The Sitter

  The Sitter

  By

  Sharon Hawes

  Copyright @ 2012 by Sharon Hawes, all rights reserved.

  Monday, June 12th

  The sun is hot. 'Hotter 'n hell' as Larry would say. The heat flows over my head and neck like warm syrup. The sky is a comic book blue with a couple sugary clouds blowing across it. I should be out of my mind happy--me and Larry off on a fishing trip so he can show me how to use my new birthday rod and reel. And, no little brother Kevin! Just me and Larry. Wow!

  But...he looks worried. Like he's sorting something out in his head and it's not going very well. His breathing is weird, too. Like he doesn't have enough air. And then there's the gulping. But hey, I love Larry Cutler. He plays catch with us, shoots hoops with us, lets us watch cool stuff on TV and, he's fun to hang out with. He cusses a lot too, which I love.

  “We could be brothers you know that?” I say, looking up at him. I'm proud that I look like him with my square shoulders and my dark hair.

  “You're a mind reader, Sport,” he says. “I was just thinking the same thing. We're both such good-looking dudes,” He laughs a little. Like he's getting in a better mood.

  He scuffs his feet when he walks and I love that about him too, especially on a dusty road. His new Nikes are a golden brown now and his jeans are covered with dust right up to his knees. I wish I'd worn jeans--not these crappy shorts.

  He puts a hand on my shoulder and I can feel its moist heat through the cloth of my T-shirt. He moves his other hand up to my neck. He presses his thumb and fingers into the soft part there, and squeezes, up and down. He's doing that too hard, but I'm not about to say anything. I don't want to piss him off.

  “You thirsty?” Larry asks.

  “Yeah, kind of.”

  “There's a little store up ahead. We'll stop there.”

  Maybe he's just thirsty, I'm thinking. He's got the backpack while I'm carrying the rods. It's pretty hot to be hauling that pack around.

  “So...” he says, gulping again, “Jeannie's okay with you and me off for a day all on our own?”

  “Oh, sure. Mom really likes you, Larry.” I see the color come into his face. I think Larry's in love with my mom. He works his fingers into my neck some more and I wish he'd stop.

  We come to the store. Two old guys are in there, each hanging onto a can of beer. They are both fat, and they both belch a lot. We cool off in there with the AC, while Larry buys Coke, worms and a package of Twinkies. Larry knows I love Twinkies.

  The heat hits us hard when we start off again. We come to a narrow, overgrown path that Larry says leads to the Pine Glen River. It's not really a river though, he explains. It's more like a large stream. But he's fished it before and says it's fairly deep in some places and has a healthy current.

  That 'healthy current' bit bothers me. “You know...Larry...I can't swim. You know that, right?”

  “Yeah, I know that. We're not going in the river, Sport. We're just gonna take some fish out of it. So don't worry.”

  Well...okay. I trust him. He's my sitter, right? And he's also my best friend. So...I'm not worried.

  We finally get to the river and open the pack. We set our gear on a patch of scrub grass near the water and under some pine trees.

  “This is a good spot,” Larry says, looking around. “All the times I've been here, I've never seen another person.”

  He sits down and digs a squirming night crawler out of the carton. It's a strong one. It wiggles like crazy. He starts to thread it onto a hook but it fights him and the hook sinks into his finger.

  “God fuckin' damn it!” he yells, shaking his finger. It's kind of funny Larry yelling and shaking his finger like that and I give a little laugh.

  “Nothing funny here, Stevie,” Larry says. “How'd you like to get yourself hooked up like a goddamned fish?” He glowers at me and I feel terrible. “I'm doing all this for you, you know.”

  I kneel down on the grass near him. “I'm sorry, Larry. I'm a jerk. I know that must hurt. I know it's not funny.”

  Larry gives me a nod and sucks on his finger. Then he starts to work on the worm and hook again. He gets the worm onto the hook and doubles it back over itself to hide the sharp part. I stay on my knees, watching him.

  “Yuc,” I say, as worm guts spill onto Larry's fingers.

  “Chrissake, Stevie, grow up!” Larry says, He's almost yelling.

  “Why are you pissed, Larry? I just said 'yuc.'”

  “Oh, Christ...never mind.” He attaches a weight to the line a ways down from the worm and then a cork way above the worm. He stands then, the rod in his right hand. He thrusts it at me. “Take it, Stevie! Jesus!”

  I don't get it. He's like a different person. I take the rod and my hand is shaking. I hope I don't cry. He looks at me. He's frowning.

  “What's wrong, Larry?” My voice is all trembly. “I said I was sorry.”

  His face softens. The frown goes away. “It's okay, Sport. I'm just tired I guess. Sorry if I scared you.” He puts a hand on my shoulder, pats me. He looks at me funny. Funny like weird. Kind of sad-like. “You...you want something to eat?” he asks. “A Twinkie?”

  “What...you mean now?”

  “Yeah.”

  “No, I can wait.”

  “Okay. We'll try casting here on land for a while, 'til you get the idea.”

  He stands behind me. Close. He puts his hand on mine and guides my hand and shoulder through the motion. Together, our arms like one, we cast the worm out far as we can. I feel better now. Like we're really together...a team.

  “What about the worm?” I ask. “Won't he die?”

  “Nah. He'll come around again when he hits the water.”

  Larry knows everything.

  “C'mon,” he says. “Time to try this out for real.”

  I laugh a little. I know nothing's funny. I'm just nervous. Larry slips the pack back on, and we walk toward the edge of the river, each with a rod.

  “Hold up a minute, Sport,” Larry says and stops. He pulls the pack off his back and drops it to the ground. He kneels and starts looking through it.

  “What are you looking for, Larry?”

  He doesn't answer but pulls a pair of gloves out, stands, and puts the pack onto his back. The gloves are a rich brown color. They're leather, I guess. Like the ones my dad has. My dad's proud of those gloves and he doesn't like to get them wet.

  Larry starts pulling one of the gloves on. It's like it's too small because he has to yank on it really hard. He pulls at each finger with his other hand trying to get the leather to fit down tight near the palm of his hand. It looks like hard work and he's beginning to sweat. I wonder why he needs those gloves, but I don't ask. I don't want to bother him. He gets one on and starts working on the other.

  Larry finally starts walking again and I follow him. We come to the edge of the river and climb out onto a good- sized bunch of rocks that jut out over the river a ways. We go out farther onto that rocky ledge.

  “Here,” Larry says, turning to me and taking my rod. “I'll show you.” He walks to the edge of the jutting rocks and makes a cast. It's a good one. The weighted worm goes way out. “Let it sink some before you set the reel. The worm goes down where the big guys are.” The reel clicks then as Larry sets it and stops the line. “Then you reel in a little. And then, you wait.”

  “How long?” I'm shifting from one foot to the other. I'm excited.

  “A while.”

  “How long is a--”

  “Then you begin to reel the worm in slowly. He's drifting down there under the cork just about three feet below the surface. 'Slowly' is the key, Stevie, 'cause you want to give the fish time to strike.” Larry shows me, casting out and reeling in slowly a few times. He offers me the rod. He's looking at me f
unny again. “You sure you don't want a Twinkie?”

  What is it with him and Twinkies? Like I'm going to stop everything right now and eat one? “No thanks,” I say, and walk to the edge.

  I try to cast. Not so good. I try it again. And again. Then I make a perfect cast--every bit as good as Larry's! I give a loud whoop.

  “Fuckin' A, Sport,” Larry says softly, behind me. I know I've never felt this good before. Never!

  Oh! Something hits me on my back, hard--pushing me forward. “Larry!” I yell. “Larry!” I'm falling, head and chest first. I drop my rod and the water comes up fast. “Larry!” It's in my mouth, my throat, my eyes--I can't breathe! I flap my arms, trying to push my body up into the air. My head comes up and I see Larry. I see his Nikes coming down at me. I see his face, his eyes.

  I don't know him.

  His shoes hit my shoulders. He's pushing me down! My heart pounds so hard it hurts. I can't breathe, can't yell.

  Why, Larry?

  I have to breathe. I open my mouth and take a breath. Water is my air now. I have to take another breath. And then another. It's so dark...

  Larry! Mom...Mommy...

  *****

  Listening to his breath coming fast and ragged, Larry stood panting, his arms still keeping Stevie beneath the water's surface. Larry's throat was dry--burned by the breath he sucked in and blew out with such force. The water, warm to him now, lapped gently around their bodies, caressing the two of them. The comforting touch of that water began to lull his breathing back to normal. Slowly then, his progress hampered by the river's buoyant pull, Larry walked toward shore with Stevie in his arms.

  Pausing at the ledge they had cast from, he carefully slammed Stevie's head against a jutting rock. The result was a fiery gouge on the now pallid skin of the boy's right temple. Just right, Larry thought and carried Stevie on out of the water and up to the dry, grassy turf. He lay the boy down on his back. He pulled a glove from his hand and felt for a pulse at Stevie's cooling neck. There was none.

  Standing astride the body, Larry pulled his gloves off and stuffed them both in his jeans. He had wanted gloves 'cause he knew he'd flip out if he had to touch Stevie's dead body—feeling for the kid's pulse had been bad enough. He took a couple deep breaths. His belly hurt. His eyes stung and blurred and his throat was raw. But Larry felt good. Good, and strong. He raised his arms up to the sky.

  “I did it! I fucking did it!” he shouted, and his voice had a manly, satisfying edge to it. But, he reminded himself, it was far too early to be jumping up and down. The game had just begun.

  With another deep breath, he stepped away from Stevie and began to trot slowly toward the path, his Nikes making wet, squishy sounds. He picked up momentum and by the time he reached the road, Larry was running full out. The mid-day sun beat down on him, quickly drying his head and upper body. His jeans were wet and heavy though, pulling at him. But Larry knew he could run forever. He would never tire! His heart's blood thundering in his ears gave him everything, all the endurance and strength he needed.

  At last he was there. He banged into the little store, the screen door clattering shut behind him. Everything was as it had been when he and Stevie bought the worms—the two old guys still hanging onto their beers. They were motionless, their questioning eyes on Larry. It was as if the pause button had been pushed and it was up to Larry to push it again and release them all from this terrible schism in time. He stood before the men, breathing too hard and too deeply. He couldn't speak. Larry was terrified that he might pass out. Or even worse, that he might blow it.

  “Stevie...my friend...” he heard his voice—faint and garbled. “Accident...” Then it came clear, booming into the room, “I can't get him to breathe.”

  Tuesday, July 4th, 2000

  The day it happened Steven said to me, “Go to bed, Jeannie. I'll take care of everything.” Grateful and guilty all at once, I did as I was told. It was so easy to take the sleeping pills he offered and slip between cool sheets. I hadn't considered then how difficult it was going to be to get up and out of the sanctuary of that bed. The funeral had been a nightmare, what I remember of it. Steven had supplied me with a few magic pills to see me through. I retreated to my bed afterwards, but I knew I couldn't stay there forever.

  It is days later now, the Fourth of July, and my good friend Bertie McQueen has just burst uninvited into my bedroom--coaxing and cajoling, telling me about some damned carnival.

  “It will be good for you, Sweetie,” Bertie says. “You can't just lie here day after day! Your muscles will turn to flab.”

  “I don't care.”

  “You do care!” Bertie glares at me with icy green eyes. “And so does little Kevin. He wonders where the hell his mother is.”

  “Steven is his mother now.” I know that's insane. But it would be a blessing. Why can't I just stay this way? Crazy. If I'm crazy, no one can expect anything from me. And therefore no one will be disappointed.

  “Today is the fourth of July,” Bertie announces as she eases her substantial frame onto the edge of the bed. “We are all going to the carnival. You, me, your Steven, my Leo and little Kevin. We are all going to have a good time.”

  It is time, I know, to become a human being again, and a mother to my remaining son.

  It is unnerving to say the very least. 'OLD FASHIONED COUNTRY CARNIVAL FUN!' is the billing, and here I am, and this is a far cry from fun. The oppressive mid-summer heat is blown into my face by a swirling Santa Anna wind. I am exhausted, but driven by parental and wifely duty to hang in and keep myself together. The heat, the carnival noise and the dust are too much for me. The burden of sociability though, is by far the most grueling. Having to be nice, to have fun--it's too much.

  We have all done the carnival bit: put Kevin on the kiddy Ferris wheel, the merry-go-round, and some more little rides, along with a few seedy midway games. After a rousing pinball tournament, we give in to the seductive aromas from the BBQ shack and Bertie's husband Leo buys us all greasy burgers with corn on the cob and fries. I eat listlessly, and pretend I'm looking forward to the promised fireworks extravaganza coming up after dark. Bertie and Leo have taken Kevin off for a walk and Steven is getting more beer.

  I push my half-eaten meal away and sit at the wooden picnic table staring out at the ominous, brooding sky. The sun is setting through purple, smoke filled clouds--the surreal result of distant forest fires that are on the wane. Against this backdrop the lights of the midway are unnaturally bright, almost obscene in their gaudy intensity.

  I long for the comfort of bed, my refuge. What am I doing out here in the world? It's only been three weeks since Stevie...

  I hate Larry Cutler--the lethally negligent babysitter who allowed my sweet Stevie to...It blows me away. It's difficult where I find myself to say the least. I am stunned to realize it is not a nightmare; it has actually happened.

  “Where's Kevin?” Steven asks as he sets a fresh pitcher of beer and a can of orange soda on the table, along with a tray of clean mugs.

  “Off on a walk with Bertie and Leo.”

  “You think he's having fun?”

  “Well...he's only four, you know.”

  “I know how old he is,” Steven says, eyeing me. He pours us each a mug of beer and mops at the sweat on his forehead.

  “This...” I gesture toward the dusty midway with its colorful paper banners swinging crazily in the hot wind, “...might be a little too much for him.” The wind burns and stings my eyes while the recorded patriotic music seems to rev up a notch.

  “I think what you're saying,” he says smiling down at me, “is that all this is a little too much for you.”

  I nod, gazing up at my husband. He looks exhausted. He needs a shave, but that isn't unusual; Steven's jaws and chin always carry a faint gun-metal shadow. With his skin sallow and drained of color, he looks worn and tired in his ragged denim shorts and scruffy blue T-shirt. He sits down across from me and we are silent together.

  The wind-tossed lantern
s strung through the latticed ramada above our heads come on abruptly. Their garish light is harsh and intrusive. The table moves. A sudden blur of motion--a shape is coming at me...a face. An old man. Hideous! He lurches into the table and leers down at me--grinning. Thick blood runs from his eyes and is congealing on his cheeks. Oh, my God! What--I gasp, can't get my breath! A claw-like hand comes at my face, so close! Reaching. That grin, those feral teeth...

  I scream and throw myself back, away, wrenching my spine. “No--don't touch me! Please...” I am mindless.

  “Jeannie, Jeannie...” Steven's voice. “It's OK. A joke.” I feel his arm around my shoulders. The creature pulls his hand back, his grin fading.

  A joke. A joke? There is a roaring in my head; specks of bright light cloud my vision. Am I fainting?

  “Put your head down, Jeannie, between your knees.”

  I feel Steven's hand pressing my head down. Too hard. I push my head up against that harsh pressure.

  “Damn it, Steven!” I yank my head away from him. “That hurts!”

  “Sorry, Babe.” He reaches out and grasps my hand. “I thought you were going to pass out.”

  “I'm sorry, lady,” the creature says, and tosses a printed flyer on the table. 'Misshapen Unfortunates' bold red letters shout up at me. 'Don't miss our live exhibit--come see grotesque accidents of birth!' I peer at him then and see that his face is caked with theatrical makeup--the bloody eyes are nothing but red paint.

  Oh, for God's sake! He is an ad, a walking come-on for that old carnival standby, the freak show. Tears of anger come into my eyes. I want to slap his face. I look around and see that the commotion has drawn a few curious onlookers. Embarrassed, I wipe at my eyes and force a smile.

  At that moment Bertie and Leo and Kevin arrive. My son is riding on Leo's shoulders. He looks very pleased with himself as he grins down at me. I feel the threat of fresh tears. Am I ever going to get a grip?

  “Hi Sweetie,” I cry merrily. A little too merrily perhaps, for I feel Bertie's probing gaze.