The Sitter Read online

  “Larry, I'm telling you--”

  “This is something I have to do, Steven. I promise I won't cause any trouble.” He spread his hands in a placating gesture. “I just want...I have to talk to Jeannie.”

  “It would be best if you left now.”

  “I...can't. I just can't do that.”

  Steven looked at him a long, hard moment. He took a breath as if he was going to say something, then shook his head and left the room.

  The kitchen became a velvety, cushioned quiet then, like it was padded and isolated from the world. Larry sat and waited. And waited. The pain in his head was still there, but its character had changed. There was no threat to it now; it had become a part of him. It was almost a friendly presence.

  He smiled, thinking there really was no problem. He could wait all night if he had to. Stuff was so much easier when a guy had a plan.

  Larry remembered a news story he'd heard on the radio. A tree trimmer in New York state was up in a tree and got tangled in his harness lines. When he tried to free himself, a support line broke and he fell head first, but was caught by a rope that had coiled itself around his foot. So he was upside down, hanging by his foot, swinging back and forth above a live electrical wire that led to a nearby house. It went on this way, the commentator said, for over an hour before the man was finally rescued.

  In an interview later, the man said he had learned a valuable lesson from this experience. He was going to quit trimming trees and take the job he had always wanted--that of a snake handler on a ranch in Colorado.

  He'd explained that now he saw not only how short life could be, but also how precious it was. He was now convinced that a man--if he had any control over his destiny at all--should not spend a single moment doing something he didn't love doing. He should bend all his efforts to what he truly wanted to do. So what if that job was regarded by half the world as dangerous and bizarre, and by the other half as just plain stupid?

  Larry loved that story--loved the idea of the trimmer not only finding himself, but then being strong enough to be true to the self he'd found. Now Larry was in the process of doing the very same thing. He was being true to the self, the man he truly was.

  “Jeannie's sorry,” Steven said, returning. “She doesn't want to cause you any pain, Larry, but she really doesn't want to see you. Maybe later on.”

  “I'm sorry too,” Larry said, his heart pumping sure and steady, “but I'm not leaving until I see her.”

  “You...what?”

  “I will not,” Larry assured him, “leave until I see Jeannie.” He watched Steven's eyes narrow and his jaw clench.

  Is he going to throw me out?

  He felt his body tighten, felt it ready itself.

  *****

  “I hope that boy isn't making a pest of himself over there,” Catherine said, dealing another hand of gin rummy to herself and Emma. “Those poor folks got quite enough to cope with these days.”

  “And, are they?” Emma Brown inquired, tapping her fingers impatiently on the smooth, polished ebony of the game table. “Coping?”

  “As best they can, I expect,” Catherine said. The truth was she had no idea whether the Connors were coping or not because Larry was so closed mouth about the whole thing. He could be a frustrating lad, she knew well enough, witness the scene that morning for example. As if--disgruntled anew as she remembered his thinly veiled accusations--there was the least little bit of harm in taking his wee self into her bed now and again. And, so what if sometimes he was naked! No real harm, for heaven's sake.

  Catherine knew, however, that not everyone would agree with her. In today's modern, psychoanalyzed world such innocent pleasure was sure to be frowned on, because today anything that felt good was pronounced sinful. She guessed though, that her generous offerings to St. Anthony's would continue to take care of any past improprieties, imagined or real. Catherine didn't relish the idea of dawdling around in Purgatory for anything so truly insignificant.

  Emma's gnarled old hands gathered up the cards. She was 82, and Catherine had to marvel. Keen as ever, that mind of hers, and not bad on her feet, though she did use a cane to get about.

  “I don't want it,” she said, referring to the visible down card.

  “Me neither,” said Catherine, and Emma drew the first card of the hand.

  The old lady had struck it rich on the lottery a few years back. To the bewilderment of her neighbors in Pine Flats, she didn't move up the real estate ladder into Pine Glen proper, or buy fine new clothes, or any of the exciting things she could then afford. She did, however, invest in a used Mercedes and hire a cleaning lady who doubled as a once-in-a-while cook. And then she hired Catherine Cutler. Old Emma fondly called Catherine her 'whatever friend'. This meant she was a friend who did 'whatever' Emma wanted her to do. Catherine had soon become a handsomely paid companion, driver, shopper and gin rummy partner. And of course, Emma's dearest 'whatever' friend.

  What made Catherine's life even more agreeable was that she genuinely liked the old lady. Emma had a caustic wit and a very sharp mind, though it did appear to be dulling down a bit lately.

  The two women passed many hours in agreeable and entertaining companionship. Their spiritually nourishing afternoons were spent at Emma's gaming table in her tiny living room playing vigorous, raucous games of gin rummy, the Hollywood version. Emma always supplied generous portions of sipping whiskey which Catherine found most welcome. After a day's work at Emma's, Catherine would usually arrive home very nicely mellowed out.

  Emma was a portly woman and always wore caftans to cover her bulk. Today she was sporting a brightly colored print with short sleeves. Catherine noticed she had those wiggly upper arms that old ladies get; she herself seemed to be growing the very same condition. In Emma's sparse white hair, she wore a purple grosgrain ribbon, clumsily secured by two bobby pins.

  The hand just dealt turned out to be a short one, with Emma ginning. At the old lady's insistence, they kept a running tally at one quarter cent a point, so Catherine waited patiently as Emma added up the damage.

  “There!” she said, flourishing her pen as if she had just finished a particularly complex transaction. “That makes it $642.37 you owe me!” Catherine gave her a nervous smile, hoping to goodness that she was correct in her assumption that this tally was a joke and that Emma would certainly never decide to collect.

  Pouring Catherine another dollop of whiskey, the old lady replenished her own glass as well. “Glenlevit,” she stated with pride. “Single malt. It's fine, isn't it? You must take a bottle home with you, Cathy-girl.”

  Catherine smiled and nodded, grateful for her friend's generosity.

  Emma finished her drink and poured herself another. “C'mon,” she said, struggling to her feet. “It's time I showed you something.” Glass in hand, she picked up her cane and motioned to Catherine to follow.

  Intrigued, Catherine rose and followed her friend out to the yard. The sun was nearing the horizon as both the heat and wind were fading. Emma's back yard was burned mercilessly by the sun and wind like all yards in Pine Flats. Nothing but cactus and coarse grass could survive in the constant hot wind. A flimsy slatted fence separated Emma's grim yard from the neighboring area, equally grim.

  The old lady hobbled toward a good-sized wire cage that rested on a rickety card table near the rear wall of the house. In the cage were two fluffy white rabbits. She turned to Catherine. “Pretty little things aren't they?”

  “Yes...I guess so. I really don't know much about rabbits.”

  Leaning heavily on her cane, Emma took a swallow of her drink. The dying wind ruffled her hair, making a puffy white halo above her head. “I've always been a good Catholic,” she said, gazing at the rabbits. “But the church doesn't know everything. You find that out Cathy-girl, the older you get.”

  “No...well, I guess that's true enough.”

  “And here's a story that's also true enough,” Emma went on.

  Oh dear, here she goes again, off on o
ne of those toots she's so partial to.

  “I was at a party once when just a girl, a family get-together. All good Catholics we were, every one. “A man there, name of Jack Carney, was engaged to my sister Ginny. I was across the room from the happy couple, standing with my brother Ned. He was having a drink of some kind, but I was too young. Just had a glass of soda in my hand.”

  Tired of standing, Catherine squatted on her haunches in the dusty grass, clutching her glass of whiskey. “I looked over at Jack,” Emma went on, “thinking what a handsome man he was, and what a lucky girl was Ginny, when the strangest thing happened. Jack grew horns. Horns came out of his forehead just like in a cartoon.”

  Catherine's haunches gave way then and her ample bottom hit the ground. She quickly settled herself there, trying to make it look like she had simply decided to sit down.

  I love this woman, but her stories are a challenge.

  “While I stood there watching his horns grow, his eyes changed too--they grew into cat eyes. Savage they were, red and mean.” Emma paused, staring down at Catherine. In her wildly colored caftan she looked like a demented pagan goddess...an old one. “And,” Emma continued, “his chin pointed itself. Just grew itself into a point.”

  “What on earth...” Catherine murmured.

  Emma laughed, but it was more of a cackle. “That's Just the point, Cathy-girl. Not on earth. Not this earth, anyway.”

  “But...I don't understand.”

  “Jack wasn't Jack anymore. He was evil. Something not of this world.” Catherine opened her mouth in wonder as Emma charged on. “Well! There I was, just a slip of a girl, watching a...well, a devil appear right there in Mum and Dad's living room. I thought I had lost my mind for sure. I looked over at Ned, but he was staring down at his drink. After a minute or two I dared another peek and he was back. The Jack I knew had returned. No more devil. Talk about confusion! I decided I couldn't really have seen what I saw. It just couldn't be. So, I did my best to simply forget the whole thing. As if forgetting something like that was possible!

  “To make a long story short--whoops too late for that to happen--about three months later Ned and I got to talking and he told me he saw it too! He saw Jack Carney grow horns and turn into a devil just like I did. He didn't say anything about it at the time because he thought maybe he's had too much to drink.”

  “Lor-dee, Emma, what did you do then?”

  “Nothing. What was there to do? The church would either explain it all away with their mumbo jumbo, or treat Ned and me like possessed idiots. We didn't do anything. Or say anything about it to anybody. It was our secret.”

  “So, Emma, I'm dying to know--did Ginny marry Jack?”

  “No. She broke it off. She said there was something strange about him. Something...” The old lady burst into laughter and Catherine began to laugh as well.

  “I guess so!” Catherine said as the two of them chortled away together. “Are you teasing me?” she asked after a moment. “That didn't really happen, did it?”

  “It did! It did so happen,” Emma said, wiping at her eyes. “C'mon, Cathy-girl, let's go back inside. I need a bit more to drink.”

  Catherine struggled to her feet and dusted off her bottom. “But, what did you want to show me?”

  “The rabbits. I wanted you to see the rabbits.”

  “Why do you have those rabbits, Emma?”

  She didn't answer. The women went back into the house and Emma freshened their drinks. They sat down once again at the game table.

  “I'm getting on, Cathy-girl, and like I said, my church doesn't know everything. If I couldn't count on it for protection when I was young and saw evil right in front of me, what good is it likely to be when I die?”

  “Do you worry about evil, Emma, about the devil?”

  She was silent, her face grim. She stared down at the table and appeared to be deep in thought. A glaze came over the old lady's eyes--magnified by her strong glasses--and took them completely out of focus. Catherine began to worry. Her friend seemed to be in some sort of trance.

  Suddenly, scaring the good sense right out of Catherine, Emma's hand shot out and grasped her arm. “Tomorrow night,” she said, her milky blue eyes staring intently into Catherine's, “Come with me.”

  “Where?”

  “You are my friend, Cathy-girl.” Emma's eyes clouded with emotion. “I want to share my good luck with you. I'm going to introduce you to my new faith.”

  *****

  “You want me to throw him out?” Steven is smiling, but it isn't a pleasant smile. “Say the word, and I'll toss him.”

  Ridiculous, I think, my anger rising. Stripped down to my underwear, I am still in bed, trying to nap. “Of course not.” I speak slowly, trying for a patience I simply do not feel. “I am telling you... again...that I'm not going to speak to Larry just now. Perhaps not ever.”

  “And I am telling you,” he says too loudly, “that arrogant asshole's got it into his head that he's not leaving until he sees you. I should throw him out,” Steven goes on, beginning to pace. His hands are clenched into fists at his sides. “Who the fuck does he think--”

  “Steven, please. Please quiet down.” He frowns, then comes to the edge of the bed and sits down. He looks old. Old and exhausted. “You're telling me he's planted himself in our kitchen?”

  He nods and looks at his watch. “It's four-thirty,” he announces as if stating something important. “Kevin will be up soon; he might want some dinner. Sometime tonight. Are you planning on ever cooking again, Jeannie?”

  The faint scent of scotch whiskey comes to me as I sit up. I swing my legs off the bed and stand, hands in my hair, scrubbing at it. Full out angry now, I yank on a pair of jeans and slip a T-shirt over my head. Ridiculous! A kid. An irresponsible...lethal...kid! Holed up in my kitchen...demanding to see me. Ridiculous.

  As advertised, Larry is sitting at the kitchen table, hands neatly folded in front of him. He looks up at me with bloodshot eyes, his lips compressed as if fighting tears.

  Pathetic! If he thinks he can play me...work me over with this 'see my pain, see how much I'm hurting' shit!

  “All right, Larry,” I begin, standing near him, hands on my hips. “Here I am. What do you want? ” He doesn't answer, just continues staring up at me with that injured look. “What?” I am practically shouting.

  “Jeannie...” He breathes my name as if beginning a holy chant, a mantra. “I know you can't forgive me, I know that.” He takes a deep breath, too deep. I wonder if he's going to cry.

  Don't do this to me, Larry. Don't you dare lay your tears on me!

  “I thought...I need you to trust me again, Jeannie. If you could just give me some kind of job... anything at all, I'd know you trusted me--at least a little bit. I want a chance to--”

  He goes on, but I don't hear him. I want so much to hit him. To smack the sonofabitch hard right across that sincere, suffering face of his. The sting of my hand on his face--how wonderful that would feel! Then I think of Joel Gant and his question about closure, about learning the details...I decide I will do that very thing. And more.

  “All right,” I say, cutting into Larry's monologue. “I'll give you a job.” I hear Steven then, coming toward the kitchen. “I've got just the job for you, Larry. Take me to the river.” I can feel my husband's presence behind me. “And walk me through it. Everything that happened that day. Everything! Do that for me, Larry. Then...we'll see.”

  Steven's hands are on my shoulders. “Jesus, Babe, that's a lot to ask. And, what will it--”

  “A lot to ask?” Trembling, I pull away from him. “A lot to ask?” Now Steven is the one I want to smack. My sweet, too kind, too forgiving husband. “I don't think so,” I say through clenched teeth.

  “I'll do it,” Larry says, rising. “No problem. Whenever you say.”

  “Really? How about this very moment, Larry? I'll drive us. Anything wrong with right now?”

  “Not a thing.”

  By five-thirty we're there, at
the river. There is no wind; the few pines scattered about are still. I can hear the water lapping gently at the shoreline. The sun is low in the sky and casts a rosy glow on the terrain. The scene is idyllic and when I picture Stevie here on the last day of his short life, its beauty is cruel and mocking.

  “How do you want to do this?” Larry asks. He stands a few feet from me at the water's edge watching me with a worried look.

  “The way it happened,” I say. “Tell me...no. I want you to show me. Show me exactly what happened.”

  Larry thrusts his fingers up into his hair. He stares down at his shoes.

  Dear God, has he always been this infuriating? Hands jammed into my jacket pockets, my fingers clutch at the fabric there. “Go,” I say. “Show me!”

  He raises his eyes to mine. “We...we got here...”

  “Where?” I look around. “Show me exactly.”

  He takes a few strides away from the water. “Here.” He stands on a patch of ragged grass. “I took off the pack and Stevie put the rods down. I baited up the hook for him and showed him how to cast.”

  “On the grass here?”

  “Yeah. We spent about 15 minutes doing that 'til he got the idea. Then we went over to those rocks.”

  He points and I see a rocky outcropping. It forms a ledge and looks like a perfect place to stand and cast from. I climb out over the rough, jutting rocks to the edge, while Larry stays a few steps behind me. Standing there quietly, I look out at the river. Such a lovely stream. With its lazy, benign beauty, it is hard to believe it had taken Stevie's life. How could this pretty little river suck my boy down without Larry noticing in time to save him?

  “Is the current strong here?”

  “Some,” he says, his voice faint behind me. Some? How strong is 'some'? “I cast his line out a couple times. To show him. Then...” I hear him gulp. He doesn't continue.

  “Then? Go on, Larry.” Don't fade on me now, damn it!