Wicked Angel

by Taylor Caldwell

  He’s a solitary kid, Mark thought now without his usual uneasiness. But perhaps that is because he is extremely intelligent, and the other kids bore him, and they don’t understand him. I wonder what he’ll be? With his mind it’s possible he’ll be a writer or a better engineer than I am, or an artist or a scientist. Excellent minds are at a premium these days, and I wonder why. Is it the fault of the schools, or mass education which must cater to the mediocre norm, or are parents more stupid than were our parents? Or, are the inferior and the weak, who used to die before they reached adulthood, now living because of antibiotics which save their lives? I don’t know, but I do know I encounter more fools in a week among the younger fellows than I used to encounter in a year.

  He thought of the Mendelian laws of inheritance of mental and physical characteristics, and he frowned. All these half-wits! They survived and bred their kind. His father had been a sensible man. “Water never rises higher than its source, Mark,” he had said. “Fools breed fools. All the education in the world won’t make a clever man out of a congenital idiot, and that’s something the educators will have to learn. Nature stubbornly refuses to be democratic, and create all children equally endowed with intelligence and character, and the sentimentalists can talk themselves blue in the face about environment, and nature will go on denying them. Why, some of our greatest men came from broken homes and slums and the most hellish poverty, and some of our worst criminals have come from what the jargonists call superior environment. What’s bred in the bone is born in the flesh.”

  Mark stirred uneasily on the fence, and swung his legs. Bruce had been born of intelligent parents; Kathy might be a sentimental fool at times, but she never fooled herself that she was intrinsically sincere and meant what she said. She knew she was a hypocrite, and it took intelligence to understand that. But, in her own way she was a good woman. He, Mark, did not love her, and sometimes could not endure her, but he had to admit that she possessed many good qualities. It was unfortunate that she had not had more children; her mind would have been diverted from her son, to his own benefit and hers. And to mine, too, thought Mark, with a quick falling of his spirits.

  He stood up and whistled and called for his son again. And there he was, strolling across the lawns toward the house, and smiling that secret smile of his. The little dog was not with him. He had something sharp like an animal’s awareness, and he swung about and looked at his father across the grass, then came running. But he stopped a considerable distance from the bluff, and Mark went to him, smiling. What a good-looking kid he was! Mark’s heart softened.

  “Where’ve you been, son?” he asked. Angelo looked up at him with his wide and innocent gaze. His red underlip trembled. “Why, I’ve been looking for Petti. He ran into the woods, Daddy, and I followed him, and I can’t find him.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Mark, taking his hand. “Dogs like to run and snuff in the woods. He’s probably chasing a rabbit. Spaniels are hunters, you know. They were bred for hunting; they can sometimes hunt better than beagles, and Petti’s a purebred dog. Let’s go find him. How long has he been gone?”

  “Oh, a long time,” said Angelo vaguely. “Right after lunch.”

  “But that was three hours ago,” said Mark. “Haven’t you seen him since?”

  “No, Daddy.” The hazel eyes wavered, then filled with tears.

  “Never mind,” said Mark uncomfortably. Angelo might be nearly seven, but he looked almost ten, because of his height and general muscular build. “Let’s go into the woods and call him.”

  “I think I’m tired,” said Angelo, pulling his hand away. “I think I’ll get some milk and a sandwich. It’s time for my snack.”

  “You drink too much milk,” said Mark, annoyed. “Your mother says it’s good for you, but I don’t know. Now look here, son. Petti is your charge; he’s your responsibility. Nothing in the woods can hurt him, but he might run far down to the road where he could be hit by a car, or get lost. I wish you wouldn’t say ‘snack.’ I’m prejudiced about that. I hate the word.”

  Angelo smiled suddenly. “Why?”

  “I don’t know. It just sounds girlish, I suppose. Now come along; we’ve got to find that dog.”

  “You dislike a lot of words,” said Angelo. “Such as cozy and homey and comfy. They’re Mum’s favorites. And you hate to hear Mum’s friends talk about complexes and inferiority feelings, and what you call jargon.” His eyes were sly and sparkling.

  Mark smiled in return. He rumpled the dark-red curls, and Angelo, as usual, was suddenly still and unsmiling at the caress. “You’re a bright kid,” said Mark. “You’ve got a better vocabulary than kids twice your age. But you’re not going to put me off the track. We’re going to find Petti. Aren’t you worried about him at all?”

  “Sure,” said Angelo. “But I’ve looked since after lunch. Everywhere. He’ll come back when he’s ready. He’s bright, too.”

  He put his hands behind his back and looked up at his father. “I really am tired, Daddy,” he said soberly. “Why don’t you look for Petti yourself?”

  “All right,” said Mark. “But after this don’t be so careless.”

  He went toward the woods, whistling to the dog, and calling, and searching. He was a little disappointed that Angelo showed no anxiety for his pet. Mark stopped in the shade of the first trees. Of course, the little puppy had been with the family only a few days. You could not expect a boy to develop a sudden overwhelming passion for a pet in that short space of time. Love had its slow growth and maturing. But now Mark remembered that Petti himself was showing no signs of loving what Kathy called “his little master.” Kathy did not like the dog; she complained over his muddy paws and his long hair. She was forever following him about with a damp cloth, and becoming angry over puppyish accidents. Mamie loved the small creature, and he was to be found more in the kitchen at her heels than anywhere else. Too, when Mark sat down the dog would run to him to be picked up and sheltered in strong arms.

  Mark frowned. Yet, he recalled, his son would pick up the dog forcibly and carry him outside to play with him. Sometimes Petti would yelp as if in pain, and when Mark stepped out the dog would race to him, trembling. “You play too roughly with him,” Mark would warn his son. “Remember, he’s still only a baby.”

  “Yes, Daddy,” Angelo would reply seriously. “I’m sorry. I was just wrestling with him.” One day, and it was only yesterday, Angelo showed his father the marks of infant teeth on his arm. The flesh had not been broken, but Kathy had become quite hysterical, and had rushed for hot water and soap and iodine and had raved about hydrophobia. Mark had winked at Angelo, and the boy had only stood there, being ministered to, and not returning the wink. “You’ve just got to train him,” Mark had said, and Angelo had nodded.

  Mark, in the shade of the woods, lit another cigarette, and carefully ground the match into the damp earth. He listened to the voices of the trees, the shy animal rustlings, the dry scuttlings. Otherwise, it was very still. Mark called quietly to the dog; he walked all through the woods, snapping his fingers and whistling. But no small bark answered him. No small feet rushed toward him. Mark went down to the country road and looked over it. Tree-patterns lay on the warm dust, but there was no sign of life anywhere. Mark crossed the road and climbed the low hill to his neighbor’s property. A little girl and boy were romping in the distance with a fine yellow and white collie. The dog, scenting him, burst into a series of friendly barks and ran toward him, and the children, laughing, followed.

  “Hello, Sally and Bobbie,” said Mark, trying to evade the leaping dog’s kisses “Have you seen our dog, a cocker spaniel called Petti? He’s Bruce’s dog, and he’s only a puppy.”

  The children were surprised. The little blond boy said, “Has Bruce got a dog? I think I saw Bruce awhile ago, on your own land; it’s where the trees are thin. And there wasn’t any dog with him. He just stood there and looked at us.” He colored with discomfort.

  His sister, seven years old, was you
nger than Bobbie, and more forthright. “I guess he wanted to play with us, or something, Mr. Saint,” she said. “But we don’t play with Bruce. Not after last summer.”

  “Why not?” asked Mark, with the old dark anxiety.

  The children looked at each other, and Bobbie muttered, “Shut up!”

  “No, kids, please. I want to know. After all, Bruce is my child. Did he do something wrong?”

  “No,” said Bobbie loudly. “It isn’t what Bruce does, Mr. Saint. It’s just Bruce. He came over one day, and we asked him to play in that old barn over there, and he came with us, and he just stood in the doorway and looked at us. It was scary, the way he looked, and Sally began to cry. She was only six then,” he added, with superiority.

  “Bruce is shy,” said Mark, feeling a little sick. “He’s hard to get acquainted with. You ought to have helped him.”

  “He isn’t shy, Mr. Saint,” said Bobbie resolutely, looking at Mark with honest gray eyes. “He may be lots of things, but he isn’t shy. Bruce just stood there in the doorway and looked at us, and we talked to him, and tried to get him to climb into the loft with us, and he never answered. He never said a single word, Mr. Saint. I’m not telling you a fib. He stood there a long time and just watched us, and his eyes were all big, and he didn’t say a word. It was real scary. Sally was crying, and I grabbed her arm and I pushed Bruce out of the way, and we ran home.”

  “But you’re two years older than Bruce is, Bobbie. Why should a boy less than seven scare you? You’re as tall as he is, and probably as strong. I can’t believe that when he just looked at you you were frightened.”

  Bobbie colored again, but his eyes did not shift from Mark’s. “I sure was, Mr. Saint. And it takes a lot to scare me. I’m not even afraid of ghosts.”

  Mark smiled. Sally said, “He’s got the funniest eyes. Real bright and funny, when he stares at you. I hope he doesn’t come here anymore.”

  “He’s a very bright boy,” said Mark. “He isn’t quite seven yet, but he can read and write very well, and draw and paint and do arithmetic as well as anyone in the third grade. And he’s lonely. He doesn’t know how to act with other children.”

  “He sure don’t,” said Bobbie fervently. “Want us to help find your dog, Mr. Saint?”

  “No, thanks. He’ll turn up. I just hope he hasn’t got lost or gone down to the main road where all the traffic is. Give my regards to your father, Bobbie. I’ll give him a ring tomorrow.”

  The children waved goodbye to him, and watched him until he was out of sight among his own trees. Mark could feel their eyes following him. He thought of Bobbie, who would probably be an estate lawyer like his father. Good people, kind people, but dull. Nevertheless, it would be easier on a man to have a son like Bobbie.

  But what is it about Bruce that makes me uneasy? Mark asked himself. A father couldn’t ask for a more brilliant boy, or a better-looking one. I wonder why I can’t forget how he smashed up Alice’s purse two years ago. After all, he was not quite five then. He’s very obedient, even though Kathy spoils him; I don’t have any trouble with him since I slapped him that summer. I can’t get close to him; in a way he’s mysterious. Oh, hell. I’m imagining things. But sometimes he makes me feel like a bumbling fool, and not any too bright.

  He continued to search for the dog for almost an hour longer. But Petti had completely vanished. Mark returned to the cabin, hoping to hear a welcoming bark. But only Kathy and Mamie were there. Kathy explained that “Angel” had been very tired; his skin had felt quite hot; she had taken his temperature. She had examined him carefully, and she was frank about the details. He had no temperature, thank heavens, but she had put him to bed just to be safe. One couldn’t be too careful about The Children. He was asleep now. He was worried about the dog. He had cried.

  Petti did not return, though Mark sat until long after midnight on the porch of the cabin and waited, and whistled softly. The next day he went down to the village to put an advertisement for Petti’s return in the local newspaper. The offered reward was large. Mark felt a real loss; he hadn’t known how fond he had become of the little dog until now. But Angelo was complacent. He smiled at his father and said he was sure that Petti would be found.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Alice arrived at the cabin early Friday evening, her little, old car chugging valiantly up the country road. Mark could hear it as it began its ascent; he was sitting, reading, on the wooden porch, and he put down his book and smiled. It was well that Kathy, who came to the door then, did not see that smile. She would have understood it as Mark did not understand it. “Isn’t that Alicia’s old wreck?” she asked. “Heavens! It sounds worse than ever. Why doesn’t she buy a new one; she makes a fairly good salary now.”

  “Hardly,” said Mark. He stood up. “I’ve been wondering. How about giving Allie one of those little foreign cars for Christmas? They’re cheap, they use very little gas, and they’re sturdy.”

  “Oh, don’t be silly,” said Kathy, as though this was the most preposterous thing in the world. The aroused avarice in her squirmed. “You do get the wildest ideas, Mark. Do you know how much they cost?”

  “Yes. I’ve made some inquiries,” said Mark, in the flat tone that usually warned his wife.

  But now she was aghast. “In the first place, we haven’t any right to waste any part of our son’s inheritance—”

  “Who earns the money?” asked Mark, and there was a harsh ring in his voice.

  “That’s quibbling. It’s the duty of parents to do everything possible for The Children. The Children are the most precious things we possess. The Children are the future. Who is going to fight the wars, if not The Children?”

  “Why should there be any wars?” asked Mark wearily. With anger, he said to himself, But Kathy and I have never known anything else except crisis and war, since we can remember. My parents often said that before 1914 America was a hopeful and happy place, with some reforms needed in working conditions and strengthening of unions, and justice for everyone who worked honestly. And that would have come, without wars and debt and crises and universal hatred, and advancing slavery and regimentation. Why should we Americans permit ourselves to be brainwashed into believing that wars are a necessary way of life, and preparations for wars the only means to a sound economy? That was the road ancient Rome took, to her death.

  Part and parcel of this war psychology which had been so cunningly induced in the universal American mind was the blasphemous adoration of The Children. The Spartans, who constantly warred on their neighbors, and induced wars, had been guilty of this blasphemy, too. And in Russia everything was for The Children. The fruit of wars, the workers for wars, and finally, the victims of wars. He, Mark, had seen enough of war to know its cruel and bloody senselessness, its violence against God and man, its violence against all life. “There was never a good war or a bad peace,” Benjamin Franklin had said. It should be written on every blackboard in every school in America. Above it should be inscribed: “Honor thy father and thy mother.”

  The poor kids, worshiped by evil or stupid adults, confronted on every hand by war and preparations for war! They were cherished as were the fatted victims in ancient idolatrous lands, waiting for the smoking altar where their hearts would first be torn out and then their bodies consumed. No wonder so many thousands of them were confused, rebellious, and felt, instinctively, that they had been cheated of their right to peace and tranquillity and joy in the green garden of the world which had been made for them!

  Mark shook his head, and stepped down from the porch and went to the top of the road, where he could see Alice’s valorous little car floundering in hard mud ruts and raising a cloud of dust. The very sight of it lifted his heavy spirits. He would have a talk with Alice tonight about all the things that troubled him and were troubling him more and more. He walked down the road a few yards, smiling like a boy.

  With a last triumphant snort the little car took the final rise and expired with a loud sigh of relief. Alice emerg
ed with her overnight bag. She was dressed in severe white linen, but a scarlet scarf was folded about her neck, and her flaxen hair was tied back with a narrow scarlet ribbon. Mark took the bag and looked at her with delight and a sense of fulfillment. “You look as cool as a strawberry ice-cream soda with vanilla whipped cream,” he said. She smiled at him timidly, but avoided his eyes. “How nice and fresh it is here,” she said. “I’d forgotten.”

  Kathy ran down the steps of the porch and embraced her sister with her usual lavish effusiveness, which was not all hypocrisy and pretense. After all, she had been Alice’s guardian, and had done her duty toward the girl. “How wonderful!” she exclaimed. “We’re so happy to see you, dear!”

  Her face glowed with honest affection. Mark watched the two young women, and a gentle feeling came to him for his wife. Kathy’s eyes were dancing prettily; she took Alice by her arm and demanded the latest news of mutual friends, and led her into the cabin. “Angel’s having his snack in the kitchen,” she said. “He’ll be out soon, and then we’ll have real cold Gibsons and Angel can pass the appetizers. How nice you look, darling.”

  She herself looked very “nice,” in her big skirt of dotted white cotton with a stiff lacy petticoat beneath, and with a blue ribbon in her auburn hair. For an instant she looked as young as Alice. The two went into the large master bedroom, and Mark sat down, lighted a cigarette, and contentedly resumed his reading. But mechanically, he would lift his eyes and look with hope for the return of little Petti. There had been no answer to his advertisements. Angelo materialized suddenly at his elbow, and Mark started. “I wish you wouldn’t creep around like that, without a sound,” he said, annoyed.

  Angelo laughed indulgently. “I have crepe rubber soles, Daddy,” he said, and displayed them. “Should I shout or something?”

  “I suppose I’m unreasonable, but you have a way of popping up out of nowhere,” said Mark, and patted the boy’s strong bare arm which was already browning. Angelo sat on the railing of the porch and contemplated his father with curiously glinting eyes. He said, “I wish SHE hadn’t come.”