See No Evil

by B. A. Shapiro

  “Great,” Todd said, the jubilation in his voice confirming her worst fears. “Thanks. You’re a pal.”

  Lauren stared at the phone and allowed a few tears of self-pity to fall from her eyes. She swiped her cheeks with an angry gesture. Fine. Todd had a date. She had had dates. She had even had sex. He was free to do whatever he pleased on a Tuesday evening—as was she. But when Lauren thought about what she wanted to do, she realized about the only thing that sounded appealing was a movie. Good. Drew was her date for the night—and Drew was her favorite movie companion.

  The two of them shared a passion for film, whether on the big screen or small, and they had no trouble agreeing on a movie showing in Harvard Square. A cold rain was falling, but that was of no consequence to Drew, who was thrilled at this weekday treat. They giggled together on the subway, and when they reached the theater, they settled in with a bucket of popcorn and a large lemonade. As usual, Lauren lost their ongoing argument over the popcorn. She wanted to eat it all right away—she hadn’t had much for dinner and preferred not to have popcorn crunched in her ear while the movie was playing—but Drew liked to savor it, kernel by kernel, until the closing credits. She pouted as she handed him the almost full bucket. He shook his head and slipped it under his seat.

  But when the feature started, Lauren found she couldn’t concentrate on the figures that loomed before her in the darkness. Her mind kept returning to the strange entry she had made in her dream journal. It wasn’t just Deborah’s prescience or the odd handwriting. What really frightened her was the underlying message that she and Drew were in danger. She thought of the Bellarmine urn and the poppets and Nigel Hawkes. She reached for Drew’s hand.

  Afterward, running hand in hand with his mother from under the theater marquee to the relatively dry entrance of the Harvard Coop, Drew happily recounted his favorite scenes as if she hadn’t just seen them too.

  “Come on, let’s run,” Lauren cried, pulling Drew across Mass Ave. and down the stairs of the brightly lit subway station. Drew laughed at how silly Lauren looked with hair stuck to her face. She assured him he looked no better.

  The train pulled to a stop amidst a blast of dirty air. Lauren and Drew climbed into an overcrowded car. She joined the ranks of the strap hangers and instructed Drew to hang on to her, thankful their trip to Porter Square was short.

  As they were rocked back and forth by the motion of the train, Drew jabbered on about the movie. “There’s one thing I don’t get,” he said. “At the very end, you know that man Tyrone? Well, was he a good guy or a bad guy? At the beginning he seemed like he was nice, but at the end he wasn’t.”

  Lauren looked down at her son’s face, which was filled with the conviction that she had answers to all his questions. Her heart squeezed with love and she wanted to kiss him, but knowing he would be mortified, she restrained herself.

  “Very few people are all good or all bad—or all of anything. Tyrone was like that. He was a little bit of both.” She paused for a long moment, then continued. “Sometimes it’s really hard to know if someone’s more good than bad, or vice versa.” She thought about Gabe declaring Deborah crazy and dangerous, while Deborah was convinced Gabe was evil and not to be trusted. “It’s not always easy to tell what people really are.”

  Drew nodded solemnly, and once again Lauren was overwhelmed with love. The subway lights flickered off for a moment and, as the car descended into darkness, instead of Drew’s face, Lauren saw the half-wolf, half-human face of Cardinal Bellarmine. Once again she smelled the odor of dampness and dead animal that had risen from the urn. The lights came back on and Lauren blinked at their harshness. Suddenly wary, she pressed Drew closer to her.

  By the time they arrived home, they were both soaked through to the skin and shivering from the cold. They raced up the stairs and into the vestibule, where Drew shook himself like a wet dog. “Whoever gets upstairs first gets a hot chocolate,” Lauren said. Drew dashed to the apartment door.

  Lauren followed more slowly. As she passed the mail table she noticed a large box she didn’t think had been there when they left for the movies. She checked the address. It was for her. She checked for a return address. There was none.

  She stood alone in the large hallway, dripping water on the worn rug and watching the inert box as if it were a rattlesnake ready to strike. She could just throw it in the trash; there was no law mandating a person to open mail with his or her name on it. And yet she knew she wouldn’t. She knew she would take it upstairs and see what was inside.

  Despite a sense of foreboding, Lauren carried the bulky carton into the kitchen and placed it on the counter. The brown box sat there while she gave Drew his hot chocolate and talked him through his tooth-brushing, clothes-changing, story-reading bedtime routine. The carton sat there, haunting her every move.

  Once Drew was asleep, she stood before the box with a large carving knife in her hand. Slowly, she approached the carton. With a quick slashing motion, she sliced the tape. The top flaps flipped open and a stale odor reached toward her.

  Lauren stepped back, then gingerly came forward and looked into the box. She gasped. As she had subconsciously suspected, it contained a Bellarmine urn. But when she shook the contents of the urn onto the floor, she found that they weren’t what she had expected at all.

  For instead of her hair and her fingernails and a heart with her name on it, a tiny blond braid studded with nails and a few dirty fingernail parings slid onto the floor. She touched the braid and a tornado of fear roared through her. She would recognize that hair anywhere. It was Drew’s.

  There was more. She heard something else rattling around inside the urn. She shook it and had to stifle a scream when a small green object clattered to the floor. It was roughly twice the size of a silver dollar. And even before she recognized the design on its back, she knew. It was Herman’s shell. And the shell was empty.

  Lauren lunged for the objects on the floor and stuffed them back into the urn. Frantic, she shoved the urn into the carton and raced downstairs. She deposited the box in the garbage closet on the porch, slamming the door firmly behind it. When she got back to her apartment, she called the airport and her parents. Then she began to pack.

  Twenty-Three

  THE FIRST FLIGHT TO MIAMI LEFT BOSTON AT SEVEN A.M. and, miraculously, two seats were available. Lauren set her alarm for five, but hours before it was due to go off, she was up, drinking coffee and worrying. She worried about the urn, she worried about Drew, and she worried about what she was going to tell her mother.

  Someone had broken into her apartment and left her one warning. Now they had sent another. There was no point in calling the police. All she could do to protect her child was run. Always a nervous flier, now Lauren could barely contain her longing for the moment when the plane’s wheels would lift off the tarmac and they would be airborne. Airborne and safe.

  When she woke Drew at five, he was cranky and complained that his head hurt. She hustled him into the kitchen and force-fed him his favorite cereal.

  “I want to go back to sleep,” he whined, scratching his back.

  “Don’t you want to see Grandma Ruth and Poppa Bernie?” she asked with false cheerfulness. “Go swimming in their pool?”

  “I guess,” he mumbled and put his head on the table.

  Concerned when mention of the pool didn’t animate him, Lauren rested her hand on his forehead. He actually did feel a bit warm, so she gave him a couple of Tylenol and sent him off to get dressed. If Drew did have a little bug, he would mend more quickly in the warm sun. Getting him out of Boston was the most important thing. She needed to know he was safe.

  “Damn,” she said as the bowl she was washing slipped from her hand and shattered on the floor. Lauren crouched on her knees and picked up the bigger pieces. What kind of lunatic killed a helpless turtle?

  “Drew!” she called sharply. “Are you ready? It’s almost time to go.”

  But when she went into his room, she found him lying on his
bed with an arm thrown over his eyes. His pajamas, as well as the jeans and sweatshirt he was supposed to be putting on, were on the floor. Looking down at his scrawny chest, each rib pressing against his taut skin, Lauren felt her heart turn over. How she loved this skinny little guy. She sat down on the bed and pulled her son to her; he buried his head in her shoulder. “I’ll help you,” she said, kissing his hair and holding him tightly. “You can sleep on the plane and some more at Grandma’s if you want.”

  Airborne and safe, she thought. In less than two hours they would be airborne and safe.

  “Okay,” he said listlessly.

  “Hands up,” she ordered, again with false cheerfulness, telling him how she used to do this for him all the time when he was a baby. As he obediently raised his hands, she noticed a few clusters of red spots on his chest. “Does this itch?” she asked, touching one of the clusters lightly. The spots were mostly small and raised, although some seemed to be filling with fluids.

  He shrugged. “So-so.”

  Lauren pulled the sweatshirt down and pulled her son up. “Time to go,” she said, thinking that if Drew hadn’t had chicken pox when he was five, she would swear he was coming down with a case now.

  When they were both ready, Lauren had Drew wait in the apartment while she went down and put the suitcases in the car. As she passed through the vestibule, she inspected the corners for lurking shadows and threw a glance at the mail table to make sure no new packages had been delivered. Outside in the predawn stillness, she continued her scrutiny, scanning the street in both directions to ensure no one was waiting to harm her child.

  After checking between the parked cars, Lauren stowed the luggage in the trunk and ran back to get Drew. She kept her hand on his shoulder from the time they left the apartment until he was buckled into his seat belt. As soon as she got into the car, she locked all the doors.

  On the way to the airport, Drew began to perk up, asking whether they would be in Florida long enough for him to do an art project with his grandfather and if he’d be able to go swimming every day. Lauren assured him that he would, weather pending, while she concentrated on getting through the already jammed tunnel and finding a place to put her car in Logan’s notoriously undersized parking lots. Everything went smoothly and they were in line at the Delta counter almost an hour before flight time. Which was fortunate, for the line was long.

  As they inched closer to the counter, Lauren pushed the bags with her foot so she could watch the crowd while keeping a hold on Drew. After a few minutes, Drew squirmed from her grasp. “Don’t!” Lauren cried, her voice too harsh. “Stay close to me,” she ordered, grabbing his arm again. When she saw tears welling in his eyes, she was overwhelmed with guilt. “Hey, Mister Boy,” she said, ruffling his hair. “Sun and fun comin’ our way.”

  “Uh huh.” He pushed his body into hers and allowed her to hug him in a way he hadn’t tolerated in public since he was five.

  Lauren knelt and took her son’s face in her hands. It was cool but slightly flushed, and the red spots were climbing up his neck and onto one cheek. “Just a few more minutes,” she said, kissing his forehead.

  A woman standing next to them, dressed in a designer maternity suit, smiled at Lauren. She appeared to be about six months pregnant. When her eyes dropped to Drew’s face, she blanched and stepped back. “Does he have chicken pox?” she demanded.

  “No,” Lauren said. “He must’ve eaten something he’s allergic to—he had chicken pox a couple of years ago.”

  The woman stared at Drew for a long moment. Then her eyes narrowed and she took another step away. “He’s not taking the seven o’clock to Miami, is he?”

  Lauren pulled herself up to her full height. “Yes,” she said. “As a matter of fact, he is.”

  “Exposure to chicken pox can cause birth defects.” The woman lifted her briefcase from where it lay on top of her suitcase, as if shielding herself from Drew’s contamination.

  “I told you,” Lauren said coolly, “he doesn’t have chicken pox.” She pulled Drew in front of her and turned her back on the woman.

  Fortunately, their turn came quickly and they were directed to an agent at the far end of the counter. When their bags were checked, Lauren bought Drew an ice cream cone—which did seem to make him feel better—and, hand in hand, they headed down the long concourse. When they reached their gate and Lauren saw that the plane was parked at the ramp, she was flooded with relief. Grabbing two seats near the door, Lauren smiled. They were almost there.

  When first class was allowed to board, Lauren noted that their own seats were at the back of the plane. She stood, swinging her purse and canyon to her shoulder. “Almost our turn,” she told Drew, pulling him up from his chair. As she turned, Lauren noticed a cluster of people in navy Delta uniforms conferring at the desk. The pregnant woman with the briefcase stood off to the side; her face was flushed and triumphant.

  “Ow!” Drew cried, pulling his hand from Lauren’s. “You’re squishing my fingers.”

  “Sorry,” she said absently, her eyes never leaving the group of blue jackets. The woman making the announcements nodded and reached for the mike. Don’t, Lauren prayed, don’t say my name.

  “Will Ms. Lauren Freeman and Mr. Andrew Freeman come to the desk, please? Ms. Lauren Freeman and Mr. Andrew Freeman.”

  “Mommy, that’s us,” Drew cried. “They called my name!”

  Lauren took his hand and walked slowly toward the desk. “Yes,” she said through clenched teeth, “they called your name.” She glanced down at his face and saw to her dismay that the spots seemed to have both spread and grown over the last hour—and that they did look like chicken pox.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, Ms. Freeman,” a perky young woman who appeared to be about thirteen said to Lauren, “but there’s been a concern expressed about your son’s health.”

  “My son is fine,” Lauren said as Drew hid behind her leg. “He’s having an allergic reaction to something he ate.”

  “Would you mind if we took a little look?” the woman asked sweetly. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a handful of plastic wing pins. She knelt down and held out her hand. “Andrew?” she called before Lauren could stop her. “Would you like some wings?”

  “Wings?” the little boy said, poking his head around his mother’s leg.

  “Here you go, honey.” The woman dumped a few pins in his hand while she scrutinized his face. She patted him on the head, then stood and faced Lauren. “I’m sorry, Ms. Freeman,” she said, her face suddenly much older looking, “as our first concern has to be the safety of all of our passengers—”

  “I told you,” Lauren interrupted, desperate to keep the woman from completing her sentence, “it’s not chicken pox. He had chicken pox two years ago and I know you can’t get it twice.”

  “I’m sure you’re correct,” the young woman said sweetly. “But until you give us a doctor’s note attesting to that fact, we won’t be able to allow Andrew to board the plane.”

  Drew did indeed have chicken pox, a particularly bad case complicated by infected blisters and a tenacious fever. “It’s extremely uncommon but not undocumented to develop chicken pox twice,” the pediatrician told Lauren after she examined Drew. “There’s a lot we don’t know about the disease. But my guess is that your little fellow is in for a rough two or three days.”

  When Lauren brought Drew back five days later, still feverish with new blisters forming, the doctor shook her head. “According to the literature, second cases do appear to be more troublesome, although I’ve got to admit this is the most virile I’ve ever seen.”

  The pediatrician was well into her sixties, and Lauren was not comforted by the fact that the woman must have seen thousands of cases of chicken pox. The doctor advised Lauren to cut Drew’s nails so he wouldn’t scratch the blisters and to give him cool baths in Colloidal oatmeal. “He’s still contagious, so keep him at home and secluded,” she said. “Chicken pox can be deadly to people with diseases lik
e AIDS—and it can cause birth defects if contracted by a pregnant woman.”

  Lauren told her she was well aware of the risk posed by chicken pox and packed up her lethargic and contagious son. As she helped Drew strap his seat belt, she once again saw in her mind’s eye the urn and poor Herman’s empty shell. Had someone cursed Drew with a virile case of the chicken pox? A few days ago she would have thought this question absurd. Now she was far from certain.

  With both Todd and Aunt Beatrice out of town—Todd on assignment in L.A. and Aunt Beatrice on an extended visit with her daughter Roz for Thanksgiving—Lauren became a full-time nurse. She swabbed Drew’s blisters, ran him baths and encouraged him to eat, sleeping when he slept, not sleeping when he didn’t.

  By the afternoon of the seventh day, when Drew’s temperature had been normal for twenty-four hours and all his blisters were scabbed over, Lauren was too exhausted to feel jubilation at the doctor’s pronouncement that he could return to school on Thursday. But Drew was ecstatic, forgetting for the moment that school wasn’t his favorite place to be. He was also ravenously hungry and full of energy.

  Lauren dragged herself into the kitchen and stared into the empty refrigerator. She opened the freezer and searched through a mound of “mystery packets” so covered with ice that she couldn’t tell which bygone leftovers they might contain. Finding a half empty package of hot dogs, she pulled it out, but discovered there was no American cheese or pastry dough to cook them the way Drew liked. Suddenly, an idea came to her, and with it a burst of energy.

  After zapping the frozen hot dogs in the microwave, she scurried into the living room and began laying a fire in the large fireplace.

  “What are you doing, Mom?” Drew asked from his throne of pillows on the couch.

  “You’ll see.”

  Excited by her tone, Drew jumped up and helped her with the kindling and newspapers. Once Lauren got the logs roaring, they found two long fondue forks in the back of the silverware drawer. She impaled a hot dog on each. “Turn off all the lights,” she directed Drew, who was more than happy to comply. “We’re going to have a dinner just like in the olden days.”