Elizabeth Massie - Naked, on the Edge

“This is insane this is insane this is insane! Stop it stop it!” Hot, furious, impotent tears coursed down her cheeks.

Then she heard Joe calling, ” Timothy, come here, boy. Timothy, kitty, kitty, kitty.”

Hannah’s head jerked up. “Don’t touch him!”

Timothy trotted up to the man and wrapped around his legs. Joe laughed and lifted the cat, then found the abandoned tote by the front door. “Here you go, my friend,” Joe said. “We’ll tuck you right in here.”

“Joe, don’t do this. Listen to me, are you listening, Joe?”

Joe eased the cat inside and shut the top. He came back to the trunk. “Nice boy, nice kitty,” he said.

Hannah grappled again for the sofa leg. It came up an inch, but the chain would not slide over the sofa foot. “Goddamn you!” She yanked, yanked. The chain bit into her ankle, drawing a thin line of blood. “Goddamn you, stop, please!”

“Sit down, Hannah, this is the last test. Get a grip, Christ.” He pushed her back. She fell against the sofa cushions with a grunt.

“Now,” said Joe, standing by the trunk. ” We have one animal here, but we need a second. Where should we find another one?” He stroked his chin. “Let me think.”

“You can’t kill Timothy. Joe, are you listening? You can’t kill him!”

“I don’t know if I have any more animals,” said Joe. “You’ve killed them all so far, Hannah. Spider, mouse, guinea pig, another mouse, two birds. A spider is a mouse is a guinea pig is a bird, I suppose.”

“I haven’t killed a fucking thing!”

“Hmm.”

“Joe, listent to me! Wati! Just listen! Don’t kill Timothy!”

Joe put the tote on the floor by his foot and said, “And you killed that little boy in your father’s third grade class.”

“What? What did you say?”

“As sure as you put a bomb in the school, you killed him.” Joe’s jaw was tight. His voice hissed. “You and your bleeding heart, idiot, moronic friends.”

“Joe, you make no sense.”

Joe reached over and slapped Hannah soundly on the cheek. Her head snapped back, reeling.

“He was my little brother, Hannah. You didn’t even know his name, did you? Your murder victim. His name was Denny Parrish. The sweetest kid you could ever know. Never to grow up. You bitch.”

“How did you…? I didn’t… kill….”

“Oh, shut up and let’s get the test finished. One more and you’ll be free to go. Now, we have a cat. And,” Joe looked down at the trunk. “Yes, we have another animal right here in the trunk, I remember now.” He pushed the Afghan off to the floor. “An animal in there. You choose, Hannah. The cat in the hand, or what’s behind trunk number one.”

“I swear go God, I didn’t kill your brother.”

“Oops, forgot,” said Joe. He went to the television stand and pulled a pistol out from the single drawer. When he came back, and a smile had returned. “Now, then, which animal shall live, my dear teacher?”

I can’t let Timothy die, her mind reeled. Whatever dog or cat or groundhog in that trunk isn’t as precious as Timothy. I can’t let him shoot my cat!

“Don’t make me wait,” said Joe. “Your father told me you were always such a slow-poke.”

“My father?”

“We know each other. I visited my brother’s class occasionally. I even went on the field trip to the wildlife center with all those little kids. Your dad talked to me privately, asked if I could bring you to your senses somehow. I said I didn’t know. I was a psychology major, but not a shrink yet. I need a few more years on me for that. But that’s an aside. Now, pick, Hannah.”

“You can’t kill Timothy,” Hannah growled.

“Fine, then, this shouldn’t take long.” Joe flipped back the lid on the trunk. He raised the pistol and aimed it inside. Hannah didn’t look. It no longer mattered. She had broken her promise to herself. A crow might be a cow but a cat was of more importance to her. She wanted to vomit.

“Oh, before I do this,” said Joe. “Maybe I should just loosen this little gag here.”

There was a pause, then the sound of crying. Sobbing.

A child.

There was a child in the trunk.

“Oh, my God,” said Hannah.

“Hannah!” shrieked the child.

Allen.

“I followed you all afternoon,” said Joe. “To Karla’s, to your apartment. To the theater. Allen doesn’t talk to strangers, but we saved puppies together, didn’t we, Allen? You know me.”

“Hannah!” cried Allen.

“I met him at the theater as soon as you left. I told him we were going to surprise you, that we had a party here at my apartment for you and the other animal rescuers. He thought it was a fine idea.”

“Shoot the fucking cat!” screamed Hannah.

“Fine idea,” said Joe. He pointed the gun at the tote. Hannah turned away. Joe fired four times, and Hannah felt each one cutting through her mind, searing her brain, tearing up her sanity and spitting it out like a catnip toy.

Joe stepped to the sofa and leaned in to Hannah, his mouth on her ear. “Now, you see there is a difference, don’t you, Hannah?”

She said nothing.

“Do you?”

Hannah said nothing.

Joe shook his head and stroked her hair. “Hannah, there is a difference. Admit it.”

“Yes.”

Joe straightened, sighed, and nodded. “Thank you. Now.” He put the gun down and wiped his hands. “That’s about it. I’ll get little Allen out of this thing and you and your cat are free to go.”

Hannah opened her eyes. She saw Timothy, clearly frightened by the loud noises, cowering in his crate, pupils huge.

“You didn’t kill him!”

“Didn’t really need to. Got the answer I wanted. Besides, I like cats pretty much. A lot more than mice, that’s for sure.”

“Oh, shit… oh, my God…”

“Good psychology test, don’t you think? Too bad I won’t be able to use it as part of my deviant class research. Some research has to be kept under wraps, don’t you know? But still, it’s all informative.” He chuckled.

A crow is a cat is a cow, Hannah thought, and she began to weep.

“No, don’t,” said Joe as he put cable cutters to the chain on her ankle. “I know I lied about dinner. But believe me, it’s not worth a single tear.”

A child is a child is a child is a child.

A promise is a lie is a promise is a lie.

“I can’t cook very well.” The chain fell away. “You didn’t miss much.”

(Inspired by an actual, ghostly 1980’s photo taken in the cellar of the Bartlett House in Parkersburg, where Dr. Charles Bartlett’s daughter died in 1879.)

“I feel hot, Mama. I hurt.”

“I know.”

“I don’t like it here.”

“Here is your bed, your washbasin…”

“Let me come back up with you.”

“Shh, now, this is for the best.”

“Mama…”

“Bessie, don’t cry, my love! You’ll upset your father.”

“Please, Mama!”

Mrs. Bartlett shook her head and pried the small, fevered fingers away from her arm. “You are to be quiet, now. Rest. I will return anon.”

“Mama, I hurt!”

“Sleep, daughter.”

“Mama!”

The woman gathered her skirts and stepped away from the cot. She dared not kiss her child for fear she would catch the typhoid, too. Without another word, she climbed the wooden stairs out of the cellar.

“Mama!”

Carol knelt on the scratchy grass and peeked through the cellar window of the empty house on Ann Street. A dusty spider tumbled out of her way as she placed her hands carefully on the sash and pushed. It didn’t budge.

“Well?” said Rachel, who stood behind Carol with her arms crossed. “Can you do it or not?”