Seven Deadlies

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Seven Deadlies Page 3

by Gigi Levangie


  And you would know, in an instant, that this “normal house” with this “normal family” was not so normal after all.

  What was not-so-normal about the Wankres?

  Meet William Wankre. (If I have to, you have to.) From outward appearances, William was a robust, redheaded, red-faced, twelve-almost-thirteen-year-old boy who lived in a nice suburban neighborhood in a nice house in a sunny climate with his nice parents and his very nice twin sisters, almost-seven-year-old Prudence and Mabel. William’s dad, Mr. Wankre, was my favorite science teacher at Mark Frost Academy; Mrs. Wankre was a stay-at-home mom.

  Mr. Wankre had approached me after biology class one afternoon to ask if I’d be interested in watching his twin girls for a few hours a week.

  Well, at first he said, in his warbly voice, “Perry, I’m hearing good things about your tutoring business. You’re gaining quite the rep with the more, er, difficult personalities we have here. Would you be interested in guarding my girls so my wife can nap for just a few minutes, if it’s not too much trouble?”

  His face, covered in stubble, was pale behind his glasses, which had been broken and taped together above his nose. I noticed that he’d become more gaunt, his cheeks more sunken, in the few months I’d known him.

  “Guard your girls? From what, Mr. Wankre?” I asked.

  “Oh, ah, did I say ‘guard’? I meant babysit,” he blurted out. His lip quivered. “I’d like you to babysit my girls for an hour here or there . . .”

  In a soft, breathy voice with a hint of the Southern belle she once was, Mrs. Wankre sat in her living room and explained little William’s “eccentricities” to me while he played video games in the next room. The twins were still in after-school activities.

  I couldn’t help but notice various holes in the walls, the ripped sofa cushions.

  What I could have sworn were bloodstains on the area rug.

  Mrs. Wankre told me she used to be known as Dr. Wankre. She had a bustling career as a pediatrician in a lovely red-brick building. She even had her own brass nameplate on the door. Oh, she dearly loved taking care of children—encouraging toddlers to listen to their bodies with her stethoscope, bouncing babies on her knee, counseling middle school kids about bullies and hormones—but she was forced to quit when William was a tot.

  “I don’t want to alarm you,” she said, absentmindedly fingering the stethoscope she still wore around her neck. “But our little William has been quite the, er, challenge.”

  Mrs. Wankre had become increasingly frightened in her once cozy household—and for good reason. Little William’s bad moods were becoming bad reality TV (hi, oxymoron!).

  In a voice so quiet, I was forced to lean in, Mrs. Wankre rattled off the following:

  When William Wankre was a teeny, tiny baby, he chomped on the pet cat’s tail repeatedly (he had his first tooth at three weeks, a full set at three months!), until the cat and his bloodied tail finally went to live under the house.

  William was an early walker. He walked at five months on tree-stump legs. Which would have been exciting, except he used those legs to kick holes in the plaster in the TV room. He did this when Mrs. Wankre refused to let him watch R-rated movies, like Blade and Scarface.

  Mrs. Wankre was run out of the local park, even at night, because of little William. She was ejected from two shopping malls (and a Williams-Sonoma). The aquarium has her on a no-entry list. Five minutes into interviews, she was not allowed to enroll William in several nursery schools.

  Why? Foul language. (See the above-referenced “favorite movies.”) William, apparently, could bring a blush to Kanye’s cheek, and a “oh, no, he di’n’t!” to his mouth.

  On a bright Monday morning, a little over seven years ago, Mrs. Wankre found out she was pregnant—with twin girls! She kept this wonderful news secret from William until one afternoon, the postman asked how she was “coming along” and when she was “due.”

  And that’s when little William rolled up his little hand (he was already over forty pounds and eating steak for breakfast) into a fist and punched Mrs. Wankre right in her Mabel-and-Prudence tummy. (Mabel and Prudence would swear to you, if they actually talked, that they still remember being knocked around—and this is why they had to be coaxed out of their mother’s womb a whole three weeks late!)

  Mrs. Wankre would try to control her little boy. Mr. Wankre would try to control his little boy.

  They tried:

  Cajoling

  Encouraging

  Ferberizing

  Yelling and screaming

  Brazeltoning

  Buying (things)

  Bribing with food

  Bribing with sleep times

  Sleep aids (only once, and they have fond memories)

  That collar for dogs that have undergone surgery

  All to no avail. When the twins came along, William Wankre was ready for them. Mr. and Mrs. Wankre slept with the twins next to their bed in matching bassinets for as long as possible. Mrs. Wankre caught William sneaking into their bedroom holding a pillow above his head.

  After that, Mr. and Mrs. Wankre took turns sleeping.

  Finally, when Mrs. Wankre found a kitchen knife stowed in William’s overnight diaper, the Wankres quickly decided that one of them would have to stay home full-time in order to keep William from slicing and dicing, suffocating or damaging in any way his brand-new baby sisters.

  Mrs. Wankre immediately gave up her kid patients and her beloved practice.

  I can’t explain why, and I don’t expect you to believe it, but little William (who was much bigger, taller, stronger, and meaner than I) did not scare me.

  Maybe because of where I grew up. My apartment building borders two opposing gangs. An Armenian gang—they tend to be short and squat and have facial hair at nine years old, drive refurbished Camaros, and have small, crooked teeth. The second gang is El Salvadoreño—they tend to be short and stringy and have no facial hair until they are in their thirties. They drive refurbished El Caminos and have coal black, greasy ’dos. There is a line drawn down the middle of our street and no welcome mats on either side.

  (Keep in mind, there are numerous Armenian and Latino gang subsets—these are just my friendly neighborhood ones.)

  I’d stopped jumping at the report of occasional gunfire when I was still wearing jumpers. I learned to ask questions with my ears, my skin, and my eyes, not my lips.

  So this man-child who barreled into the Wankre living room, with his corona of orange hair and constellation of freckles (extra credit for astronomy metaphors?), would have to come with it, if you know what I mean.

  Mrs. Wankre had told me to stand very still when she introduced us. Sudden movements enraged little William.

  Sometimes, breathing enraged little William.

  (Little William was sounding like a laugh riot.)

  Still, my curiosity (my mother would say “nosiness”) had gotten the best of me. A good story is a good story, even if I have to lose an ear to get it.

  William immediately started sniffing me. It was not unlike being assaulted by a Great Dane with a personality disorder. Mrs. Wankre had warned me that he could smell fear.

  I stared him down. Somewhere, sometime, I had learned that Tom Cruise, the famous Scientologist/movie star, does not blink during interviews. If Tom could do it, I could do it.

  “Get out of my house,” he growled. “You smell like taquitos.”

  “Hi, William. I’m Perry,” I said, unwavering. “And your mother is going to sleep now.”

  “SHUT UP!” he bellowed.

  Despite the molten hotness of his breath upon my face, I stood my ground.

  “Mrs. Wankre, go take your nap,” I said, my eyes on Mad Ginger. “William and I are going to play a game.”

  “GET OUT!”

  “Go ahead, Mrs. Wankre. I got this.”


  And to my surprise, Mrs. Wankre, shaking though she was, tiptoed past her son to her bedroom and closed the door.

  And locked it, which was worrisome.

  William’s face turned bright red. He picked up a chair and threw it against the front door.

  “Boring,” I said, and I brought out my handy pack of cards, good for any babysitting occasion. “Are you afraid to play me in a game? Crazy Eights?”

  “I’LL KILL YOU!”

  “You don’t like Crazy Eights. Gin Rummy?”

  William screamed.

  “Ah, so you are afraid. Okay. We’ll just read, then.”

  I sat down with a book I’d been meaning to finish—no, not The Hunger Games. The other one. I didn’t flinch as William ran at his mother’s door, throwing his shoulder into it and cracking it from its hinges; I didn’t blink when he rolled on the floor and gnawed on a chair leg. I yawned when he punched his fist through the television set.

  I finished the last chapter as he lay on the floor, panting and wheezing from exhaustion.

  I checked my watch.

  “Well, that went quickly,” I said.

  “I HATE YOU!” he yelled from the floor.

  “Let me go wake up your mom,” I said as I skipped over him. “We’ll continue the fun in a few days.”

  The next week, Mrs. Wankre introduced me to Prudence and Mabel. The girls were white as paper, with bones like birds, tiny pink mouths, cornflower blue eyes, and strawberry bobs. They curtsied, blinked quickly for ten seconds, and sat down for tea at a small round table, motioning for me to sit with them.

  After sipping tea and exchanging shy smiles, I noticed that neither of them had said a word. I asked them questions and they smiled. That was it. Somehow, though, I understood their answers. I told them a bit about myself. They smiled and nodded, eager to hear more.

  That’s when I asked them, “Mabel? Prudence? Do you girls talk?”

  Prudence and Mabel looked at each other, blinked, and looked back at me—four round blue eyes saying no.

  And What’s the point?

  I grinned and put my hands out for them to hold.

  As they’ve since explained to me in elaborate baroque script—they are already expert calligraphers—here are a few more things the Wankres have tried over the years to help William:

  Homeopathic medicine

  Horse-petting

  Meditation

  Exercise

  Macrobiotic diet

  Dogs and fish, but not together

  A meeting with Gwyneth Paltrow (in which he tried to bite part of her ear off)

  Any psychological guru with a funny accent

  Oprah.com

  Therapy

  The first therapist said the Wankres should listen more. She quit after William burned a hole through her couch with a lighter he picked up in Vegas. The second therapist said William needed extra hugs. She quit after he hugged her and left a scar. A third therapist suggested electroshock therapy, but William was too young.

  The Wankres then tried lying about his age to the therapist.

  11. Botox (for Mrs. Wankre, for all her worry lines)

  A typical day in the Wankre household? Mom and Dad would put on their padded body suits under their normal, everyday clothes. The girls, thus far, had refused to wear pads—but then, they were considerably faster on their feet than Mom and Dad Wankre.

  Every morning, William woke up bellowing like something out of Jurassic Park, threw his oatmeal at his mother, monkey-bit his sisters, taunted them when they cried out, emptied his lunch on the floor and stomped on his meat sandwich, then ripped up his father’s newspaper and pushed him aside as he rushed out to the bus stop in order to be on time to terrorize the schoolbus driver, Anita.

  And that was all before eight a.m.

  There were many things the Wankre family hadn’t done because of Willie Wankre’s, er, “special” behaviors. They’d never: had a peaceful meal; gone on a family vacation; attended the circus, or a sporting event, or a birthday party (forget about Christmas, Hanukkah, or Kwanzaa parties!). They’d never even taken a quiet walk around the block.

  They had: dodged flying plates, cups, and silverware; used trash can lids to parry makeshift swords; learned how to patch a nailed tire with duct tape and spit; hidden the knives; hidden the forks; become very good at something called “triage”; created earplugs out of snot and bits of paper in ten seconds or less; worked themselves up to extraordinary foot speeds (in the case of the twins).

  At school, William Wankre was even worse. He was, as you can imagine, a huge bully. He was over six feet tall. He was even bigger than the school principal. He was much bigger than his teachers. He may even have been bigger than Shaq (though Shaq seems very nice and not at all like William Wankre).

  In his sixth-grade classroom, Willie burped and farted and made belching noises during other pupils’ oral book reports. His own book report was a series of farts and burps made to sound like the Gettysburg Address.

  Homeschooling became the only alternative.

  The principal’s tic is just starting to go away.

  On Prudence and Mabel’s birthday, their fondest wish was for a hamster. They had begged Mr. and Mrs. Wankre for a hamster since as far back as they could remember—both telepathically and in writing. Every night, their thoughts turned to prayers for a hamster. And every morning, they spelled out hamster with their breakfast cereal.

  Mr. and Mrs. Wankre had tried to explain to the girls, whom they knew to be reasonable and sensitive, why they couldn’t have a pet. Now, at this point in the story, you may not think of Prudence and Mabel as reasonable and sensitive. You may think of them as weird. You may think of them as freaks. Why don’t these girls talk? you might ask. Why don’t they just use their voice boxes and their vocal cords like any other reasonable and sensitive seven-year-old twins?

  Well, as they’ve explained to me, if you lived in a house where one voice was one hundred times louder than all the others combined, would you just not try anymore? Would you still use your voice?

  Maybe. And maybe not.

  When Prudence and Mabel were babies, being reasonable and sensitive infants, they knew what they were in for. They heard every loud remark, burp, utterance, yell, scream, fart, and holler coming out of their big brother William’s various orifices. In fact, while Prudence and Mabel were still in Mrs. Wankre’s tummy and barely even had fully formed ears, they made a pact to communicate in ways that couldn’t be breached.

  Instead of using their mouths to converse, they decided they would use their brain waves.

  They were very, very smart tiny little babies.

  But let’s not dwell. Back to the hamster dilemma.

  The girls wanted a hamster; Mr. and Mrs. Wankre were dubious. They didn’t even want to remind William that the girls’ birthday was coming up, because he’d ruin it—as he did, consistently, every year.

  In what ways had he ruined Prudence and Mabel’s birthdays?

  Year One: William sat on their birthday cake.

  Year Two: William ran the car over their matching tricycles.

  Year Three: William spit in the fruit punch.

  Year Four: William peed in the fruit punch.

  Year Five: I won’t tell you what William did to the fruit punch that year.

  Year Six: Mabel and Prudence refused to celebrate their birthday.

  Year Seven: WHO KNOWS WHAT WOULD HAPPEN IF THEY GOT A HAMSTER?

  I shudder to think.

  There was the time the Wankres got a round, wiggly puppy, thinking that maybe what young William needed was a pet to love.

  William squeezed the puppy.

  And squeezed it.

  And squeezed it.

  And just as it looked like there would be a puppy explosion, Mrs. Wankre tickled William
hard under his arms. William released the puppy, and the puppy—whose name was Puppy, because they never figured out a better name, because they didn’t actually own him for more than twenty minutes—ran away and was never seen nor heard from again.

  Mabel and Prudence, in addition to being reasonable and sensitive, had animal telepathy—if they knew where Puppy ran off to, they would never tell. They also read many psychology books like Your Difficult Sibling or Essentials of Abnormal Psychology. They advised their parents—who were, after all the aforementioned efforts, at a complete loss—on how to treat their older brother by highlighting pertinent passages. Poor Mrs. Wankre wore a wig—she hardly had any hair left from pulling it out—and Mr. Wankre hardly had any teeth left from grinding at night.

  I did my best to give Mrs. Wankre a break for a couple hours a week, but frankly, that boy was not getting any better, and may have been getting worse.

  One night, when I came home from the Wankre house with a bruise on my forehead (flying I ♥ ATLANTA coffee mug), my mother put her small foot down.

  I told Mr. Wankre, my voice filled with regret, that I would not be able to babysit/guard/dodge flying mugs anymore. I was giving two weeks’ notice.

  He nodded, his long face longer and sadder, and gave me a hug.

  Prudence and Mabel (who finished each other’s sentences in each other’s heads) showed their mother an article regarding a new wonder drug that might just work on Willie’s temper. Mrs. Wankre was against drugs (except for the homeopathic ones that don’t work), but since Willie had that incident with the local sheriff and the Taser, she was willing to give it a try.

  Willie was put on the wonder drug. And at first, it appeared to do nothing. And then, an extremely weird thing happened: William became normal. And he stayed normal. For a whole week! The family went out to dinner. They went to see a movie. The kids played tag in the front yard—and Willie didn’t trip, hit, punch, or kick the twins! Willie pet a dog. Mr. and Mrs. Wankre bought Prudence and Mabel a pet hamster, Mr. Heywood. Mrs. Wankre’s hair even started growing back. All was well! Ding-dong, the Wankre was dead!

 

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