Authors: Antoinette Stockenberg
"
Oh, honey,
"
Helen said, holding her daughter tight, trying to stroke away her appalling bewilderment.
"
Oh, honey, never mind, never mind. It has nothing to do with you
...
nothing at all. You
'
ve been caught in this
...
this
evil
and we
...
we have to get out of it somehow, we have to make people understand we haven
'
t done anything.
"
But all the while, Helen was thinking of nineteen others with the same dead hope.
Becky shuddered violently and said through chattering teeth,
"
Who could d-do that to a p-poor little cat
...
who could d-do such a thing?
"
Her wail turned loud with new misery; she loved animals too much to be able to handle this. It was Becky who
'
d insisted on adopting one-eyed Moby from the shelter; Becky who was forever finding homes for strays. She
'
d paid for ads, paid for shots, given her time at the shelter.
Even now, Moby was perched on a kitchen chair, waiting for the wailing to stop so that he could have his supper. He decided to nudge Becky along, planting his paws on her hip and giving her a soulful look. Becky picked him up and pressed him to her shoulder, rubbing her tearstained
cheek on his
flank
,
as if she could amend someone
'
s cruelty to Anna
'
s cat with kindness to her own.
Becky, a Satanist.
It was too much.
"
Damn it to hell!
"
Helen cried, slamming an open palm on the ma
r
ble counter.
"
Why us? What have we done to deserve this? There
'
s no logic, no reason for it!
"
Through the curtained window of the kitchen door she caught a glimpse of movement in the back hall—Russ, no doubt, backing away from the
torrent
of emotions that was going on inside. Somehow his reluctance to face their agony infuriated her; it made Helen say something she regretted for the rest of her life.
"
It never would
'
ve happened—none of this ever would
'
ve got started,
"
she said loudly,
"
if it hadn
'
t been for that stupid, damned graffiti! One dumb stunt—one moronic episode—and our lives are ruined! We
'
re going to lose the school, lose our good name, lose everything!
"
"
Mom, don
'
t yell like that,
"
Becky said, aghast.
"
No, damn it, I
'
ll yell all I want! It
'
s the only thing I
can
do; don
'
t you get it? Don
'
t you see how trapped we are by this? We can
'
t win! We can
'
t say we
'
re innocent. No one ever believes that. But we can
'
t say nothing or they
'
ll think we
'
re guilty! What choice does that leave? Should we just make up something, the way the poor fools did the first time around? Should we just lie and say, yes, we
'
re Satanists, we
'
ve done despicable things and please forgive us? Gee! With any luck, maybe we can avoid a trial and imprisonment. Maybe we can just stand around in pillories on the Common for a while. Maybe that
'
ll do the trick!
"
Becky fell back into a kitchen chair, blasted by the force of her mother
'
s fury. Moby hunkered down in her lap, still hungry, still begging, still purring.
In a broken, tragic whisper, Becky said,
"
I didn
'
t know.
"
The image of her daughter sitting there burned itself into Helen
'
s mind and heart. Every tiny detail of it, from Becky
'
s wet lashes and runny nose to the small black cat who was purring so hard that Helen could see his shoulders trembling. It was a picture of innocence: innocence defiled.
Overwhelmed, Helen fell to her knees alongside her daughter and laid one arm on her shoulder, the other across her lap, encircling her.
"
Becky, Becky
...
I love you and Russ more than life itself, you know that. I would do anything for you. That
'
s why I was so angry now
...
because I feel so helpless to stop this. But I promise you: One way or another, I
will
put a stop to it.
"
Helen forced herself to smile as she smoothed away a long, golden band of hair that had broken free from the single braid into which Becky had bound her hair. Then she stood back up, desperately needing to shower and put on something different, something fresh and clean—something unrelated to the day
'
s awful events. On her way out of the kitchen she saw a can of cat food still jammed in the electric can opener, half-opened.
She left it there, knowing full well that Becky would not let Moby go unfed.
****
The calls began coming that night: hate calls, hang-up calls, and finally, at three o
'
clock—the witching hour itself—a death threat. Helen disconnected all the phones and, after reassuring her children that it was just a drunken prankster, sat up at the window of her bedroom, watching the street for cross-bu
rn
ers and fire-bombers.
It was the longest, most harrowing night of her life. She had known grief, and she had known fear; but she
'
d never known such stark, lonely apprehension before. It seemed to Helen, in her hyperalert state, that she could hear the rumbles of the approaching mob; smell the creosote of their burning torches. Would they come and drag the children and her from their beds? It seemed all too possible.
At one point, shortly before dawn, Helen thought she saw something move in the privet below. She slid the bedroom screen up, ready to throw down a needlepoint stool—her only weapon—on the possible intruder. But then the night became quiet again, and the air became still, and she decided that the mob had not yet reached her doorstep.
She told herself that she
'
d read too deeply; that she
'
d taken
Salem
too profoundly into her heart. But then she remembered other preschools, other hysteria. Other trials. Some of the recent accused had been found innocent and their reputations handed back to them, charred and tattered. Others—others still languished in prison. Were they guilty? Innocent? Helen didn
'
t know. She could only know about herself, about her children. And they were innocent.
And she was alone, all alone, in her fight to prove it.
Eventually the first dull light of morning made its reluctant appearance, ha
lf
heartedly
nudging
away the specters of the night. Aching and sore, Helen stood up and stretched and decided before anything else to reassure herself that her children were safe. After that she
'
d make coffee. After that, a shower. A cheerful dress. A nourishing breakfast for all of them. Because that was how big hills were climbed: one small step at a time.
She walked quietly down the hall, careful not to wake either exhausted child. Becky
'
s room came first. The door was ajar. Helen pushed it open a little farther, wincing at the squeak. Becky was deep in sleep, her head cocked awkwardly on the pillow, her mouth slack. Helen listened to the sweet, rhythmic sound of her daughter
'
s muffled snore, taking immeasurable comfort in it.
One small step at a time.
Pulling the door quietly shut, she
tiptoed across the hall.
Russ slept much more lightly than his sister; Helen didn
'
t dare risk turning the doorknob and intruding on his space,
so she simply stood there, wishing good sleep and long life for him.
She turned to go, then paused; then turned back to the door. Russell
'
s
DO NOT DISTURB
sign wasn
'
t hanging on its hook. Last night had been traumatic enough so that the usual rules of order might not prevail, but: Russell
'
s
DO NOT
DISTURB sign wasn
'
t hanging on its hook.
Helen took hold of the doorknob, gave it a sharp turn, and swung the door wide. Her son
'
s bed was its usual jumble of clothes and blankets; the sight sent a sigh of relief surging through her.
And then she saw that he wasn
'
t in it. Foreboding gave way to panic as Helen ran up to the bed and snatched a sheet of notebook paper, raggedly ripped from its spiral, from the middle of the deep blue bedsheet.
Mom,
It
'
s all my fault, I know it. How could anyone blame Becky? It
'
s stupid. If they want to blame somebody, let them blame me. You can make up anything you want. It doesn
'
t matter. It really doesn
'
t. And then maybe they
'
ll leave Becky and you alone.
Your son Russell x
PS. Tell Becky she can have my CDs. All except Sonic Youth. Those go to Scott.
She read the note again.
And again.
Nothing so far had prepared her for what she was feeling. The dreadful events of the last few weeks suddenly seemed like small bumps in the road compared to this. Russell:
gone.
The pain was numbing. For one long hellish instant she thought she
'
d been knocked unconscious.
She read the note again. It had never occurred to her that Russ would react to the episode by running away. She
'
d imagined him in danger from drive-by shooters, marauding gangs, vicious muggers. She
'
d never imagined him in danger from his family.
Had
he run away? She read the note again. Suddenly the words seemed ambiguous, ominous.
It
'
s all my fault.
Helen had warned Russ—over and over—about drink. She had talked to him—knowledgeably and calmly—about drugs. But never, ever had she brought up the subject of suicide. The idea was simply too taboo. She hadn
'
t wanted even to put it into his head.
It really doesn
'
t matter.
Words of despair.
Oh, God—would he? Helen raced to the phone and punched in the infernal three numbers to get the police. Instead of the coffee, the shower, the dress, the breakfast— the police. Before searching
...
praying
...
crying—the police.
"
Find him,
"
she begged after telling them everything they wanted to know about her missing son.
"
I
'
ll be there in twenty minutes with the photos. Find him.
"
His name was in the computer now, connected to thousands of other computers. Pray God the system worked.
Helen ran down the hall and rousted Becky out of bed.
"
Find him!
"
she said after waving Russ
'
s note in front of her.
"
Check all his haunts. The video parlors, the movie theaters—check
Salem
Willows
Park
. He could be there, sleeping under a tree. Take this photo with you. I
'
ll drop the others off with the
Salem
police, then go on to the state police. Aunt Mary can cover our phone. He can
'
t have gone far.
"
Becky wasn
'
t a morning person. Droopy-eyed and clutching the photo in one hand, she stared at the note in
her other, trying hard to focus on the urgency of it all.
"
He called you
'
Mom
',"
she said at last.