The Theatre - Kellerman, Jonathan

The time it was different, he'd been six years old.

He knew this with certainty because his sixth birthday had been three days before, a non-event marked by gaily wrapped gifts from the most expensive toy store in town, a cutting-of-the-cake ceremony grudgingly attended by both parents. Then a double-bill monster movie accompanied by one of the maids, the one with the horse face, who had no use for children and hated him in particular.

During intermission he went to the theater bathroom and peed all over the wall, then bought so much popcorn and candy that twenty minutes later he was back in the bathroom, throwing up into his pee puddles.

So he was sure he was six.

On the night it ended differently, he wore pale-blue pajamas with a monkey and parrot pattern, sat curled on the sixth stair, massaging a polished wood baluster. Hearing the usual bad-machine sounds, happy because it was something he was used to.

Then a surprise: no dirty talk. Silence.

The tearing and ripping ended so suddenly that for a moment the boy thought they'd actually destroyed each other. Blam.

Then he heard the sound of heavy breathing, a moan-was someone being hurt?

Another moan, more breathing. Fear wrapped itself around him, cold, icy fingers squeezing his chest.

Could this be it? Was this the end?

Cautiously, like one of the robot monsters he'd seen in the movie, he made his way down the remaining seven stairs. The heavy double doors to the library were partially open. Through the opening came a narrow triangle of yellow light. Ugly yellow, like the pee puddles.

He heard more moans, tasted something sweet and bitter, and was seized with an urge to throw up. He held his breath, put his hand on his tummy, and pressed in hard to make the feeling go away. Telling himself: Go away.

"Oh!"

His mother's voice, but she sounded different. Scared. The breathing continued without her, huffing, not stopping, like a toy train: Doctor.

"Oh!"

What was happening?

"Oh, Charles!"

He gathered up his courage, tiptoed to the door. Peeked through the yellow space and saw them.

Doctor was sitting on the couch, still wearing his white shirt and tie, but with his pants and underpants down around his ankles. His legs looked gross, all hairy and thick, like a gorilla's.

She was naked, white as her nightgown, her back to the door, her white-yellow hair loose and shiny.

Her head was on Doctor's shoulder, her chin kind of squeezing into his neck. Like she was trying to vampire-bite him.

She was sitting on Doctor. Her hands were in his hair. She was rubbing his hair, trying to pull it out.

Oh, no, look at her butt!

It was hanging down like two giant eggs and there was something between it. Something going into it. A pole with black hair-fuzz around it, like a pink grapefruit popsicle. No, a pole, a wet, pink pole-his father's thing!

Oh, no. He wanted to throw up again, gagged, swallowed the bad taste, and felt it burn him down to him tummy.

The thing was a weapon. An egg masher.

You could use it as a weapon!

He stared, unable to breathe, chewing on his fingers.

It was in her. In and out. Oh, no it was stabbing her, hurting her-that's what was making her cry and moan. She was being stabbed by Doctor's thing!

He could see Doctor's face rolling back and forth over her shoulder, liked someone had cut it off but it was still alive, all sweaty. A sweaty zombie head, with a mean smile. All scrunched up and pink and wet, just like his thing.

Doctor was forcing her-both of his big hairy hands were on her butt, squeezing, the fingers disappearing into soft white skin. Squeezing her until she cried, and the neck-biting and hair-pulling couldn't stop him-he was a monster who didn't feel pain and he was forcing her, forcing his thing into her, and it was hurting her and she was crying!

"Oh… oh, Charles…"

Pink and white, pink into white. He thought of a glass of milk with blood dripping into it; when the blood hit the surface of the milk it swirled and turned all pink.

"Oh, God!" she called out. Now she was praying-it was really hurting her bad. She started moving faster, bouncing, trying to bounce off of him, to get away from him and his egg stabber, but he held on to her-he was forcing her!

"Oh, God!"

She was praying for help. Should he help her? His feet felt glued to the floor. His chest was all tight and it hurt. What could he do…?

" Yes," said Doctor, grinning and clenching his teeth and grinning again, a wet monster grin. "Oh, yes. Yes."

"Oh, God! Harder, you bastard! Harder!"

What was this?

"Give it to me, you bastard!"

Bounce, bounce.

Bounce, bounce, moan.

She was smiling, kind of.

"Harder, damn you!"

She was telling Doctor to stab her. She was telling him to hurt her!

She liked being hurt!

Doctor was monster-growling and monster-grinning, pushing the words out in between breaths that sounded like a steam engine puffing: "Here, look at it, take it."

"Oh, I hate… you."

"You love it."

"I hate you."

"Want me to stop, bitch?"

"No, oh, no."

"Say it!" Growling.

"No-don't stop, damn-"

"Say it!" Grinning.

"I love it."

"That's better. Again."

"I love it Uoveit!"

"Here, look, I'm fucking you. Feelit."

"Oh. Oh, oh. Jew… bastard… oh, oh."

"Take it."

"… goddamned kike… cock. OH!"

All of a sudden Doctor was thrusting himself up, raising his hairy butt off the couch, lifting her with him. Stabbing fast and hard and yelling "Damn!"

She flopped like a rag doll. She yelled, "I hate you!" Made a noise that sounded like she was choking. Then her fingers came loose from Doctor's hair and started to wiggle around like white worms, the kind the boy sometimes found under wet rocks in the garden.

"Oh."

"Bitch."

Then, all of a sudden, she stopped moving and Doctor was slapping her butt and laughing and grinning and the boy was running upstairs gasping and tripping, his heart fighting to burst out of his chest.

He threw up on the floor, got into the bed and wet it.

He spent an eternity under the covers, shaking and biting his lips, scratching his arms and his face until he bled. Tasting his blood. Squeezing his thing. Hard.

Hurting himself, to see if you could like it.

You could, kind of.

It wasn't until later, when he heard her come up the stairs, sobbing, that he realized she was still alive.

When the woman opened the door, Shmeltzer was surprised. He'd expected someone older, the same age as the Hagah man, maybe just a little younger. But this one was much younger, in her early fifties, younger than him. A round, girlish face, plump and pretty, though the gray eyes seemed grim. A little makeup applied well, thick dark hair pulled back in a bun, just beginning to streak with gray. A heavy, sagging bosom that took up most of the space between neck and waistline. The waistline well-padded, as were the hips. Small ankles for a heavy woman. Just like Leah. No doubt she fretted over her weight.

"Yes?" she said, sounding wary and unfriendly.

Then he realized he was being stupid, a fine detective. The fact that she'd opened the door didn't make her the wife. A niece, maybe, or a guest.

But when he introduced himself, showed his badge and asked for Schlesinger, she said, "He's not here now. I'm Eva-Mrs. Schlesinger. What do you want?"

"When do you expect him back?"

The woman stared at him and bit her lip. Her hands were small and soft; they started kneading one another.

"Never," she said.

"What's that?"

She started to say something, clamped her lips shut, and turned her back on him, retreating into the apartment. But she'd left the door open and Shmeltzer followed her inside.