The Sitter Page 10

  Sports equipment is everywhere, balls of all sizes, mitts, kneepads for skating and soccer. Three baseball bats lean against each other in the corner near the door. The black one I remember well. It is supposed to be a kid's version of Tony Gwynn's favorite. He had been so excited about that one.

  Stevie had a baseball card collection, I remember suddenly. Where is it? He kept them in a locked metal box. On impulse, I lean down over the edge of the bed and look under it. The box is there, resting on top of some dusty comic books.

  I sit up quickly. I have invaded his privacy. If he had stashed this stuff under his bed, he certainly didn't want his mother peering at it!

  Oh, God, I am losing my mind.

  I cover my face with my hands. I press my fingers against my closed eyes and see garish colors, spots and streaks of ugly neon color.

  Oh, Stevie, did you close your eyes? Did you see these hideous colors when you died in that water?

  I force my eyes open. I look up at the ceiling, clutching the Panda tightly to my chest. “Please, God, let it be that he was truly unconscious when he died. That he wasn't terrified out of his mind. That he didn't cry out for his mother when...”

  *****

  Can't breathe. Under water. Diving in the river, looking for Stevie. A dream...merciful...because Stevie's not dead; he's just missing. He is somewhere in this lovely blue green water. Steven lets his body sink. He crawls along the river's floor, hands digging into soft sand, pulling him along. Sun's rays...shafts of emerald light his way. He's calm...nothing tragic can happen here, in this beautiful place. He knows he'll find Stevie.

  Can't breathe...but don't need to. Don't need air. A clump of reeds catches his eye...he paddle-crawls toward it. A pale shape... a hand moving, waving at him... The arm disappears into the reeds. Elated, he reaches for the hand. It eludes him, playing. He parts the reeds impatiently, creating a suction that pulls the boy to him. To his face and chest. Overjoyed, he grasps Stevie and turns him. Sees his son's face.

  It's not Stevie. It's Kevin. Dead...a long time dead because the river creatures have been at work on his face...especially the eyes...

  Steven sat up straight on the couch gasping for breath. Oh, Christ...Blood was roaring in his ears--his body one giant heartbeat. Thrusting his feet off the couch and onto the floor, he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his breath coming ragged and deep. Sweat ran down his bare chest onto his shorts.

  Picking up his crumpled T-shirt from the floor, he wiped the sweaty smudges from the leather of the couch. Too much scotch whiskey. A quiet drink or two after dinner and he had passed out. Jesus!

  He couldn't shake the dream. It was still with him. He had to check on Kevin--had to touch his son's warm body, had to make sure he was all right. Steven hurried up the stairs to Kevin's room, almost running. It was just nine he saw, glancing at his watch. The house was so quiet--where was Jeannie? The door to Kevin's room was ajar and muted light came from beneath it. Steven entered quietly.

  In his favorite Lion King PJs, Kevin lay in his little bed on his back, arms flung to either side, legs wide apart. He was sound asleep, an open comic book on his chest. It was the one Larry had given him.

  Steven walked to the bed and knelt down beside his sleeping son. He put a gentle hand on Kevin's forehead which emanated a comforting warmth. The boy was very much alive.

  At his touch, Kevin opened his eyes, looked up at his dad, and began to cry. Steven gathered the little boy up and hugged him close.

  “Kev, Buddy...” He could feel his son's tears against his bare shoulder. “Bad dream?”

  Kevin nodded, his face against his dad's shoulder.

  “Tell me about it?”

  He shook his head and Steven stood, rocking his body as he held Kevin tight.

  After a few moments Kevin pulled his head back and looked at his dad. “Where is Stevie?” he asked like someone tired of nonsense and requesting straight information for a change.

  Steven took a long breath, trying to kick his mind into a thinking mode. “Well...he's...gone to another place. A good place, Kev.”

  I don't have a clue Kevin.

  “Yeah, but Daddy, I don't want to go there.” His eyes filled with fresh tears.

  “Oh, Buddy, you don't have to go! No--”

  “I miss Stevie a lot...but I...I want to stay here with you and Mommy.” He began to wail.

  Appalled at the thoughts his boy's mind was conjuring up, Steven crushed him close and began walking slowly around the room. “You're not going anywhere, Kiddo,” he said in what he hoped was a soothing sing-song. “You're going to stay right here with us. Stevie went away too soon.”

  He heard Jeannie come into the room quietly behind him, felt her cool hand on his shoulder. She said nothing, just put her arms around the two of them. They stayed like that for a few moments, rocking together, the three of them ravaged by Stevie's death.

  Later, in bed, Steven and Jeannie lay together side by side. There was something he had to remember. Something his dream had told him. His stomach filled with guilt then, a rush of it so intense it was all he could do to keep from crying out. The swimming.

  I have to teach Kevin to swim.

  *****

  “We have earned the right of Divine Reward because we are good Christians--pure and simple.” The Good Father's voice boomed into the room where the devotees, sated by the simple dinner and Sangria, tried to be attentive. Catherine found his voice soothing, almost hypnotic. She was fascinated. “But all too often--the after-world being what it is--what is right and just may be elusive to the truly good Christian.”

  How, Catherine wondered, had this fine man learned of the workings of the afterlife? What a truly amazing fellow!

  “As we embark on a quest for what we know to be our divine right--that of an honored place in the hereafter--we look to the past for guidance.” Standing now, Father Warren turned his body toward the bench where Emma and Catherine sat. “And what does the past tell us?” He looked at Catherine, and for a truly awful moment, she imagined he was waiting for her to provide the answer.

  “It tells us how this basic age old concern was handled in ancient times. The answer is deceptively simple.” He paused. “Blood,” he said, his green gaze on Catherine. “It is through blood, the very essence of existence. Life's blood. And where does this precious fluid come from? Why, from life created by God...a complete and holy circle. The pious and devout sacrifice of a living creature. A minor--but blessed nonetheless--creature of God.

  “Come with me, Catherine,” he commanded. She felt graceful as she rose from the bench, a feeling quite foreign to her. There was a heady, dizzying ease to her movement. “I will introduce you to our ceremony.”

  He helped Emma to her feet and the three of them walked past the tables to the center of the room. Father Warren's hand was on Catherine's upper arm. His fingers were perilously close to her breast.

  That's all right though, she thought, then wondered why she thought that.

  They stopped in front of the table with the cage. In it, Catherine saw now, were two rabbits.

  Little white bunnies, just like Emma's. How cute!

  The room was quiet, the silence heavy and pulsing. Unlocking the wire door, Father Warren reached into the cage and withdrew one of the bunnies. At first it struggled. He held it firmly with one hand and began to stroke it with the other. The bunny calmed, its ears dropping down as it settled into Father Warren's hands, as if those hands were its new home. Father Warren looked at Catherine and smiled. “A creature of God, just as you, or I.”

  Catherine calmed too, just like the bunny. Whether her new found tranquility was from the punch or the soothing voice of Father Warren, or perhaps from the odd spectacle itself, she couldn't be certain, but she was thankful.

  The devotees moved into a circle surrounding Father Warren, Catherine and Emma. There was a portentous weight to the room, an awed, expectant hush.

  “Sacrifice, an ancient practice.” The young rabbit app
eared as entranced by The Father's words as the group of worshipers. It was motionless, limp with rapture as Father Warren continued to stroke its downy white fur. “Human beings, of course, have been offered for sacrifice since the beginning of time. The notion that human life is sacred is a truly modern concept.” His head was low as he spoke, as if he were talking to the rabbit. He looked up suddenly, grinning, directly at Catherine. She noticed his teeth, the canines. They were longer than the others and slightly pointed--a devilish contrast to the friendly gap between his front teeth.

  Father Warren continued to speak but his voice drifted in and out of Catherine's hearing. She found it difficult to hang on to The Good Father's words, but she didn't care.

  Looking down, she was surprised to find a fresh goblet of punch in her hand. She had a sense of being lighter than air--her mind floating and bobbing about as if in water.

  “We of the Church of Perfect Peace do sacrifice this creature to further our communion with Almighty God. The blood of this little being,” he raised the docile bunny high over his head, “symbolizes for us the blood of holy life and the promise of our eternal rest in Heaven.”

  Catherine shuddered with pleasure, though she wasn't quite sure what The Father was talking about.

  She felt Emma's hand stroking her arm lightly and turned to smile at her. What a lovely caring friend she was, Catherine thought as she floated on the sound of The Father's melodic drone.

  “Think of a problem,” Emma hissed into Catherine's ear. “Or a pain you have.”

  Catherine looked at her, questioning.

  “It isn't just for death.” Emma's eyes were bright, beaming into hers. She nodded toward the bunny. “The blood,” she whispered, “isn't just for the afterlife. It can cure you of things in this life! So when the blood comes, ask for release from your pain!”

  Catherine wasn't sure she understood, but she wanted to be a part of whatever Emma was telling her.

  “And, we know Almighty God will deliver to us--the chosen ones--a place in His Divine Hereafter!”

  A sound then, from the crowd. A chant. Just three notes, over and over. It was dissonant, but not unpleasant. It was lulling and Catherine felt comfortable, at ease. The chant continued as the worshipers moved closer together.

  The table holding the cage with the one remaining rabbit was covered with a white cloth. On it next to the cage was a white enameled basin, a ladle and a large silver chalice. A shiny silver instrument of some sort lay on a nearby wooden chopping block. Father Warren placed the mesmerized bunny on the block where it sat perfectly still.

  Turning to Catherine, he put his hands firmly on her shoulders. He drew her to him as the chant grew louder and kissed her forehead. Then--almost as an afterthought--his lips slid down to her mouth, brushing it lightly.

  A wave of emotion swept through Catherine's body. Emotion she didn't recognize. Was this passion? That strange kiss was the most beautiful--chaste yet achingly sensual--she had ever experienced.

  A man and a woman joined The Father at the table. They wore clear plastic wraps over their clothes. They gave Father Warren a similar wrap and he slipped it on. He plunged his hand into the loose skin at the back of the bunny's neck and raised it up, holding it out and over the basin. An eerie cry went up, a scream of mindless fright.

  Catherine realized that the sound was coming from the bunny, now free from its trance and rigid with fear. Father Warren still held it firmly by the back of its neck. With his other hand he picked up the shiny instrument which she saw then was a straight razor. A dream, she thought, as the hair on the back of her neck rose in frightened salute. She was having a waking nightmare.

  The Father's next move was so fast Catherine's vision blurred and she couldn't clearly see what was happening.

  A gout of crimson shot up into the air. The woman caught it in the basin as the chant became a roar.

  How beautiful it was! The red arc of life itself.

  Catherine's fear and revulsion vanished as quickly as they had come. The Father gave the bleeding creature to the man, who held it over the basin.

  He reached into the cage and removed the second bunny who was very agitated. Again, he calmed it in his hands, stroking its head and spine. Turning to an equally mesmerized Catherine, he held it out to her with one hand, the bloody razor in the other. He grinned, showing her once again those feral teeth. She knew what he was inviting her to do, and the room spun.

  The next thing she knew, Father Warren was behind her, gripping her shoulders firmly in his hands. Before her stood a plastic wrapped Emma holding the second bunny by the neck. She gave Catherine a benign, innocent smile as once again a shrill cry of fear tore at Catherine's nerves. She watched in astonished disbelief as Emma took the razor and drew it across the bunny's throat. She finished the stroke with a slashing upward thrust, her elbow cocked high and a grin of pure pleasure on her face.

  Again a crescent of bright red flew into the air and was caught by the basin. The chant was deafening now, but she could hear Father Warren's voice at her ear. “Divine sacrifice, divine reward...Know it now!”

  Catherine drank deeply from her goblet. She was pushed gently into the large human circle with The Father on one side and Emma on the other. The chant continued and the brethren weaved side to side as The Father left Catherine and walked slowly around the circle. He carried the large blood filled chalice and dipped his fingers into it to mark each worshiper on the forehead.

  “Try to feel the communion, Cathy-girl,” Emma said, her mouth touching Catherine's ear. “And remember, pick a pain. Something you'd like to be rid of.” She squeezed Catherine's arm. “Do it!” the old lady commanded. “Picture it.”

  Catherine closed her eyes and would surely have fallen if not for Emma's support. A pain, an ailment of some kind...Her knee should do it, she decided in a panic of indecision. In her mind she saw it looming up out of the bathtub suds, red and hurting. It throbbed, floating there in her imagination.

  Now that the shock of the sacrifice was behind her, Catherine had perfect and absolute confidence that she was in the presence of divine power. She had become a true believer.

  She felt a warm hand on her forehead and opened her eyes to see Father Warren standing before her.

  “Bless this woman, Lord.” He said. “Almighty God, remove her pain. And when her time comes, give her entrance to your Heavenly Home.” He smiled at her. It was a Holy smile, Catherine knew. Father Warren then raised the chalice to Catherine's lips. “It's to bless the newcomer, Catherine.”

  Obediently, she opened her mouth and took a small swallow. Salt. Her first impression was of salt. Then sugar. It had a warm, heavy sweetness--it soothed her, dulled her senses. She felt a wave of calmness, of profound well being.

  Father Warren continued slowly around the circle, each member of the group being marked with blood from the red stained Holy chalice.

  Catherine knew a momentous change had taken place; her life had been forever altered. The mild, but ever present discomfort in her knee was gone, but she knew that was just the beginning. Dear Emma. She owed the old lady so much. And how strong she was to have sacrificed the bunny that way! Catherine was ashamed that she herself had been unable to perform. She turned to Emma and the two women shared a heartfelt embrace.

  Monday, October 2nd

  Steven had become a creature of habit. It was 9:45 AM and he sat at the easel in his studio because that was where an artist should be. Jeannie was at Bertie's playing tennis and Kevin was at preschool. He had the house completely to himself. There was a glut of work, but an alarming lack of motivation to do it. He hadn't even been able to make a start on the next portrait on his list. A stack of reference photos and notes for the Jansen work rested on the table near the easel. He'd been through them a dozen times.

  One week from today Steven had an appointment with Glenda and Carl Jensen to view two preliminary color sketches of their son Georgie. But the large sketch pad on the easel was blank, not a mark on it. He sat
and stared at the empty paper. This wasn't a new situation. Steven hadn't done any real work since the Gant portrait. He had no creative energy. Each day found him mired in despondent lethargy.

  Worst of all was the doubt that was growing in Steven like a malignancy. He wasn't sure he liked his work anymore. It seemed superfluous now, painting children surrounded by sugary, sentimental props. Surely there was more significant work he could be doing? Maybe he was a fad whose artistic day had already passed. Or, perhaps Steven Connor's work was simply not very good.

  Time in front of the blank sketch pad passed very slowly. On an average day he usually lasted, sitting and staring, making an occasional mark or quick note, until 10:30 or so when he would take off on a long walk or a drive. He was home by 2:00 to pick Kevin up and bring him home for a nap. That was a bright spot, the fact that Kevin could handle preschool, now that Jeannie allowed--albeit grudgingly--Larry back into their son's life. At least to a well supervised degree. At nap time he and Kevin--and sometimes Jeannie as well--would lie down for a nap together. Steven didn't sleep, but he rested and felt a measure of peace with his wife and little boy next to him.

  At four, he took Kevin to the YMCA where the two of them had a swimming lesson together. They were home by five. Jeannie sometimes allowed Larry to come over then and hang out with Kevin in the yard while Steven and Jeannie had a drink on the terrace. Then Jeannie would prepare dinner, and Steven would have another drink. He often sat in the living room with classical music wafting over him as the day faded. If he drank enough he became detached--like watching a movie so damned boring it wore him down and brought a peace of sorts.