Cursed Be the Child (6 page)

It was time for a drink. He’d earned a reward.

Drink number three, the nightcapper, so he could shut his eyes without his eyelids vibrating like the head of a snare drum. Only drink number three tonight, never more than drink number three in a day—Uh, what about that noontime Bloody Mary? That was different. There was a reason, so it didn’t count, all right? He was okay. He was doing fine. He had control.

He shut off the lights in his study and went down to the basement rec room. At the bar, he poured a shot of Johnny Walker Black into a highball glass. He plopped in two ice cubes from the freezer of the half-sized refrigerator under the counter.

He was about to add water but, three drinks a night, no harm in making the last one potent enough to not only take off the rough edge but to sand it down fine. Another full shot of Johnny Walker, then a splash of water, and he had a drink worth drinking.

It warmed his belly and immediately began to relax him, and as he drank, he seemed to feel the house—my house—all around him. Ten minutes later, the glass held only two melting ice pellets. He thought about another drink. One more wouldn’t hurt.

Warren smiled. Uh-uh. He had will power. He was in control. He rinsed the glass and left it in the stainless steel sink.

On the main floor, he checked to see the doors were locked. The bannister guided him up the long flight of stairs to the second floor.

Passing the door of Missy’s room, he thought he heard her call.

Drink of water? Nighttime tummy ache? A dream?

He opened the door.

The covers were on the floor. Close to the edge, Missy lay on her stomach, an arm hanging off the bed. Her head was turned, no longer on the pillow where her Winnie-the-Pooh bear lay alone. In the dim glow of the nightlight, her slender legs seemed made of ivory.

She was sound asleep. He didn’t want to wake her, but he couldn’t let her stay as she was; she could so easily fall out of bed.

He moved her gently onto her back in the center of the bed and covered her.

He straightened. Missy sat up.

“Hi,” he said.

She didn’t answer. She looked at him. Her eyes were big.

She was asleep with her eyes open, Warren thought. His realization that she was beautiful came with that familiar feeling of delighted amazement that he’d so often had, and he wondered if every father felt like this about his kid. Missy was Tinker Bell and Alice-In-Wonderland and Alpine Heidi. There were times it was hard to believe this lovely little girl was his, his and Vicki’s, the miraculous result of biology, blind chance and genetic patterns.

Missy’s lips moved soundlessly.

“What’s that, baby?”

She mumbled. He made out only two words. “Love…you…”

“Love you, too. Go back to sleep now, Missy,” he said. He touched her shoulder, lightly pushing her back onto the pillow. “That’s the girl.”

She smiled.

“She loves you,” Missy said.

She closed her eyes.

— | — | —

Four

Melissa?

Melissa… Melissa!

Hey, go away and leave me alone ’cause I’m asleep and anyway, nobody calls me Melissa. I told you that. Melissa is nerdy. It’s Missy.

I like Melissa better. It sounds like my name, Lisette.

Well, it is not your name, Lisette. That’s ’cause I’m me and you’re you. And besides, you’re not even real.

I am real, Melissa.

No, you’re just imaginary, like an imaginary friend. I knew this girl in kindergarten and she had an imaginary friend just like you that wasn’t real. Everyone thought she was real loony tunes.

You can see me, Melissa. That means I’m not imaginary.

I can see you but you look real weird, kind of like you’re not even really here. And your clothes are so funny. They’re like old-timey, like in a movie or something.

You’re being mean, Melissa. Don’t be mean to me. I’m lonely. I’m always so lonely.

Phooey!

I need you, Melissa. And I’m nice to you. Didn’t I teach you a funny song? And didn’t I give you a present?

Yeah.

Isn’t the paperweight pretty? Don’t you like the rose?

I guess it’s pretty neat.

I have other gifts for you. You can have them if you’ll be my friend.

I don’t know. Dorothy at school said she’d be my friend. I asked her. Amy Lynn, too, and she’s got her own playhouse in her backyard. They’re nice, and they’re real. They’re not imaginary like you.

Melissa, you’re making me sad. I’m so lonely.

Hey, stop crying, okay? I don’t want to make you cry.

Mama?

Where is your mother anyway? You’re always crying for her like a big, dumb baby.

Mama’s not here. It’s just me here, and I’m so lonely.

Will you stop crying, huh?

Mama?

Just stop it. You can be my friend. You be my friend, and I’ll be yours.

Do you mean it?

Sure, I do.

Really and truly mean it?

Yeah. Cross my heart and hope to die.

I’m happy now, Melissa.

If you want, you can give me more presents. And I’ll tell you what, I’ll give you presents, too, ’cause you’re my friend.

Yes.

Should I give you a Strawberry Shortcake sticker? I have lots of ’em. They’re fun.

No.

Well, what do you want? What kind of present?

You’re pretty, Melissa. I like your hair and your eyes and your ears and your nose and your mouth. I like your arms and your legs.

You’re being silly. Come on, what kind of present should I give you?

Your pretty hair. Maybe one, just one hair?

Phooey! That’s stupid! What a dumb present. You’re just being silly!

No.

Hey, I can be silly too, you know. I know something real silly. And it’s dirty, too. Want to hear?

Yes.

I’m horny. Are you horny? Isn’t that funny?

Is it?

Sure, I think so. Anyhow, I guess we’re friends, okay?

Yes, and now I want you to let me have one of your hairs.

Well, take it.

I will.

Hey! That hurt.

We’re friends now, Melissa. You and I.

Always?

Always, Melissa, always.

— | — | —

Five

“How has it been going for you?”

At ten o’clock Tuesday morning, in an office on the eighth floor of the Hamlin Building on Michigan Avenue, Kristin Heidmann sat in a Danish modern arm chair, chewing gum and saying nothing. Her hair, bleached blonde, dyed red and black, was a spiky punk nightmare that might have been the comb of a prehistoric rooster. Her lower lip was painted blue, the upper carmine. Though she had on a light blue dress that her parents had ordered her to wear, the smirk on her face and even her posture were a defiance not of any authority in particular but of the existing order, no matter what that order might be.

“Nothing you feel like talking about today, Kris?”

Kris popped her gum.

Kristin Heidmann was 14. When she was 12, she’d run away from the Malling Academy, an exclusive boarding school where she had been on the high honor roll, and hitchhiked to Los Angeles, where she became a prostitute.

“Look,” Selena Lazone said, “if we’re going to get anywhere working together, you’re going to have to do your part.” Seated in a matching chair, angled so that her clients could look at her or not as they chose, Selena tapped her ballpoint pen on the pad of paper on the clipboard on her lap.

A tall woman, with the slender toned grace of a dancer, Selena Lazone was 28 and had two masters degrees, one in social work, the other in psychology; she planned next summer to begin working on her PhD at the University of Chicago. Until she was 15 she had been completely illiterate.

Kristin glared at her.

“Let’s try it another way,” Selena said. “This is our fifth visit and nothing is happening. Next week your parents are going to want a progress report, and I’ll have to say ‘No progress.’ Then they’ll do what they planned in the first place-lock you away in a private sanitarium where you’ll be under 24 hour observation. You’ll have to ask every time you need to go to the bathroom. How does that sound to you, Kris?”

Kristin shrugged. In a breathy monotone, she said, “So I can always run away again.”

“Uh-uh.” Selena shook her head. “You won’t even see the outside, let alone have a chance to get there. You work with me or that’s what will happen, and you know it.”

“Okay, okay.”

“Okay, what?”

“Okay, so you want to talk, so okay, I’ll talk.”

“Fine,” Selena said. “Talk.”

“About what?”

“You, Kris. The subject is Kristin Heidmann. What makes you happy? What makes you sad?”

“You know what makes me happy? Fucking. That’s why I started turning tricks, you know. I like to fuck. Is that what you want me to talk about?”

Selena frowned. With her high cheekbones, burnished gold complexion, and features that were more rightly called noble than beautiful, she seemed to be registering almost regal displeasure. Several years before, a drunken advertising account executive at a party had tried to make a move on her with, “You remind me of a wild Gypsy princess.” She had told him, “I’m no princess.”

She was a Gypsy.

“Is that what you want to talk about?” Selena said.

“I don’t give a shit.”

“What does matter to you?”

“Nothing,” Kris said.

“Then let’s talk about this. You’re unhappy,” Selena said. “You’re miserable. You’re hurting and you think you’re the lowest, most worthless creature that ever got up in the morning or went to bed at night.”