The Sitter Read online

  “I...I handed him the rod. He tried it a couple times. He did good. Then...I asked him if he wanted a Twinkie.”

  “A Twinkie?” I turn to face him.

  “Yeah. I thought he might be hungry. He said sure, so I went to get him one.”

  “You went back to the pack over there?” I point and Larry nods.

  “When I got back here...on these rocks...” I hold my breath, waiting. “He was gone.”

  “What do you mean, gone?” My voice is loud; it cuts into the pastoral quiet. Of course I know exactly what he means. Like watching a film I've seen a dozen times--a tragedy. I know what's going to happen, but I watch anyway, insanely hoping this time the story will take a different tack--have a different ending. But of course it doesn't.

  “Fell. Slipped, hit his head. I ran!” Larry is shouting now. I see him gesture wildly, his arms flapping as he tries to describe the scene. “I ran so fast for him, Jeannie. I dove in, but shit! I couldn't find him. He was somewhere under the water.” Close to tears, Larry's face is flushed and he's talking so fast I can barely understand him. “But then, I did find him! Hauled him up out of the water...but...”

  “So, he fell...”

  Trying for some semblance of calm, I turn away from Larry and take a step closer to the edge. “Right about here?” Looking down into the clear water, I am seized with the desire to leap in, to feel that murderous water wash up over me, just as Stevie had. I hear a choking sound, behind me. I turn around.

  Larry's hands are at the sides of his face, fingers digging into his hair. With numbing horror, I see him rake his fingers down over his temples, his cheeks. I see his fingernails gouge into his skin. He is watching me, looking right into my eyes. In stunned disbelief I see angry red lines appear on his face and one or two begin to ooze blood.

  “Larry, no!” I run to him. Grabbing those wild hands, I pull at them, trying to get them away from his face. He fights me, his tears mingling with the blood. “Oh God, Larry, please. Please stop!” I throw my weight against him and yank at his hands, my strength pitted against his.

  What if I can't get him to stop?

  “I...I couldn't get him to breathe!” he shouts as we struggle. I feel him weaken slightly and I finally pull his hands down between the two of us. Larry starts to cough. “Oh Jeannie, I wish it was me. I do! I wish I was the one...”

  I am...lost.

  “Oh, Larry. Larry. . .” I gather him close, my arms around his shoulders. At first he's rigid but soon I feel his head and neck relax, and then his arms go around me. I begin to cry, giving myself up to the grief that envelops us both. We stand together like that--how long I can't say.

  I pull back and see that he looks terrible, like the victim of a vicious fight. Wiping my eyes, I know I probably don't look much better. With an arm around his waist, I guide him back off the ledge.

  “I'm so sorry. So--”

  “Hush, Larry. Enough. We're all sorry.” I speak slowly, completely drained of energy. “That's how it is with accidents.” My desire to discover the exact minutiae of Stevie's last day is gone. I know enough.

  Larry is still snuffling as I lead him back onto the path to my car. My hand is on the back of his neck. He shudders a little as I knead his neck lightly with my fingers. Stevie used to love that, I remember.

  “Never mind what happened,” I say to Steven and Kevin as I dab gently at Larry's face with a cotton swab dipped in alcohol and cool water. They stand nearby, clearly shocked at Larry's appearance. “An accident, that's all. He fell into some brush. I want to clean Larry up so his mother won't think we've been torturing him over here.”

  I squeeze some antiseptic ointment onto a gauze pad. “This stuff works like magic, Larry. You'll heal in no time.” I spread it gently over his face.

  “Does it hurt?' Kevin asks, his eyes wide.

  “Nah. Piece a cake,” Larry says.

  I finish up with him and have a look. He is a mess--as if he's been in a fight with a tiger. I am still in shock; I can't believe he's done such a thing. Adding to the horror is the fact that I feel at least partially responsible for Larry's mindless self mutilation.

  “Brambles,” I say to Larry. You tell your mother you fell into a patch of brambles and there were lots of thorns on them.” I see the doubtful look on Steven's face. That is no surprise. I've practically announced that this bramble bit is just a story to placate Larry's mother. Steven says nothing, however, and I'm grateful.

  “No worries,” Larry says, giving me a crooked smile as he stands up. “I'd better get on home. Hey, little man,” he says, a hand on Kevin's head, ruffling his hair. At that sight, my stomach surprises me with a surge of protective adrenaline. I am barely able to keep my hands from forming fists.

  “I'll see you later, Sport, maybe tomorrow?” He looks at me with that hunger of his, those bloody streaks shouting at me.

  Guilt. It's having a field day jerking me around. Now, peering at him, I think he knows that. I think he's well aware I'm battling my guilt, my hand in his self mutilation.

  What? I guided your hands to your face? Shit Larry, get a grip. You were the sitter! You were the one...

  I see him again, his eyes wild, his nails at his face, in his face...those bloody stripes...”Jeannie?” Steven's voice is soft, patient. “Larry wants to drop by tomorrow.”

  “Well,” I say, unable to give a direct answer. “Give us a call, anyway. Let us know how you're doing.”

  Larry gazes back at me, over his shoulder. “All right.” he says, and leaves the room.

  “So, what really happened?” Steven asks. We are in bed. I'm lying in the crook of his arm.

  “You don't buy brambles?”

  “No, I don't.”

  “He fell apart,” I say. “He went crazy. He tore at his face with his hands. His finger nails.”

  “His nails made those marks?”

  “Yes.” Steven is silent as fresh guilt washes over me like a wave. “I asked him to show me what happened. We were standing at the edge of the rocks where Stevie was when he...slipped, and Larry lost it. He just went crazy.

  “I guess I asked too much of him. I was so wrapped up in my grief, I underestimated his.”

  Steven's arm tightens around me. “Don't be too hard on yourself. You realize it now, and that's good.”

  “I guess,” I say doubtfully. I turn to him, my lips brushing his neck. Snuggling up against his body, I feel his healing warmth. Again, like a recurring scene in a horror movie, I see Larry at the river. A madman clawing at his face. If I saw that in a movie, I would not believe it. Not at all.

  *****

  What a woman, that Jeannie! Larry put his fingers to his face where hers had been. So gentle, her touch. On his back in bed, wide awake, his whole body was tingling. His mind was so flooded with excitement, Larry wondered if he would ever sleep again.

  He picked up the mirror he'd placed on his bedside table and turned on the lamp. “Hell of a performance,” he whispered to his image. He remembered it all--knew he'd never forget it. Telling her how he wished it had been him instead of Stevie. Hah! Fat chance! He hated to see her so sad, though.

  Larry gazed at his red-streaked countenance and saw the face of a fighter. And now-- no doubt about it--the fighter was winning.

  Thursday, September 7th

  “Sweet Baby Jesus!” Catherine cried, seeing Larry's face as he walked through the living room on his way to the kitchen. Seated at what she fondly called her 'fashionable coffee table', his mother was having her doctored coffee and pastry in the living room this morning. She had made the table herself--she proudly told anyone who would listen--out of a wooden door placed on cinder blocks. She had stained the door dark and sealed it with a high gloss plastic-like stuff. The blocks continually sloughed off onto the beige carpet. It was a horror.

  “What's happened to you?” She sprang to her feet, shedding donut crumbs as she rose. Her bulk blocked his way.

  “It's nothing, Ma.” He tried to get past her.


  “Lor-dee, Larry,” Catherine said, peering at him. “Let me have a look at you!” He stood awkwardly before his mother in gray tennis shorts, his Nike sneakers and a plain white T-shirt. His hands were at his sides, knees bent a little, as if ready to sprint off at the slightest provocation.

  Reaching into her robe pocket for her glasses, Catherine put them on and moved even closer to Larry. Her eyes were huge behind her glasses, red-veined, their corners filled with mushy white...All those baths she took, couldn't she--chrissake--wash her face? He could smell her. A kind of old-lady sweat topped off with some kind of whiskey. Larry started to chew on the inside of his cheek again, holding his breath while he endured her nosy inspection.

  He noticed again her blue robe straining across her breasts, and thought suddenly—gratefully--of Jeannie at the river. When she pulled him to her, he had felt the gentle swell of her breasts against his chest--an almost painful rush of sensual pleasure.

  “For heaven's sake,” Catherine murmured and raised a hand to his face.

  “No,” Larry said, dodging her touch. “I'm fine.”

  “You gonna tell me?” She asked, too close to him. Always too close.

  “Brambles,” he said.

  “Brambles! And where, pray tell, did you find brambles?”

  Larry gave her his 'who cares?' shrug. “Down at the river.”

  “Why were you at the--”

  “Shit, Ma, who cares? I go there sometimes. So what?”

  Catherine snorted. Another disgusting thing she was always doing. “You look terrible! Like you've been clawed or something.”

  “I'm fine,” he said again, hands twitching at his sides. He tasted blood as he chewed his cheek. Enough of this bullshit he told himself, and pushed his way past her.

  “Well...” Catherine said doubtfully as he walked on through the living room to the kitchen.

  When she came on like this, there was never much of anything behind it, Larry reminded himself. She had no real power over him, and he shouldn't be forgetting that.

  “I'm going out tonight,” she hollered after him. “With Emma. You make a good meal for yourself tonight, you hear?”

  “Yeah, Ma.” He was almost to the sanctuary of the kitchen.

  “Need any money?” she shouted.

  Larry wasn't listening. When the kitchen door swung shut behind him, he was already thinking again of Jeannie. At the river. He took a deep breath, remembering. “Oh Larry. Larry...” she had said, drawing him close.

  “So, Larry...what's the story on your face?” Bertie McQueen asked. He was seated at the round glass table on the Connor's terrace. He was gambling here, big time.

  When he had called the Connor home after breakfast there was no answer, so he left a message for Jeannie to call him back. She didn't. Was she avoiding him? He waited until after lunch, and then, beginning to panic, he decided to go over to the Connor's and try in person. Kevin answered the door. What a stroke of luck! The little guy had been excited to see Larry and had dragged him through the house and out back to the terrace where Jeannie and Bertie were sitting having lemonade. After the anxious morning he had just put in, Larry was not exactly up for a chat with Bertie McQueen.

  “Look at Larry's face, Aunt Bertie!” Kevin shouted as he walked out onto the terrace, pulling Larry along behind him.

  He could never figure out why Jeannie spent time with this woman. He had filled in for her gardener a time or two at that big place of hers and didn't like her at all. She was too damned pushy--a big Nordic type with a voice to match. He figured she was one of those lesbo types who probably wished she had a dick.

  Larry was irritated because he had hoped to see just Jeannie, or maybe Steven and Kevin. But here this bitch was, butting her big self in. The woman probably outweighed him by 25 pounds. At least.

  Jeannie poured him a glass of lemonade and pushed it toward him. “Brambles,” she said.

  Silence then while the big lesbo mulled that one over. “You...what? You fell into brambles?” Her tone told Larry she was calling him a liar.

  “Yeah, I did.” Got a problem with that, Bitch?

  “Looks like a lion gotcha,” Kevin put in happily, pulling his chair up next to Larry's. “Gotcha real good!” He laughed. “I hate lions,” Kevin went on and Larry punched his shoulder gently, smiling down at him.

  Kevin beamed back with a look of pure adoration, and Larry knew this little guy was still his ticket back to the Connors.

  “Larry's looking for work these days, Bertie.” Jeannie said. “You know of any floating around the neighborhood?”

  Jeannie, no! I don't want to work for her!

  “Are you looking for yard work, Larry?” Bertie asked.

  “Well...I was thinking more of your yard, Jeannie,” he said, and that fucking Bertie McQueen put a knowing little smirk onto her big fat face. “I mean...that way Kevin could help me.” He grinned, thinking he'd come up with a great idea.

  “Oh, yes, Mommy!” Kevin cried. “I could help Larry!”

  Jeannie had a slight smile, but she didn't meet his eyes. “That might...possibly work out,” she said slowly. As good as a yes, Larry figured and began to relax. “When would you like me to start? Tomorrow? This aft--”

  “Easy there, Larry,” Jeannie broke in. “I'll let you know if we have any work for you.”

  Kevin sensed a problem. His eyes clouded with tears and he got down out of his chair. He went to stand close to Larry.

  Ah! That sense of power...He didn't touch Kevin--didn't have to. The game was his. All he had to do was look dejected and keep quiet. He would play the part of Poor-Larry-Cutler. He knew that's how he was known these days, even by the guys at school. He was the poor kid who let Stevie Connor drown.

  He was motionless, kept his face solemn, eyes down. And then, sure enough...

  Jeannie sighed. “Oh, all right, Larry. We can try it out. For an hour or so.”

  “Yay!” Kevin yelled, and started jumping up and down.

  Larry swallowed hard. I'll make it up to you, Jeannie...I swear I will!

  “Today's Thursday,” Jeannie said. Bertie was frowning and slowly shaking her head. “Come over Saturday around ten and I'll try to find some work for you and Kevin.”

  She sounded angry. Or maybe sad. He couldn't tell which. But Kevin was smiling happily...and Larry grinned, winking at him.

  *****

  After Larry left, I put Kevin down for a nap, and he went happily for a change. Steven would tell me that was because he'd just 'spent time' with Larry. Perhaps, I admit, it is because of Larry. Whatever the reason for his happy nap-time, I am thankful. But I am also disgusted with myself because I have just allowed Larry Cutler to deviously manipulate himself--and me--into another visit to the Connor home.

  “Jeannie,” Bertie called to me from the living room, “Oprah's on in a few minutes. You have time to watch?”

  “Sure,” I say. I get us a couple cans of Coke from the fridge and we settle ourselves onto the cool leather couch across from the TV.

  “You still locking yourself out?” I ask, noticing the out-sized key ring on Bertie's belt.

  “Not with this new handy-dandy key ring attached to me.” I smile. We had killed more than a few hours together waiting for Leo to come home with his house key after Bertie had locked herself out. “I am never without this thing,” Bertie says.

  “It wasn't brambles,” I say.

  “Of course not,” Bertie replies, gazing at me with interest.

  “I guess I've been too hard on Larry.”

  “Are you serious? Didn't we just have a heartwarming lemonade party with the kid you're so hard on?”

  “Yes, I guess so. But that's because of Kevin. I didn't want to upset him by telling Larry to go home.” I tell Bertie what happened at the river.

  “My God,” Bertie murmurs. “He dug those lines in his face himself? I don't...” She pauses, a rare look of confusion on her face as she takes a swallow of her drink. “That's hard to believe. Alon
g with him telling Steven he wouldn't leave until he saw you— that's hard to believe as well. Kid's got a hell-of-a nerve.”

  “Yes, he does. But I was there with him at the river. Bertie, I'm not making this up.”

  “Of course not.”

  Bertie is refreshingly open. She smiles, frowns, grins, and everything in between. I can read her at a glance. Larry on the other hand wears a mask. He's not quite real.

  “I mean...Larry.” Bertie continues. “His actions seem so, well...dramatic, don't you think?”

  I frown. I have to agree. “Maybe he is dramatic. Maybe it took his carelessness with Stevie to--”

  “--bring out his flair for drama?”

  I nod, wondering why I ever bother to finish a sentence around this woman. “Bertie, are you suggesting that what Larry did was...a performance?”

  “Probably not,” she says. “But he impressed you, right? To the extent that you have started thinking you've been too hard on him?”

  Frowning, I see Oprah Winfrey discussing the day's show and I turn the TV's volume up. Oprah is solemn as she announces: “Today's guests are the mothers of children who have been murdered, and their murders are as yet unsolved.”

  “Oh, good!” Bertie says. “Something light and fun.” She reaches for the remote in my hand.

  “No, wait,” I say. “Let's watch for a minute.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes...I'm curious.” Bertie sits back reluctantly while I take a few sips of my Coke.

  The first guest is the mother of a seven year old girl who was murdered about two years ago. The girl had been abducted from her living room while her mother was at a grocery store and her father was home, napping on the couch. She was missing for two weeks before her body was found in a nearby vacant lot. She had been dead about a week, authorities said. Apparently she had been sexually molested, then strangled.

  The thing that strikes me about this mother, as she relates these horrific events, is her composure. She could be telling a story about a complete stranger, such is her detachment. Composure and detachment, however, are the wrong words. The woman is dead to her daughter's death--dead to the pain. To me, it is as if the past two years have drugged the woman into lethargic acceptance.