more than this comes from evil. Only the godless in heart cherish anger. Eddie was not angry. Spit in his face, go ahead, you won’t rouse him to uncontrollable anger. God despises no one.

  But listen to the boy laugh — that’s the devil! A perfect portrait of evil. Filthy, hysterical child — spit in Eddie’s face again, go ahead. There is no darkness where sinners can hide!

  When Bo was still a novelty in the Gantz household he represented to Eddie the potential fulfillment of his dream — at last, a child of his own to raise. A son! Marge’s children had been beyond raising by the time Eddie came along. But this child, Michael Templin, this little lamb of Christ, poor orphan boy, Oliver Twist, why, he was clay in Eddie’s hands. He would be what Eddie wanted him to be. They went fishing together, Eddie made him pancakes and ice cream sundaes, and he read to him the books that had been his own childhood favorites. So what if the child had been conceived in sin? So what if his skin was the color of a rotten peach? Eddie wanted to be his friend and held nothing against him. When the child arrived in the house, he was, in Eddie’s view, completely innocent.

  And strange, yes, there was, he had to admit, something strange about the child. Even in those first few days, Eddie found himself wondering whether there were something irrevocably wrong with Michael Templin. The way he let his mouth hang open while he stared stupidly at Eddie, with malice dancing deep in his eyes. Like an animal, Eddie thought. Fish, horses, deer, squirrels, bears — they will stare at you without interest, look right through you, and still look at you as though centering you in a rifle’s sight.

  Well, maybe he didn’t completely take to the boy straightaway, nor the boy to him. “Give it time,” Marge recommended. But the more time he gave it, the less they liked each other. Still, Eddie didn’t lose his temper. For three months he ignored the boy’s transgressions and worked hard to spoil him. And what do you think?

  “The kid took the bit in his mouth and ran!”

  At a town meeting early in May, Joe Simmons warned Eddie that this would happen. But by then it might have been too late to correct the situation — the child considered himself invulnerable.

  “It’s never too late,” Joe said, reasoning that the boy would learn eventually that he had to please those who took care of him.

  Eddie privately disagreed. If the salt has lost its taste, how shall its saltiness be restored? But still he went home prepared to make a little soldier out of the boy. Guess what happened?

  “The little demon spit in my face!”

  He said this to one of the salesmen at his appliance store. He didn’t tell how the boy had dropped his head in a piece of chocolate cake and laughed as only the devil could laugh. And a few days later, wouldn’t you know, his lawyer told him that he didn’t think the hospital would settle anytime soon. In the first deposition the surgeon insisted that the boy’s treatment had been entirely proper, that the attending physician had admitted him for observation, as they’d do in any similar pediatric case, and that at every stage the nurses and doctors had responded briskly and appropriately to his condition. More than eleven thousand dollars later, they’d declared the boy healed. Now there’s a way to make a profit! The whole medical business disgusted Eddie, and now the boy disgusted him as well, with his butter cream face and his devil’s laugh.

  So the case would go to court, where a jury would decide upon the hospital’s liability. Thousands of dollars were at stake, Paul Krull had reminded Eddie — they should not be surprised when the initial negotiations broke down. The matter would take time, months, maybe years, to resolve.

  Eddie himself had a scientific mind and when he considered the matter privately, lying in his bed in the dark a few hours after he’d received the call from his lawyer, he understood why the hospital would risk a trial. The powers of man are limited, and it is necessary to limit what is to be observed to a portion of the universe. Had Eddie read that somewhere? He couldn’t remember. But in order to make sense of an external event a man must accept his bias, Eddie knew full well. Doctors call their bias a hypothesis, which, when confirmed, becomes a diagnosis. Truth was no more than a proposition in the world of science; therefore a doctor could propose as fact the lie that the treatment of young Michael Templin had been entirely reasonable.

  It would have helped if the boy’s injuries had attracted publicity. Too late for that, just as it was too late to give up. You don’t give up when justice is at stake. Believe you me I’m not in it for the money! Eddie would have said to anyone listening. But Marge was still downstairs doing whatever she did after everyone else had gone to bed. Women have an appetite for loneliness. His first wife had been the same way — grateful for every minute of solitude. Eddie would have preferred working through the k
not of these circumstances with his wife at his side. Believe you me, he wanted to use the money to repair the horrendous damage that had been done to the child. But now he knew that neither instruction nor reparation could save him. Too immature to throw off the force of evil, young Michael would have to wait years before he could make the decision to behave. Until then, he’d exist in a perpetual state of war with the world, spitting, kicking, punching, intent on hurting those who were only trying to help him.

  However frustrated Eddie felt, he didn’t lack sympathy, for he recognized something of himself in the boy, saw in the child’s unruly manner the person Eddie Gantz might have been without the grace of God. Sympathy, though, was hard to sustain when the devil laughed in your face. But no matter what, Eddie would retain self-control and therefore would remain superior to the child, who assumed that by losing control he could bring Eddie Gantz to his knees. No, Eddie Gantz would never kneel before the devil. Eddie Gantz had God on his side.

  Four days after his birthday, Eddie sold five sets of washer-driers, two dishwashers, three ranges, and a microwave oven — not quite a record sale but close to it. He stayed late at the store making phone calls to follow up on earlier sales and was pleased to find that all of his customers were one hundred percent satisfied with Worthco’s products. What a day! He went to celebrate with Joe Simmons and his other pals at Angelina’s Grill down in Athens, drank his usual 7-Up, played darts, watched two innings of a baseball game, and arrived home in a cheery mood at about eleven o’clock to find Marge sitting alone in the kitchen with the lights off.

  Nothing unusual about that. Eddie announced his success, watched her shadowy figure for a nod of approval, which didn’t come, so he kissed her briskly good night and headed toward the stairs.

  “May I ask you something, Eddie?” Now that was unusual — her voice sounded tense, faintly accusing.

  “What is it?” He reached for the wall switch and turned on one set of track lights.

  “Where have you been?”

  The simple question stunned him. Where had he been? He’d made a hefty commission that day, and she wanted to know where he’d been? The question implied more than suspicion. By asking him to explain himself, she indicated that she thought him capable of behavior deserving concealment. Not only would he lie about where he’d been, he’d been doing something so terrible he couldn’t even speak of it!

  “What do you mean, where have I been?”

  “Exactly that. Where have you been, Eddie?”

  She said his name as she would have uttered a foul word. He returned across the kitchen, stood over her, and felt in that moment indignation that gave him such immediate pleasure his cheeks burned. He wanted to hit her, a desire he’d acted upon in their few previous arguments only by threatening her with his fist. He would never actually hit her — he’d seen his own father hit his mother and perceived how such an act earned a man no more than humiliation. But he enjoyed the desire enough to let it flare. He’d extinguish it in good time. All in good time.

  “Where do you think I’ve been?”

  “Why won’t you tell me?”

  “Why? Why?” Although he wouldn’t have admitted it even to himself, he enjoyed, along with his anger, the escalation of an argument, especially when he knew he would win it. “I’ll tell you why!” Ahead of the situation in his mind, he knew exactly what he would say and distributed his words carefully, each to a full second. “Because I don’t want to tell you.”

  “Bastard!” She turned her face away and whispered, but Eddie still heard her.

  Bastard. Eddie Gantz, a bastard? He didn’t say the obvious — that the true bastard of the family was upstairs in Jenny’s old bed. Instead, he met his wife’s insanity with an equanimity designed to torment her. He sighed audibly, shook his head, and said, at last, “What has come over you, Marge?” expecting with this question to prod her into tears. But she just matched his calm with a fierce smile of her own, and Eddie was struck by the uncanny resemblance — how similar she looked to her bastard grandson.

  Now he had to scramble to keep up with the associations set in motion: that Marge had gone mad because of the boy, that the boy had driven her mad, that Eddie should never have gotten involved with the boy, that it was too late to back down now. This last recognition had enough weight to put a crack in Eddie’s sturdy surface; with a roar he swept his hand backward, away from Marge, and sent a glass mug half full of warm coffee soaring across the room, to bounce against the wall and onto the floor and roll to a stop, still intact, missing only its handle.

  “Dorrie Jelilian saw you there, Eddie.” Marge bent over, gathering in her hands the mug and handle.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “She had to go to Gifferton to pick up her son from a basketball game. She saw you and Joe going into Romeo’s in the company of two ladies.” She reached for a paper towel to clean up the spilled coffee.

  So jealousy, soap-opera jealousy, was propelling Marge. Eddie would have laughed — laughed and laughed and laughed — if he were a different sort. Instead, he caught Marge by the wrist, whirled her around, and said fiercely, “You know me better than that!” certain that this simple statement would remind her of the weight of her obligation to him as his lawful wife.

  “I don’t know you at all,” she muttered.

  He released her wrist as he would have cast away a stick after finding it crawling with insects. He left her alone in the kitchen and went outside, letting the screen door swing shut with a loud crack behind him. The night was dark, the sky tinged with brownish red from the cloud cover. Two cats sat on the back rail — one was the boy’s, the other a stray. Eddie grabbed the stray with one hand and heaved it into the yard. The cat landed on its feet and raced into the field while the boy’s cat slunk beneath the deck.

  Eddie walked into the yard, uncertain of his next move. Was it possible? Had his life changed this much, this abruptly?

  He walked around the house and down the driveway, kicking through the gravel, finding in the area made visible by the living room lamp an image that gave sense to his confusion. He existed within a murky patch surrounded by darkness. The boy was hidden in the darkness. Yes yes yes, the boy was out there finding ways to hurt Eddie, to ruin him. Everything happening was happening because of the boy. Marge had turned against Eddie because of the boy. Eddie was walking in the dark instead of lying in his own bed because of the boy. Dorrie Jelilian had told a deliberate lie about Eddie because of the boy. It should be otherwise, what with the pincherry blossoms scenting the night air, the earth garbed in spring finery, joy available to all who would let themselves feel it, gratitude as natural as heat emanating from fire. Whatever had gone wrong had gone wrong because of the boy. And the boy — admit it, Eddie, fess up, come on — was living in their midst because of Eddie Gantz’s monstrous greed. He, yes, virtuous Eddie Gantz, yes yes yes, was responsible for the turn of events because he, Eddie Gantz, had brought the boy into his home to prove himself righteous.

  He tried with the force of his vision to blow the darkness open to dawn. By the grace of God ye who walk in the valley shall confess your evil thoughts! In a corner of his mind he’d known his intentions were wrong and still he’d persisted, brought the child, little lamb of Christ, into his home so he could pursue the case against the hospital and punish the offenders.

  Wait a second! The trouble with this version of events was that the child truly deserved compensation for his pain and suffering — Eddie believed this absolutely — and only Eddie had had the foresight to pursue a malpractice suit. Without his involvement, no suit would be brought, and the hospital would go on doing to other children what it had done to little Michael Templin. Eddie Gantz was the key to justice — for this he should be praised. And yet for this he should be damned. He recognized clearly how he’d allowed pride to determine his actions. It had never been the indemnity he wanted — filthy money, he hadn’t earned it and it wouldn’t add up to much anyway. No, Eddie Gantz had
wanted nothing less than to play God. And now, having recognized his pride, he renounced it with a click, click, click of his tongue. Shame, shame, shame.

  An animal — a squirrel or a bird — shook the branches of a locust tree, startling Eddie back into time. It must have been close to midnight by then; he didn’t intend to walk forever. No, he belonged in his own bed. He hadn’t even reached the end of Hanks Lane when he made himself turn around and head back to the wife who didn’t know him and the child who despised him. He walked straight back toward the thick of it, right toward the mess he’d made, feeling better now that he’d come to understand his motivations. He who through faith is righteous shall live, and he who is without sin should cast the first stone, and God shall lead every willing man to repentance. Salvation surpasses innocence, and virtue must prove itself not once or twice but over and over and over. Eddie savored the blessing of repentance and thought about what he might say to Marge, how he would gently lead her through the darkness of her suspicion back to faith and understanding.

  He entered the house through the front door, which they never locked. She must have heard him, but she didn’t emerge and Eddie had to go looking for her. The kitchen was empty, though the light had been left on. The other rooms were dark, so Eddie headed upstairs, figuring she’d gone to sulk in the comfort of her bed. He looked for her in the bedroom, in the walk-in closet, in the master bath. He returned to search the downstairs again, turned on the outside light to illuminate the backyard, checked the garage to make sure both cars were there. Had she fled to Dorrie Jelilian next door? But the Jelilians’ house was dark, as still as a boulder, so Eddie went back inside and upstairs, realizing just as he reached the second floor that he knew exactly where to find her, wondering at the same time why he hadn’t thought of it before.