We all fall down, p.17
We All Fall Down, page 17
“Oh, I’m going to do it to him, too,” he said. “To all of them. The Avenger must seek his revenge. I am eleven years old and must avenge your house.”
Had she heard correctly? Had she missed a beat?
“What did you say?”
Speaking distinctly, emphasizing every syllable, he said: “I am eleven years old and I am The Avenger and I must avenge your house.…”
“But you’re not eleven years old. You’re Mickey Stallings and you’re not The Avenger.” Whoever The Avenger was. Some comic-book hero he was confused about?
“Oh, I’m eleven all right,” he said, smiling, docile, childlike now. “Whenever I’m on the job as The Avenger, I’m always eleven years old.”
Keep him talking, and don’t think about Buddy.
“Why are you eleven, Mickey?” she asked, wanting to spit the residue of foulness out of her mouth but forcing herself to swallow. “What happened to you that makes you eleven again?” Shots in the dark, shooting out words without knowing the target of those words.
“Vaughn Masterson,” he declared, triumph in his voice. “That was my best time. The best time of my life. Know what it feels like to remove someone like Vaughn Masterson from the world, Jane? A bully who was mean to other kids? It was beautiful, Jane. But then my gramps got suspicious of me. He began to ask me questions and I became eleven again so that I could remove him from the world. Became eleven like with Vaughn Masterson.” He smiled at her, pride in the smile, as if he had revealed to her the pride of his life, the sum of his accomplishments. “Poor Mickey Stallings had to grow up and get big and his mother died and he remembers all the things his mother told him and the songs she sang. But Mickey Stallings can still be eleven.” He raised his eyes to the sagging wooden ceiling. “Eleven and The Avenger.” He looked down at her and Mickey Stallings was gone. The old Mickey who had repaired broken faucets and planted tomatoes and who tipped his hat to everyone.
From somewhere in the folds of his flesh around his waist, he drew a knife. A kitchen knife but a big one. The kind turkeys are sliced with. A blade that gleamed even in the dimness of this godforsaken shed.
Stall, she commanded herself. She was dealing with a madman and had to stall him off. She also knew she had nothing to lose. Her world had already ended, in a way. With the knowledge that Buddy had trashed her house. All doubts gone. He had sought her out and trashed her. With his kisses and his caresses. She saw clearly now why he had avoided her house and the hospital. Why he drank. Buddy, Buddy, she thought, and he was part of the stench of vomit that surrounded her, part of Mickey Looney and what he was doing to her, what he planned to do to her. But stall. Forget everything else, forget Buddy and Karen and everything else. She had to survive, get away, escape.
“The only person I ever loved was my mother,” Mickey said, holding the knife in both hands as if it was an offering to Jane. “I loved my mother but I liked you, Jane.”
Chilled at the past tense of like, she said: “I always liked you, too, Mickey. You were always kind and gentle to everyone.” Noticing her own use of the past tense, which seemed more chilling than his.
“I used to watch you undress in your room. Until you started pulling down the shades. That made me sad …”
“I’m sorry it made you sad,” she said, shivering with the knowledge he had watched her taking off her clothes.
Although he still held the knife balanced in the palms of his hands, he had become gentle again, his voice normal, like the Mickey she had known.
Think, she urged herself. Outthink him.
“How about Amos Dalton?” she asked.
“What about him?” Suspicious, eyes narrowing.
“He looked scared when he led me here. How did you get him to do that?” Keep him talking.
“He likes books. I gave him ten dollars to buy books.” Brightening, eyes popping again.
“I don’t think he’s out buying books,” she said. “I think he might be calling the police.”
Mickey shook his head. “He won’t call the police. I gave him ten dollars.…”
She was surprised at how sharp and clear her mind was, rising above the stench that surrounded her, that came from her. Shaking her head, she said: “He told me to be careful in here. I think he was suspicious, Mickey. He said if I didn’t come out in ten minutes, he was going to call the cops….”
Mickey tilted his head, appraising her differently now, not like a denizen of a zoo.
Mickey smiled, a wide smile that revealed his teeth, “You think The Avenger isn’t smart,” he said. “You think you can fool him …”
“I’m not trying to fool you. I’m only telling you what Amos Dalton said.”
Mickey took the knife in his right hand, brandishing it, slashing at the air with the long blade. “Well, if the cops are on the way, then The Avenger has to work fast.” He giggled, coming closer. “Won’t he? It’s better to work fast, anyway. That way it won’t hurt you so much.”
He stood looking at her, face still with sadness, eyes full of regret. In that instant, she knew that he was really going to kill her. If he had continued to rant and rave, jump up and down, giggle or scream, she would have held out hope for herself.
Give me time to say a prayer. That was what she was about to say. One last request, beyond panic now, accepting the situation. “No,” she cried out, denying her panic, her acceptance. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. I am sixteen years old and I am not going to the this way. This was Mickey Stallings in front of her. Not The Avenger, not some monstrous eleven-year-old. She had to make him see who he really was.
“Know how old you are, Mickey?” she asked, trying to keep the desperation out of her voice.
“I am not Mickey. I am The Avenger.”
“You can’t be The Avenger. The Avenger is eleven years old.”
“I am eleven,” he said, the knife dangling from his hand, his voice petulant.
“No, you’re not.”
“Yes, I am.”
Like children arguing in the schoolyard.
“Know why you’re not eleven?”
Curious, he tilted his head. “Why?”
“Because if you were really eleven years old, you wouldn’t be looking at me all the time. At my blouse, my breasts.” As if hypnotized by her words, he looked at her chest. Remembering how he had touched her breast with the rag in his hand, she said, “Eleven-year-old boys don’t do that. But you do. You’re doing it now. You’re looking at my chest now.”
He took his eyes away. She saw the guilt in those big eyes.
“Did you touch me when you tied me up? Feel my chest? Eleven-year-old boys don’t do that, either. If you did that, then you’re not The Avenger, not eleven …”
“I am The Avenger,” he said, appalled, eyes bulging again. “I’m The Avenger and I avenge the bad things in the world and I’m eleven years old.”
“You were eleven a long time ago, Mickey. When you killed that bully. That was bad. But you are not eleven anymore. And I’m not a bully. I’m Jane Jerome and you’re Mickey Stallings.…”
“I’m …” He was at a loss now for words, frowning, his mouth open, pink tongue fluttering against his lips, his eyes flickering to her chest and away.
“You killed your grandfather,” she said. “The Avenger didn’t do it. You did. Mickey Stallings. What would your mother say if she knew? Your mother would be mad at you, would punish you.”
“No,” he cried. “No.”
“Yes.” Straining against the ropes that held her, cheeks stiff with caked vomit, hair falling across her eyes, wrists chafed, eyes searing. “Yes, yes, yes.” Each syllable erupting out of her fear and her determination and her desperation. “You killed your grandfather … your grandfather who loved you.”
“No,” he cried again. Anguished, the word like a howling in the air … noooooooooo … drawn out … nooooooo … echoing in the dusty shed … terror and tears in the word…. nooooooo … and pain and futility … noooooooo …
He sank down on the floor, looked at the knife as if seeing it for the first time. He lifted his hand, and turned his wrist and slashed it with the knife. “I loved my Gramps,” he said. “He took me to the movies and bought me M&Ms and then we grabbed some grub.” He looked at the blood oozing out of his wrist. “The Avenger made me do it.” Looking at Jane, huge tears in the huge eyes. “I didn’t want to do it.” Then looking back at his wrist, the blood dripping now, onto the floor. He switched the knife into his other hand, the action slow and deliberate, watching his hand doing it, and Jane, astonished, felt that she was seeing two people before her, poor old gentle and kindly Mickey Stallings and the eleven-year-old Avenger who was killing him. Now he slashed the other wrist and watched calmly, curiously, as the blood gushed forth, the incision deeper than the first cut, the blood spurting in the air as if from a miniature fountain in his flesh. He took the knife and plunged it into his stomach, groaning and turning to look at her. “Mommy,” he said, looking up at Jane. “Mommy …” Voice fading, blood spreading now across his shirt, the smell of blood—did blood actually have a smell?—mingling with the smell of vomit in her nostrils.
Watching his life ebbing away, she felt part of herself ebbing away, too, as her thoughts returned to Buddy. Buddy, her betrayer.
“Jane,” Mickey murmured, raking his head, trying to say more, mouth moving, a pleading in his eyes, tiny bubbles forming on his lips, uttering sounds she could not recognize, dying sounds. Poor Mickey Looney.
As he closed his eyes the door swung open and two police officers were suddenly stomping into the shed while sirens howled outside. Dazed by the sudden activity, she saw Amos Dalton, still clutching his books, standing in the doorway in his laced-up, middle-aged shoes. “Sorry it took so long,” he said, and burst into tears.
Poor all of us, Jane thought, as her own tears finally came.
Buddy did not learn of Jane’s ordeal until eleven o’clock that night He and Jane had not planned to see each other that evening: she and her mother were off on a shopping spree at the Mall for summer clothes. Buddy had decided to stay home and catch up on homework even though it was a Friday night. The house was eerily quiet. His mother had finally chosen that weekend to go off on her retreat after a lot of table talk, which was a relief from the usual dinnertime conversations. “If I go, will I be giving up control over my life?” That was her big question. “No worse than going to a therapist” was Addy’s usual answer, which Buddy supported. Despite pangs of conscience Addy was spending the night at a friend’s house, going over last-minute production problems with her school play, As she was about to leave she paused at the door, a look of concern on her face. “I’ll be fine by myself—I’m not going to drink,” he said. “I wasn’t thinking about that,” she said. “I just didn’t want you to be lonesome.” He nodded, didn’t know what to say, touched by her concern.
He pondered going to the Mall and surprising Jane and her mother, probably buy them coffee at Friendly’s. But he still did not feel comfortable with either of Jane’s parents and decided to stay home. Did most of the homework. Heated a casserole of scalloped potatoes and ham slices that his mother had prepared beforehand. Fell asleep on the couch reading Time magazine. Woke up at ten-twenty astonished that he had slept that long.
He went to his bedroom, removed the bottle of gin from his hiding place in the closet, looked at it, thanked God for the presence of Jane Jerome in his life, and put it back. Someday he would really have to thank God but did not know exactly how. He conducted this ritual with the bottle every night, usually before he went to bed.
Downstairs again, bored, restless, he checked his watch. A bit before eleven. He turned on the television set, stared dully at the final scenes of a stupid comedy, the laugh track annoyingly loud. He had read somewhere that laugh tracks were recordings of audiences long ago, that most of the laughing people were probably dead by now.
Half dozing, he barely reacted to the newscaster who announced that among tonight’s headlines was the abduction of a Burnside girl by a man who later committed suicide. Had the newscaster actually said Burnside? Burnside seldom figured in nightly newscasts on the Wickburg channel except for city council meetings and other dull stuff.
A moment later, his attention was drilled on the TV as the announcer said: “Drama in Burnside today as sixteen-year-old Jane Jerome escaped capture and possible death at the hands of her abductor, who committed suicide moments before her rescue.” Flashes of a shed, woods, police milling about.
“Her abductor, forty-one-year-old Michael Stallings, stabbed himself several times and died as police broke into the shed, led by ten-year-old Amos Dalton, who had reported the abduction to them. The Jerome girl had been bound hand and foot to a chair in the shed. After a checkup at Burnside Hospital, she was reported unharmed.”
Shots now of Arbor Lane, Jane’s house, other houses, twilight shots, stark in floodlights, almost colorless, and then a swift glimpse of Jane, huddled between her parents and police, being hurried up the front steps.
“The Jerome family is now in seclusion elsewhere at this hour and their whereabouts are unknown. The family of young Amos Dalton has not allowed the boy to speak to the news media.” Shot of a different house, the boy’s evidently. “Police Chief Darrell Teague said that the investigation is continuing.”
Buddy watched the images on the screen and listened to the voices without moving, although aware of the thudding of his heart. He thought: Did I really wake up a few minutes ago or am I still dreaming? He shook his head, to rouse himself, and the room went out of focus. His hand reached out to prevent him from plunging off the sofa in a swirl of dizziness. He remembered something from a long-ago first-aid lesson. Put your head between your legs to keep yourself from fainting. But he still did not move.
The telephone rang.
Like an alarm clock waking him up.
Suddenly, the details on the television screen achieved a stark reality—Jane had been kidnapped and then rescued—and he reached for the phone, knowing that she was calling him to tell him that she was fine, not to worry, everything was all right.
But Jane was not on the phone.
“I just saw on TV what happened to Jane,” Addy said. “Are you okay?”
“Sure,” he said. But was he okay? “I just saw it, too. On television …”
“You mean you didn’t knew about it?” Addy asked. “She didn’t call? I mean, this happened, like, hours ago …”
He shook his head as if to deny Addy’s remarks, groped for a response. “Everything looked so hectic,” he said. “The announcer said she’s in seclusion with her family. She’ll call, Addy. When she gets a chance …”
“Of course, she will. Poor kid … this must be like a nightmare for her,” Addy said. “Do you want me to come home, Buddy?”
“No, no,” he said. “I’m fine. I know she’ll call as soon as she can. I’d better hang up. She’s probably trying to reach me right this minute.…”
He hung up. Then looked down at the phone, actually expecting it to ring. Waited. The house silent. I need a drink. But couldn’t drink now. Had to keep sharp and alert in case she called and needed him at her side: Please hurry, Buddy, please come …
He glanced at the clock on the mantel. Twenty past eleven. Getting late. She should have called. Why hadn’t she?
He picked up the phone, punched her number. He didn’t count the rings, merely listened, long lonely sounds. No answer. Maybe he had touched the wrong number. Tried again, knowing it was useless, the words of the newscaster echoed in his mind: The Jerome family is now in seclusion elsewhere. Where was elsewhere?
Torn with the need to take some kind of action, he considered driving to her street. Perhaps she had left a message with neighbors. He cursed himself now for not making friends with her friends, her neighbors. He was a stranger to them. Anyway, why should she leave a message with neighbors when she could have called him? Or sent someone with a message? He had been home the entire evening. Slept awhile, yes, but the ringing of the phone or the doorbell would have awakened him.
Why hadn’t she called?
He did not try to answer that question.
He awoke with a start, grubby in his clothes, which he had not removed before falling to sleep finally about four o’clock in the morning. He had dozed fitfully during the long hours of the night. Tossing and turning on the couch which allowed no room for tossing and turning, he had decided at three-thirty or so that she was never going to call. What would he do if she didn’t? The solution came to him in a flash out of his desperation. And this decision allowed him finally to drift into a deep sleep but not deep enough or long enough.
Awake, the sun streaming in, he sat up on the couch. Stale taste in his mouth, head aching a bit, he remembered that he had not taken a drink, the only good thing about a bad night.
He reached for the phone, the movement automatic, punched her number. He did not expect an answer and did not get one. The clock said eight-ten. Time for the only action he could take, the plan he had devised during the night.
Twenty minutes later, he took up his vigil in the parking lot in the space that was nearest to the front entrance of the hospital. Weary, despondent, he watched the entrance. Tried not to blink. Tried not to think. Blink, think. Felt clever for thinking of the hospital, how sooner or later someone in Jane’s family was certain to visit Karen. They would not abandon her despite what had happened to Jane. Slouching in his seat behind the wheel, he prepared himself for a long wait, a long day. Why hadn’t she called? Let’s not think about that. Don’t blink and don’t think. She has her reasons. But what reasons? What if … don’t answer that question. No blinking and no thinking.
For an hour or so, he watched visitors come and go, heard a siren as an ambulance pulled up to the emergency entrance. Jane had told him that Karen’s room was on the fourth floor front, third window from the right, and he watched the window for signs of movement, someone pulling the curtain aside, thinking that perhaps a visitor to Karen had somehow eluded him. No movement. He yawned, bored. Wished he had brought something to eat, wondered if there was a vending machine in the hospital lobby. Then decided he had better not leave the car or his vigil.
