Cursed Be the Child (21 page)

“Are you saying it’s nothing?”

“I’m saying it’s the kind of things kids do.”

“Is it?”

Laura Morgan laughed lightly, and Vicki was a touch annoyed at her casual attitude. “Come on now, Vicki, kids play all sorts of games. ‘You show me yours, I’ll show you mine.’ Hey, I remember giving my cousin Marty all my Halloween trick or treat candy so he’d let me look at his wee-wee.”

“You did?”

Laura laughed again. “Sure did, but he didn’t let me touch it until I gave him a dollar besides.”

“But that was…”

“Vicki, children are curious. If every kid who played doctor had a real problem, there wouldn’t be a soul who didn’t wind up in the looney bin.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Vicki said.

“I have been every once in awhile,” Laura said.

“I probably ought to talk with Missy and explain that I can understand what happened, but that you just can’t…touch people…”

“…in certain ways,” Laura completed the thought for her. “Okay, every month the women’s magazines tell you how the ideal mother talks about stuff like this to her kids, but it never seems to have much to do with talking to your very own kid, does it?”

“No,” Vicki said. Though confused about what she’d do next, she was considerably relieved. She didn’t know exactly what she would say to Missy, but whoever said it was easy being a mother?

“I’m sorry to bother you, Warren.”

“No, no, that’s all right.” Vicki’s knock on his study door hadn’t disturbed him. Ordinarily, he hated being interrupted when he was writing, but he wasn’t writing. The sheet of paper in the Underwood was blank, and Warren Barringer’s mind was just as blank.

He pushed the chair away from the desk and turned to look at his wife.

“Missy’s finishing her bath,” Vicki said. “If you could, she wants a bedtime story from you tonight.”

Missy’s bedtime already? He glanced at the clock on his desk. It was 7:45. He’d been sitting at the typewriter since 6:30, writing nothing.

“Story from me?” he said. Vicki usually read to Missy before bed.

Vicki nodded and smiled thinly. “I think she’s had enough of me for one day.”

What did she mean by that? Warren wondered. Oh, right, right. Vicki had filled him in as soon as he’d got home. A hassle with Missy’s friend. No big deal.

“How’s your novel going, Warren?” Vicki asked.

“Hmm, what’s that?”

“Your writing. I haven’t been hearing the typewriter for a while.”

He held up his hands, palms out. “Sometimes you’ve got the words, sometimes you don’t. It’ll be okay.”

He said, “Tell Missy I’ll be right with her.”

“Sure.”

For five minutes after Vicki left, he sat looking at the empty piece of paper in the typewriter. He did not stare. Staring is an act of intensity, of concentration. He only looked at it.

Then he went upstairs to Missy’s room. “So you want a story, kiddo?”

“A good one,” Missy said. “Not from a book. I want you to make up a story.” Missy, sleepy-eyed, lay beneath the covers, her head next to Winnie-the-Pooh’s on the pillow. Alongside the bed, the nightstand lamp glowed and, in the outlet by the closet, the Mickey Mouse nightlight shone its pinkish, happily retarded smile.

“A made-up story,” Warren said, sitting down on the side of the bed. “That’s hard to do.” He scratched his head. “Help me. Get me started.”

“Once upon…” Missy said.

“Once upon…What comes next?”

“You know!”

“Once upon a dog biscuit!”

“Dad!” Missy giggled.

“Once upon a midnight dreary, let’s watch a movie with Wallace Beery.”

“Do it right, Dad. Be for real.”

“Okay, okay.” Once upon a time…what? His mind seemed not unpleasantly filled with cotton, but he couldn’t think of a thing.

Ah, he had it.

“Once upon a time, there was a rat. He was a big rat and a strong rat…” His throat tightened.

“Was he a mean rat, Dad?”

“I…I don’t know. The thing was, he didn’t want to be a rat.” A rat? What in the hell was he saying? And why in the hell was he saying it?

“You see, Missy, he didn’t want to be a rat, didn’t want to ever do anything wrong. And he never, never ever, wanted to do anything to hurt anyone he loved. But”—he looked at his daughter—“he couldn’t help it. He just couldn’t help it.”

“Dad,” Missy said quietly, “you’re crying.”

He was. Goddamn, he didn’t understand it any more than he understood what he was saying, but there were the slow tears rippling down his face.

Missy sat up. She touched a fingertip to the tip of the tear trail on his left cheek, then his right. “Don’t cry, Dad. It’s all right. Let me tell you a story, Dad.”

He nodded. He needed her story. He needed her love.

“Once upon a time there was a little girl who loved her dad very much.”

Warren nodded again. He loved his little girl very much. He needed her.

“And she wanted to make sure her dad would always love her forever and ever and ever. So she learned how to do magic.”

Missy’s eyes became dreamy. “It was a special magic. One night, she took off all her clothes. Then she took a big sharp knife. Her dad was asleep. The little girl went up to him then, and with the big sharp knife, she cut a hair off his head, and that was the magic. After that, no matter what, her dad would always love her.”

Missy smiled. Warren felt a warmth within his chest, an assurance.

“I’ll always love you, Dad, and you will always love me.”

“Yes,” Warren said. Slowly, he stood up. He felt detached from the present moment, from the whole world, even from himself but he knew and understood that everything was okay.

“Dad,” Missy said, “there’s something I want to give you. It’s a present.”

It was a gift for him—a secret gift.

He told Vicki he’d be working late, but he got no writing done. He sat at his desk in his study, trying to think and unable to.

Every few minutes, he picked up the round glass paperweight, tracing the swirls and folds of the rose within it, the rose inside her gift.

— | — | —

Three: o Drom Le Beng
The Way of Evil

Paramitsha
are stories the Roma tell their children and grandchildren, fairy tales of wonder and mystery, of delight and dark fear—a dancing frog and a weeping violin made of flowers; the flying
vurdon
which travels from one cloud to the next,
saliya machka,
the laughing cat, whose mouth drips silver coins. This is the lighthearted imagination we find in
paramitsha.

But the
Darane Swature
are not stories for children, nor are they stories for all adults. The darane swature are to be heard by those who wish
tshatsimo,
the truth, those who not only seek the truth, but who have the courage to confront it.

This is a
swato
of the
Rawnie,
the Great Lady, Pola Janichka:

“Once there was a young man, a
shav,
no longer a child but not yet ready to be a
Romoro,
a married man. He was a serious youth, too serious by far, for he did not dance, and he did not sing, and he did not joke, and he did not say flattering and foolish endearing things to the girls, as you might expect of one his age.

“A pity, then but the shav’s time was spent in thinking, thinking of the most serious kind, and, as we know, too much thinking must lead to profound unhappiness. It makes us realize that there is ever so much evil in the world, and that one must constantly be wary of
Beng
in all its many forms.

“And this is exactly what the
shav
did realize!
Beng
was everywhere! Evil was in the earth and evil was in the water and evil was in the air. The shav was terribly afraid. He feared being
lelled,
overcome by evil, and so, he sought the counsel and guidance of an
ababina,
a sorceress skilled in the practice of the old ways.

“‘Kako, Puri Dai,’
he said with deep respect. ‘Please, Old Mother, I am so afraid of the evil of this world. Can you sell me
drabas,
charms and enchantments, so that I might be safe against all the wicked spirits, the
puvushi vilas
of the earth and the
nivashi vilas
of the water and the
zracnae vilas
of the air?’

“The
ababina
nodded. ‘Indeed, there is
draba
to keep you safe from the
puvushi vilas
in the earth, and this is it.’ The
draba
was exceedingly powerful, employing as it did a silver knife, a
tshuri,
and three lungs and three livers of frogs. More than this, I cannot tell you, as the
draba
is not mine to share.

“And when the
draba
had been worked, the
shav
said, ‘Now I need not fear the
puvushi vilas.’

“‘You are safe from the earth’s evil,’ said the
ababina.
‘Now, please,
Puri Dai,
a draba against
nivashi vilas.’

“‘There is
draba
to keep you safe from the water’s evil and this is it.’ The
draba
was most potent, making use of 13 playing cards, a glass of plum brandy and the tail of a pig.

“‘And now I need not fear the
nivashi vilas,’
said the
shav.

“‘You are safe from the water’s evil,’ said the
ababina.

“‘Then, please,
Puri Dai,
a
draba
against
zracnae vilas.’

“‘There is
draba
to keep you safe from the air’s evil and this is it.’ The
draba
was complicated, requiring black garlic, the tail feather of a raven, a seashell, and a crucifix, but such a charm had marvelous strength.

“‘And now I need not fear the
zracnae vilas,’
said the
shav.

“‘You are safe from the air’s evil,’ said the
ababina.

“For the first time in many years, the
shav
was happy. ‘I need not fear the
puvushi vilas,
the
nivashi vilas,
or the
zracnae vilas.
I am safe against the evils of the earth, the water, and the air. No
beng
can touch me!’

“At this, the
ababina
smiled, but her smile was mocking and knowing and more than a little sad. ‘Oh, but there is yet one more evil, my little
shav,
and it is the most cunning and fearsome evil. Yes, it is the greatest of all evil spirits.’

“‘Kako, Puri Dai,’
the
shav
said, a black cloud in his head and a roiling emptiness in his middle. ‘Please, Old Mother…’