There're monsters. And then there're monsters.
If the boogeyman under your bed even scares your protectors, it's time to pull that sheet up to your chin and pray.
If the boogeyman under your bed even scares your protectors, it's time to pull that sheet up to your chin and pray.
Bedtime Story by Eryk Pruitt
 |
 |
There's
but a sliver of light in the hallway and you frown, because she was long ago
told to shut off the light. But that frown melts quickly away, because you love
her and everything that makes her what she is and, more likely, what she will
be. So softly you open the door and mind the little creak in the hinge, the one
that makes her look up, see you, and smile.
"Mommy,"
she says.
"Honey,"
you say, "you are supposed to be asleep. Why is your light still on?"
"I
can't sleep," she says. "I'm scared."
"There's
nothing to be afraid of," you tell her.
"I'm
afraid of Big Jack Caro." She whispers the name, as if there were more
than the two of you in the house.
You
only take half a breath. "What—How do you know about Jack Caro,
honey?"
"I
hear you and Daddy talking," she says. "They talk about him
everywhere. At school. Is it true Big Jack Caro killed Suzy Egan's daddy?"
You
hold onto that half-breath for dear life. Children will talk. Hide what you
will, they will find it. For years, you have secreted Christmas presents about
the house, always in a new spot, and hasn't she ferreted them out, each and
every time? How can this be different?
"Mr.
Caro is a sick man, sweetie." You say it as you bring the covers up
tighter around the bottom of her chin. As if the blanket were made of chain
mail or chicken soup. "He's not well."
"They
say he's mad because his little boy died. Is that right, Mommy?"
"He's
very upset," you say, "but that doesn't make it right, what he's
doing."
No matter what they say on the news, you want to tell her. You want to tell
her that all those people protesting outside the courthouse and the state
capitol and the job sites popping up around the county... all those people are
just as sick as Mr. Jack Caro and, no matter how bad a hand he'd been dealt,
there still existed Ten Commandments and a Bill of Rights and a Golden Rule,
all of whom still heralded to the heavens Thou
Shalt Not Kill.
That
Mr. Jack Caro was a nut. An environmental wingnut. The type of guy the two of
you would have laughed at on the news or a one-hour drama on TV when he tied
himself to a tree about to get cut down or a bulldozer about to raze a copse of
withered pines. The kind of guy who made more than enough noise when he didn't
have a job, but Mr. Caro had a job. He worked at the school until he got fired
for bringing his politics into the building, then lost it after his little boy—
"Why
are you crying, Mommy?"
You
can still see Mr. Caro holding the signs. That look of mad desperation on his
face. The pictures of his boy, missing teeth. Missing hair. The pictures of
flames shooting from the taps and faucets and wells around the county. The
vitriol and vengeance he spouted as his boy grew sicker and sicker. As if he
spent less time pointing fingers and more time tending to his own family... But
you can't blame him. The horror he must have endured watching his boy die
slowly in front of him. You can't imagine, but it is no excuse.
Bill
Egan – Suzy's father – found in the office trailer up at the job site off
Highway 42. It, being the first murder, had a spin of mystery about it, but
everyone knew who'd done it. Jack Caro, less cryptic about the next one: the
lawyer found shot to death in his car at the parking garage downtown. Or the
representative sent down by the energy company, the man who helped all those
families negotiate the mineral rights, helped them get the most money for their
land. They were still looking for his head.
These
are the things you can't tell your daughter. Instead, you focus on the things
you can tell her.
"Mr.
Caro won't be coming here, sweetie."
"Is
that we put in all those alarms?"
You
brush away a lock of golden hair from her forehead. You pick away a strand from
her cheek.
"We
put those in to keep you safe."
"From
Mr. Caro?"
"From
everything."
Lance
had them installed not after the three lawyers that were found dead near the
hydraulic equipment, but after the pair that weren't. Those two sent down from
the corporate offices that were last known to have checked into the hotel
downtown, but then mysteriously vanished from the face of the planet. How every
law enforcement agency from here to Washington had sent resources, yet still
nothing. You'd never seen him so rattled.
"He's
not so stupid to come after a senator," your husband had told you over and
over again. Still, the next day he had bars fitted into the windows and bought
each of them a gun.
With
your daughter, you have more room to negotiate.
"How
about I leave open the door," you reason, "just a little?"
"And
leave on the light?"
"And
leave on the light."
She
smiles sweetly and closes her eyes. She makes likes she's sleeping, but you
know better. You wrap the blanket around her even tighter, then kiss her
forehead.
You
kiss it again for good measure.
And
once outside her bedroom door, you reach into the pocket of your robe and hold
fast to the tiny revolver, feeling warmer knowing it is there. You doublecheck
the alarms, then check them yet again. You inspect each lock one more time.
You
take vigil on your ottoman, the one facing the door. The third night in a row.
Fresh pot of coffee. Eight rounds ready to go.
For
you are not like Mr. Jack Caro. You will stop at nothing to protect your child.
