The Tattooed Heart (Messenger of Fear 2)

She stood rigid.

“It was an accident,” he said firmly.

“I know, John, you didn’t mean to . . . It’s just that when you. . .” She looked into his eyes and looked away quickly.

“So, it’s like that, is it?” He seemed almost pleased in a spiteful way. “Make a mistake, pay forever, right? Well, you ever hear the phrase, ‘might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb’?”

“I don’t . . . I . . .”

“I’m sorry,” he said with savage mockery. “Is that a little over your head? Let me explain it in words of a single syllable. It means if you’re going to blame me for what I haven’t done, I might as well go ahead and do it for real.”

He opened the door of their expensive refrigerator, drew out a bottle of beer, and rummaged in a drawer for a bottle opener.

“John, please.”

“Please, John. Please, John.” He popped the bottle top and drank half the bottle in a single long swig. “Please, John, please work like a dog to buy me this beautiful home, John. Please, John, buy me a nice new car. Please, John, pay for the country club and the private school.”

“Sweetheart, you know—”

“Shut the hell up. Just shut up.”

I saw Graciella, the six-year-old Graciella, standing at the edge of the room, framed in an arched doorway.

“What do you want, honey?” her mother asked.

Graciella shook her head.

“Then go up to your room and play. Or outside. But don’t bother Mommy and Daddy right now, okay, sweetie?”

“You’re scaring her, Alison. You don’t have to leave, Graciella. You can stay. Daddy’s all right.” He said “all right” in a way that elongated the vowels, sardonic, sullen. “Daddy just wanted a little affection. But I guess that’s too much to ask, isn’t it?”

Graciella knew something was wrong. Her face was serious, her eyes huge, looking from her mother to her father. I felt extremely uncomfortable but, I told myself, a difficult childhood is not a reason to become a junkie. I was pretty sure of that. After all, who doesn’t have some kind of problem with their parents?

Messenger turned away and headed up the magnificent staircase to the bedrooms upstairs. It had been day, now it was night. And I sensed that more time than that had passed.

Messenger hesitated at a door. “This may be difficult to watch.”

I almost laughed. Suddenly now Messenger was concerned for me? I’d already seen things that could haunt my dreams for a dozen lifetimes.

I nodded. But secretly I smiled. What was there left that could possibly be that awful?

We passed through the door and into a darkened bedroom. Graciella was asleep, but she was an older Graciella, perhaps nine or ten now. Her curls lay spread across her pillow. She breathed softly. A stuffed animal, a small white bear, lay beside her, its button eyes staring up in the dark. A ceiling fan turned and ruffled her hair just ever so slightly. From outside came the sound of sprinklers coming on.

It was a nice room, there were—

The door opened, briefly spilling light and silhouetting her father, John. He closed the door silently behind him and tiptoed to Graciella’s bed.

My father used to come and check on me like this, when I was little. I remember pretending to be asleep, and he would watch me for a while, and whisper increasingly silly jokes until I cracked up. Then he would say, “Night, sweetheart,” and—

Graciella’s father kicked the side rail of her bed, hard. Graciella’s eyes flew open.

“You didn’t take out the trash,” John yelled.

“I . . . I . . .” She tried to wipe the sleep from her eyes, blinking up at him. But it was not surprise I saw on her face, but mute dread: this was not the first time this had happened.

“I-I-I?” he mocked. “You stupid little pig. That’s why you don’t take out the trash, you’re a stupid, fat little piggy who loves garbage, aren’t you?”

“Dad, I need to sleep, I have school—” She cowered, pulling the covers around her, trying to hold the blanket while covering her ears.