Jeffery Deaver - Twisted - The Collected Stories of Jeffery Deaver

“You don’t have to go fishing. We could just row around and feed the ducks.”

He looked out the window at the dim, gray horizon of New Jersey across the Hudson River. The whole state seemed asleep. And probably was.

“Please, Daddy? Stay home with us.”

“We played all day yesterday,” he pointed out, as if this would convince her that she could do without him today. He was, of course, aware that children’s logic and adults’ bore no resemblance to each other; still, he continued. “We went to FAO Schwarz and Rockefeller Center and I bought you two, count ’em, two hot dogs from Henri’s à côté du subway. And then Rumplemeyer’s.”

“But that was yesterday !”

Youngsters’ logic, Alex decided, was by far the most compelling.

“And what did you eat at Rumpelstiltskin’s?”

When logic failed, he was not above diversion.

The eight-year-old tugged at her nightgown. “Banana split.”

“You did?” He looked shocked. “No!”

“Did too, and you know it. You were there.”

“How big was it?”

“You know!”

“I know nothing, I remember nothing,” he said in a thick German accent.

“Thisssss big.” She held her hands far apart.

Alex said, “Impossible. You would’ve blown up like a balloon. Pop!” And she broke into giggles under his tickling fingers.

“Up and at ’em,” he announced. “Breakfast together before I leave.”

“Daddy,” she persisted. But Alex escaped from her room.

He assembled his fishing tackle, stacked it by the door and walked into the kitchen. Kissed Sue on the back of the neck and slipped his arms around her as she flipped pancakes in the skillet.

Pouring orange juice for the three of them, Alex said, “She doesn’t want me to go today. She’s never complained before.”

For the last year he’d taken off a day or two every month to go fishing in the countryside around New York City.

His wife stacked the pancakes on a plate and set them in the oven to warm. Then she glanced down the hall where their daughter, in her purple Barney slippers, wandered sleepily into the bathroom and shut the door behind her.

“Jessie was watching the tube the other night,” Sue said. “I was finishing up some homework and wasn’t paying attention. Next thing I knew she ran out of the room crying. I didn’t see the program but I looked it up in TV Guide. It was some made-for-TV movie about a father who was kidnapped and held hostage. The kidnapper killed him and then came after his wife and daughter. I think there were some pretty graphic scenes. I talked to her about it but she was pretty upset.”

Alex nodded slowly. He’d grown up watching horror flicks and shoot-’em-up westerns; in fact he’d found Saturday matinees a sanctuary from his abusive, temperamental father. As an adult he’d never thought twice about violence in films or on TV — until he became a father himself. Then he immediately began censoring what Jessica watched. He didn’t mind that she knew death and aggression existed; it was the gratuitous, overtly gruesome carnage lacing popular shows that he wanted to keep from her.

“She’s afraid I’m going to get kidnapped while I’m fishing?”

“She’s eight. It’s a big bad world out there.”

It was so difficult with children, he reflected. Teaching them to be cautious of strangers, aware of real threats, but not making them so scared of life they couldn’t function. Learning the difference between reality and make-believe could be tough for adults, let alone youngsters.

Five minutes later the family was sitting around the table, Alex and Sue flipping through the Sunday Times, reading portions of stories that seemed interesting. Jessica, accompanied by Raoul, a stuffed bear, methodically ate first her bacon, then her pancakes and finally a bowl of cereal.

The girl pretended to feed Raoul a spoonful of cereal and asked thoughtfully, “Why do you like to fish, Daddy?”

“It’s relaxing.”

“Oh.” The bits of cereal were in the shape of some cartoon creatures. Ninja Turtles, Alex thought.

“Your father needs some time off. You know how hard he works.”

As the creative director of a Madison Avenue ad agency, Alex regularly clocked sixty- and seventy-hour weeks.

Sue continued, “He’s a type-A personality through and through.”

“I thought you had a secretary, Daddy. Doesn’t she do your typing?”

Her parents laughed. “No, honey,” Sue said. “That means somebody who works real hard. Everything he does has to get him closer to his goal or he isn’t interested in it.” She rubbed Alex’s muscular back. “That’s why his ads are so good.”

“The Cola Koala!” Jessica’s face lit up.

As a surprise for the girl, Alex had just brought home some of the original art cells of the animated cartoon figure he’d created to hawk a product its manufacturer hoped would cut large chunks out of Pepsi’s and Coke’s market shares. The pictures of the cuddly creature hung prominently on her wall next to portraits of Cyclops and Jean Grey, of X-Men fame. Spider-Man too and, of course, the Power Rangers.

“Fishing helps me relax,” Alex repeated, looking up from the sports section.

“Oh.”

Sue packed his lunch and filled a thermos of coffee.

“Daddy?” Moody again, the girl stared at her spoon then let it sink down into the bowl.

“What, Jessie-Bessie?”

“Were you ever in a fight?”

“A fight? Good grief, no.” He laughed. “Well, in high school I was. But not since then.”

“Did you beat the guy up?”

“In high school? Whupped the tar out of him. Patrick Briscoe. He stole my lunch money. I let him have it. Left jab and a right hook. Technical knockout in three rounds.”

She nodded, swallowed a herd, or school, of Ninja Turtles and set her spoon down again. “Could you beat up somebody now?”

“I don’t believe in fighting. Adults don’t have to fight. They can talk out their disagreements.”

“But what if somebody, like a robber, came after you? Could you knock him out?”

“Look at these muscles. Is this Schwarzenegger, or what?” He pulled up the sleeves of his plaid Abercrombie hunting shirt and flexed. The girl lifted impressed eyebrows.

So did Sue.

Alex paid nearly two thousand dollars a year to belong to a midtown health club.

“Honey...” Alex leaned forward and put his hand on the girl’s arm. “You know that the things they show on TV, like that movie you saw, they’re all made up. You can’t think real life is like that. People are basically good.”

“I just wish you weren’t going today.”

“Why today?”

She looked outside. “The sun isn’t shining.”

“Ah, but that’s the best time to go fishing. The fish can’t see me coming. Hey, pumpkin, tell you what... how ’bout if I bring you something?”

Her face brightened. “Really?”

“Yup. What would you like?”

“I don’t know. Wait, yes, I do. Something for our collection. Like last time?”

“You bet, sweetie. You got it.”

Last year Alex had seen a counselor. He’d come close to a breakdown, struggling to juggle his roles as overworked executive, husband of a law school student, father and put-upon son (his own father, often drunk and always unruly, had been placed in an expensive mental hospital Alex could barely afford). The therapist had told him to do something purely for himself — a hobby or sport. At first he’d resisted the idea as a pointless frivolity but the doctor firmly warned that the relentless anxiety he felt would kill him within a few years if he didn’t do something to help himself relax.

After considerable thought Alex had taken up freshwater fishing (which would get him away from the city) and then collecting (which he could pursue at home). Jessica, with no interest in the “yucky” sport of fishing, became his coconspirator in the collecting department. Alex would bring home the items and the girl would log them into the computer and mount or display the collectibles. Lately they’d been specializing in watches.