The Sitter Read online

  I wonder if he's said anything to Alicia about his meeting me. And that thought brings me to what I told Steven. I simply left him a note saying I'd be home by dinnertime.

  “To be honest with you, Jeannie, I'm not overly fond of sentimental portraiture. However beautifully done. It's just too...sugary for me.”

  Sugary. I recognize my own criticism.

  “My wife is not a serious woman,” Joel says sadly, as if pronouncing her seriously flawed, and I wish I had never asked about Alicia or orchestrated this meeting.

  “I hope you understand, Joel,” I say quickly before he can regale me with more unwelcome tidbits about Alicia, “I'm not really saying anything damning about Larry. I just thought if I had more information... ”

  “And I'll be happy to get that for you, as I said. Just say the word.”

  Have I already said too much to this man? Is a basic check into Larry a truly viable option?

  “Thank you, Joel. I'll think about it.”

  I decide I'll ask Bertie what she thinks as well. Leo is out of town for the rest of the week--and the weekend--and Bertie is coming to dinner Friday night. In the meantime I'll drop in on Larry's mother for a visit. If I'm lucky, I'll learn more about the real Larry Cutler.

  *****

  It was after five and quite dark by the time Larry got to the grave site. He had flashlight, rope, a half dozen large plastic garbage sacks, gloves, and the hammer-hatchet in a canvas duffle. He emptied the duffle, its contents spilling out near the grave.

  The ground was mushy after days of rain and he saw there was no need for the pick. Standing on the grassy turf above Jordan, Larry felt the ground give a little. Forcing the shovel into it tentatively, it seemed to actually sink beneath his feet. His Nikes quickly filled with cold water.

  Have I buried her in a sink hole?

  Could that be a good thing, he wondered frantically. Would she just sink down...somehow...somewhere deep? He didn't think so. Larry took off his sweatshirt and began to dig. He had to either haul her to the river or dig her grave much deeper.

  It was dirty, wet work. And tiring. It was almost six by the time his shovel bit into what he thought must be her. Sure enough, his flashlight picked up her arm and shoulder. He scraped more muddy dirt off her and put the shovel down. Pulling on his gloves, he hoped to God they were thick enough to shield his flesh from hers. He needed to lift her out and then decide whether or not to take her to the river. As he bent to his task, he knew he couldn't stop and think--he had to just do this. Larry crouched and slid his gloved hands under her body. He lifted a little and felt her body shift and move in his arms as if coming apart.

  As he struggled with the body, he caught her smell. A stench. She was a moldering, rotting...thing. He pulled his hands out from under her. His belly was convulsing; he was going to be sick. Larry knelt in the mud on his hands and knees, his stomach painfully trying to send up its poison--but nothing came. When was the last time he'd eaten? A spasm shook him. He gave himself up to it and finally vomited, his back arching like a cat's.

  Later--how much later he couldn't say--there was relief. Sweet. He was reborn with it. Larry sucked in huge gulps of air like a man rescued from drowning. Rolling off his knees to his butt, he sat in the cold mud. His stomach was dead, within him, quiet and peaceful at last.

  A sound. What was that? The hair on the back of his neck shot to attention. Larry knew, though. He knew exactly what it was. Low, a menacing rumble. Oh shit... Whirling around in a spasm of blind fear, he saw the dark, crouched form of Louie--just a few feet away. The dog's eyes were glowing strangely in the dark, like those of a creature from another world.

  Jesus Christ!

  “Hey Louie... ” Larry struggled to sound friendly. His voice was too high, too strained--a whimper.

  Oh shit, what am I gonna--

  The dog sprang for him, his growl changing in mid-air to a howl of pure rage. Even in the charcoal darkness he could see the ruff on Louie's neck rising like a lion's mane.

  *****

  I have some errands and when I get home it's after six. I learn that Kevin has gotten sick at the Y, and Steven has given him some toast and put him down for the night.

  “He's got a slight temp,” Steven says.

  “No real dinner?”

  “Steven shakes his head, “He didn't want any.”

  I go upstairs to check on Kevin and tip toe into his room. He lies under the comforter with only his head and shoulders showing. I put my hand to his forehead and note the slight warmth there. I stand looking down at him. He is so fair, I think, so unlike his brother.

  I remember Stevie at four, how he'd never go to bed easily, even when exhausted. In the mornings, Steven and I would find him every where but in his bed—lying in front of our door, on the bath mat, on the living room rug. Once we searched the house calling his name. At last Steven found him in his room, sleeping on the floor, hidden between the curtain and the window. I remember the relief I'd felt, the ecstatic deliverance from the excruciating pain of the unthinkable--that we had somehow lost him.

  I give Kevin a soft kiss on his forehead, and walk downstairs to the kitchen. Steven has prepared a simple dinner which we share at the kitchen table. After dinner, I wash up the few dishes and join Steven in the living room in front if the TV. How settled we are, I think. How mired in dull routine.

  A scream then, from upstairs and my thoughts scatter into panic. Kevin! We race to the hall and up the stairs. Steven sprints past me and I follow him into Kevin's room. He is still in bed, now lying rigid, his hands pressed against his eyes. His scream has turned into sobs. Steven has him up and into his arms in a flash; he holds the boy tightly against his chest.

  “Kev-Buddy, it's OK,” Steven murmurs while I stand close and stroke Kevin's back.

  “It's all right, Honey,” I say, kissing his head and neck.

  “Bad dream?” Steven asks, rocking Kevin back and forth in his arms. The little boy nods into his dad's chest; his sobs are diminishing. “Want to talk about it?”

  He shakes his head.

  “Let's just sit down here on your bed, Kev,” I suggest brightly. “The three of us. We'll put you in the middle, nice and safe. OK?” Steven follows my lead and we sit down on the edge of the bed, holding Kevin gently between us. “Now you can tell us about that bad old dream and the scary stuff will go away.

  He stops crying and gives me a questioning look.

  “Yes,” I say firmly. “It's the talking about it that sends the bad stuff away.” Steven nods his agreement.

  Kevin sits for a minute. “A monster,” he says. “Bad monster.”

  “No such thing,” Steven says. “Just look around--”

  “Not here! In Stevie's room.”

  I feel a chill as the hair on the back if my neck rises. “What was he doing?” Steven frowns at me. “I mean in the dream. He's not real, you know Honey.”

  “Looking under the bed,” Kevin says.

  “Well, let's all go look,” I say. “That way you'll see there's nothing there. Nothing scary. OK?”

  Kevin nods and Steven picks him up.

  As we approach Stevie's closed door, I realize I'm actually spooked, nervous about the room itself, about turning on the light in there. Why? The light reveals nothing unusual. I look around the room carefully. Everything seems to be as it has been since the accident except that Stevie's scent is gone. I'm sorry about that. Kevin is clinging to his dad, eyes tightly closed, his face pushed against Steven's neck.

  “Look around Kev,” I urge. “No monsters here.”

  Steven jostles him around a little so that he faces the room. “See Sport? You're mom's right. There's nothing scary going on here.”

  “Please don't call him 'Sport', Steven,” I say.

  At last Kevin opens his eyes, and I see his gaze go quickly to the bed. I walk over to it and sit down. I pat the area beside me. “C'mon Honey, sit here with me a moment.” He shakes his head, closing his eyes again. “Bad man. The box.
”

  I drop to my knees and look under the bed. I remember Kevin said a monster, now a 'bad man', had been looking under the bed in his dream. I see the comic books and some loose pictures and the metal baseball card box. But the box was not where it had been, on top of the comic books. Again, the hair on my neck comes to attention.

  “There's nothing bad under here, Kevin,” I say. “Come look.”

  “No.”

  Then I understand. Kevin had come in here and played with the box--maybe tried to open it--and was feeling guilty about it. His guilt had created the dream, the nightmare. I remember I felt guilty as well when I noticed the card box. Now I feel guilty that I've kept this room like some kind of shrine!

  That has gone on long enough. I will dismantle it, sort through all Stevie's things and put some away for Kevin. Emotionally exhausting as the thought of doing this is, I know it has to be done. As it is now, the room has an unhealthy power. I need to open it up and let the present in. There's no sense in staying caught up in the past, the sad, destructive part of the past.

  “Really, there's just some old stuff of Stevie's here,” I say, motioning to Steven to bring Kevin closer so he can have a look. Steven lowers Kevin to the floor.

  “C'mon Daddy, you look too,” I say.”

  Steven smiles, kneels, and looks. “Mommy's right, Kev. Nothing bad under here.”

  Kevin is quite calm now, I'm pleased to see. But even so, he refuses to look under Stevie's bed.

  *****

  Larry frantically clutched the hatchet and swung it at the lunging dog. He was lucky; he delivered a death blow right to Louie's head. The dog gave a guttural cry and dropped to the ground. Larry stood over the dog, gasping for breath. He heard Bertie then, calling Louie's name.

  “Where the hell are you, Louie?”

  He saw her flashlight coming closer.

  Hide! He rolled toward the trees, right over the shovel which he grabbed and carried along with him. Panting, he crouched behind a Eucalyptus trunk, hugging the shovel and hatchet to his chest.

  I sound like a diesel--she'll hear me sure as hell.

  Bertie's light fell on Louie's steaming body. He heard her gasp.

  “Oh, no. NO, NO, Louie, LOUIE!” Her voice was a shriek as she went down, kneeling in the mud near the dog. “What's happened to you?” Bertie reached out to touch him and began to cry. Her light picked up the hole.

  Did she look? Did she see the body?

  Larry wasn't sure, but she stopped crying abruptly and began to flash her light around the area.

  From the inadequate cover of the tree trunk, he watched the relentless progress of her light. It soon came to him and stopped, impaling him with the blade of its beam.

  “Larry?” Her voice was a whisper.

  Blinded like a deer in headlights, Larry took a couple steps away from the tree trunk toward her. “Not what this looks like, Bertie...Ah...Mrs. McQueen,” he said in a loud, harsh voice. “I...I found Louie like that. Is he hurt?”

  Her light came closer. “Larry, you sorry fuck!” Her voice slammed into the spinning jumble of his thoughts.

  A loud whack then, a satisfying thump--what?--a harsh impact from his hands vibrating on up his arms and shoulders, right up into his head.

  Jesus Christ. I swung the shovel. Nailed her right on her head!

  She landed near the flashlight; it shone into her open mouth. Gotcha! He shuddered with pleasure.

  But then he saw her head jerk suddenly as she drew in a breath. With no time for thought, he raised the shovel high above his head and struck her again. And again. Never before had Larry experienced the strength he was suddenly endowed with. He was invincible. He could go on belting this bitch forever...

  Gotta stop--gotta think...so much to do!

  He stood over her--elated and exhausted all at once, panting with the rush of adrenaline that was coursing through him. He leaned on the shovel and looked down on the ruin that used to be Bertie McQueen. He kicked at her head.

  There were a couple problems though, big ones. Time was one; it was going by. He picked up Bertie's light and shone it on his watch. It was twenty after seven! His mom, her car back for her and Emma...! It was so late! He thought for a minute, breathing hard. Well, he was going to be late--there was no help for it. He'd make up some story. Larry was good at that.

  The other problem was the bodies. He looked down at the three of them, Jordan, Louie and Bertie. So many!

  “Take a number and be seated, folks!” He heard himself giggle.

  Easy, man, don't lose it! I've got to be quick. What if Leo comes back home early? But, I can't think about that now.

  He would start with Jordan. Could he drag her to the river? Crouching, he slid his still gloved hands down under her shoulders and began to pull her moldering body up. A cloud of unspeakable odor enveloped him. But that wasn't the worst. She was coming apart in his hands and something foul and slimy was oozing out of her onto his gloves. He began to gag.

  “No, NO, NO!” Dropping Jordan like she was on fire, Larry spun away from the grave. How could he possibly drag this falling apart corpse to the river?

  “Oh-Jesus-no-can't-do-it-no-way!”

  Larry slapped at his face, made a fist and struck his forehead as hard as he could. He heard his breath roaring in his head.

  After a moment, he went back to Jordan. Holding his breath, he hauled her up again—more carefully this time. About half-way out of her grave he felt her body move in his arms and heard some ominous, tearing sounds. But he had to keep going. When she was balanced precariously at the edge, he picked up the shovel. “No river for you, Sweetheart,” he muttered, knowing her body would never make the drag to the river, and would probably shed a lot of incriminating stuff along the way. It would be equally disastrous if he tried to carry her.

  In a frenzy of haste he dug the hole deeper, catching a stench-filled breath only when he had to. He rapidly worked his shovel in and out of the soft dirt. Finally he figured the grave was deep enough, even if the rain continued.

  “Better digs for you, Jordan!” he said heartily as he pushed her into her new grave with his foot.

  He shoved the still warm Louie into the hole on top of her. Larry began shoveling the dirt back in over the two bodies, grateful as the reek of human rot began to fade.

  He knew the hole wasn't big enough for Bertie too, and he didn't want to take the time to dig a new one. Faster to drag her to the river which was probably less than a football field away through the trees. Larry figured Bertie's body would make the trip without coming apart.

  His panic now a powerful resolve, he replaced the dirt as fast as he could. The work warmed him--he felt competent and sure of himself once again. Nothing like hard physical labor to give a man a sense of himself, of his true worth. Pleased with the job he'd done, he finished up, patting grassy sod down over the grave with the shovel.

  Making a noose of the rope, Larry slid it around Bertie under her shoulders, leaving a tail of rope for him to pull her with. He gathered his things up and put them near the Eucalyptus. He'd come back and pick it all up when he made a final check of the area. With the flashlight in his hand and the tail of rope over one shoulder, he started off. Except he didn't start off.

  She can't be this heavy! It's like pulling a truck, for fuck sake!

  Panic went through him again as he wrapped the rope around his chest and tried once more, throwing his body against the rope.

  Yeah! A little--now a little more. Take forever. Bury her with Jordan? No room and he'd already filled the hole in.

  It's easier now...isn't it? She slides a little...some progress. This bitch is a pain in the ass dead or alive!

  He wrapped the rope around his chest, but then it gouged into his body. Soon, though, he had it down pretty good and she came along okay on the rain-slick grass. The trick was to lean into the rope and use his weight to do the hauling. Mercifully, his mind soon shut down--it cost him too much to think and drag at the same time. Even so,
his stamina and strength were draining rapidly from him. He strained at the rope, leaning even more into it. He had no idea of time--just effort. One foot in front of the other. Then do it again.

  But then, he stopped, couldn't move forward. Hung up. She must be snagged on something.

  Not now, shitsake!

  Larry knelt at her body. He felt beneath her and freed her from a root that had caught in her belt. He set off again. Somewhere in the back of his mind he registered the fact that it had started to rain.

  A while later--he didn't know how long--a miracle occurred. No other word for it. Larry was suddenly filled with fresh, new power. A reserve of strength he didn't know he had kicked in and surged through him. Charging ahead, he scarcely felt the rope burning into his chest, the fatigue in his shoulders.

  He heard the river! The sound of its welcoming waters was so beautiful, so overwhelming, he wept with relief.

  Manic now, hysterical with frenzied purpose, he half-dragged, half-rolled big Bertie McQueen to the edge of the drop to the river. After sliding the rope from her body, it was a simple matter to put a soggy tennis shoe to her body and push. She went over easily. Larry looked down into the dark swirling water that quickly sucked the body down. The strong, rain-swollen current was his friend. It would carry her far. He was home free. If he could just get there. Home.

  As quickly as it had come, his strength left him. He was suddenly depleted and bone-tired. Larry knew he was in danger of complete collapse. He tasted blood and knew he'd chewed the insides of both cheeks to shreds.

  Gotta get home...to Mom.

  Whatever his feelings for Catherine, he knew she would take care of her little boy. Holding that thought in his head like a lucky charm, Larry began to slowly trudge back to the tree where he'd left the tools and duffel. He heard himself whimpering, the sound only somewhat muffled by the rain.

  *****

  Seldom had Catherine been so irritated with Larry. She was fit to be tied. Christmas shopping indeed! How embarrassing it had been to have to cancel the date with Emma! Her face flared hot at the memory. When 8:30 had come and gone and still no Larry with the car, Catherine called Emma and then endured her friend's judgmental questions. Catherine knew Emma was upset and undoubtedly thought Larry to be an irresponsible lout--and who could argue with her?