Scratch (8 page)

I glanced at my daughter now, walked back over to her, and asked, “What did you say?”
 

Ellie put her hands on her hips and stared at us defiantly. “Mr. Chickbaum says that Hannibal is the one who killed that mousy yesterday, and that he’s killed a lot of other things.”
 

Valerie and I glanced at each other, communicating in that telepathic way that all parents develop.
 

Did you tell her about Hannibal?
 

No, of course not. I assumed that you were the one who told her.
 

I knelt down beside Ellie and looked her in the eye. “Honey, that’s what cats sometimes do. Remember on Tom and Jerry—”
 

“Tom and Jerry is a cartoon, Dad.” Her tone was very serious. “The mousy and the birdie are real. We feed Hannibal every night. Why does he have to eat them, too?”
 

I fumbled for an explanation. “Well, because ... you see ... in the animal world ...”
 

Ellie stared at me with a mixture of contempt and derision. It was the first time I’d ever seen an expression of either on her face, and it physically rocked me. I felt as if I’d been slapped. I swayed back and forth, and had to reach for the deck rail to keep my balance. Valerie was no help. She simply stared at us both, dumbfounded.
 

“Mr. Chickbaum says Hannibal won’t stop. He says that Hannibal is a mean kitty and that he should die!”
 

“Ellie!” I said it louder than I’d meant to, and now it was Ellie’s turn to flinch.
 

Valerie gasped. “Ellie, that’s a terrible thing to say.”
 

Ellie stood firm, but her bottom lip quivered. “I didn’t say it. Mr. Chickbaum did.”
 

“I don’t care who said it.” I lowered my voice, but made sure she knew by my tone that I meant business. “Say it again and no video games for a month.”
 

“But—”
 

“Two months.”
 

Tears welled up in her eyes. Her lips went from quivering to full pout.
 

“I’m sorry, Daddy. But why isn’t Hannibal in trouble, too? He’s so mean ...”
 

I paused, choosing my words carefully. Then I pulled her to me and gave her a hug, stroking her hair and letting her know it was all right.
 

“Honey, Hannibal can’t help what he does. It’s instinct. Cats lived in the wild for a very long time before people turned them into pets, and they had to hunt to survive. They still remember that, deep down inside. Humans are the same way.”
 

She sniffed against my shoulder. “We don’t eat birdies like cats do.”
 

“No,” I agreed. “We don’t. But we still have instincts left over in us from thousands of years ago. We’re still afraid of the dark, even though we don’t really have a reason to be. Our ancestors were afraid of it because they never knew what might be lurking outside their cave—a sabertooth tiger or something worse. These days, there aren’t such things, but we’re still afraid of the dark anyway. It’s instinct. And it’s the same way with Hannibal. He doesn’t know why he hunts smaller animals. He does it because deep down inside, something tells him to. Does that make sense?”
 

She nodded, then pulled away and took her mother’s hand. While Valerie led her to the car, I wiped snot and tears from my shirt.
 

After they were gone, I got rid of the corpse. Hannibal hid under the deck and watched me. His tail swished back and forth. When I was finished, he rubbed up against my legs and batted at my shoelace. I reached down and scratched him between the ears. Purring, he rolled over and stared up at me with those big green eyes.
 

“Oh, no,” I said. “You’re making things hard around here. No belly rubs today.”
 

He lay there, rolling around and watching me, trying to act cute, until I went inside to change my shirt. When I came out again, Hannibal was gone, back on the prowl, keeping our house safe from critters.

On the third day, it rained. Hannibal’s present that morning was the hindquarters of a frog. He’d most likely caught it lurking around our septic system. The grass always grows taller there, no matter how often I mow the lawn, and the frogs like to hang out on that spot. I got rid of the evidence before Ellie saw it.
 

As I drove her to school, I noticed that Ellie was unusually quiet. There was no chatter or singing along with the radio. She simply sat in the back, staring out the window. The only sounds were the windshield wipers and the slight drone of the air conditioning.
 

“What’s wrong, sweetie?”
 

“Nothing.”
 

I coasted to a stop at the next red light and glanced into the rearview mirror. Her demeanor hadn’t changed at all.
 

“Ellie,” I coaxed. “If something’s wrong, you know you can tell me, right? What’s bothering you? Let’s talk about it. Are you still upset about yesterday?”
 

She shrugged. “A little. Sort of. I talked about it with Mr. Chickbaum last night, and told him what you said.”
 

I suppressed a grin.
 

“He says you’re wrong, Daddy. Mr. Chickbaum says there are still plenty of reasons for us to be afraid of the dark.”
 

I shivered suddenly, and turned down the air conditioning. It didn’t help.

“I’m worried about Ellie.”
 

Valerie and I were lying in bed, winding down for the evening. She was reading a Duane Swierzynski novel. I was staring at the television, flipping aimlessly through the channels. She folded the corner of a page to mark her place and sat the book on the nightstand. Then she propped herself up on an elbow and turned to me.
 

“Why? Did something happen at school?”
 

“No. I’m worried about this imaginary friend thing.”
 

“Mr. Chickbaum.”
 

“Yeah. Him.”
 

It was weird. I couldn’t tell you why, but lying there in the safety of our bedroom, I was hesitant to say his name.
 

“It’s a phase,” Valerie said. “She’ll grow out of it.”
 

Grunting, I muted the television, cutting an anchorman off in mid-sentence.
 

“Maybe,” I agreed. “But she’s had him for a while, hasn’t she? Longer than most kids. And what she said about Hannibal ...”
 

“She was upset. That bird really bothered her, Ward.”
 

“I know. But that still doesn’t make it right. She’s never said anything like that before. I mean, she loves that cat. For her to wish death on him—that just came out of nowhere. She’s not a violent kid.”
 

“She didn’t say it. Mr. Chickbaum did.”
 

I studied her carefully, trying to figure out if she was joking or not. Her expression was serious.
 

“Oh, come on, Valerie. Do you realize how ridiculous that sounds? Don’t tell me you believe in little men now?”
 

“Of course not. But Ellie’s young, Ward. Maybe she’s having trouble differentiating between real life and make believe. Obviously, she had some pent up anger towards Hannibal. She expressed it as Mr. Chickbaum. Maybe in her mind, that means she didn’t really think or say it.
He
did.”
 

I shrugged. “She knows that cartoons are make believe. She knows that Hannah Montana is pretend, and that in real life, the actress’ name is Miley Cyrus. Ellie knows the difference between that and reality.”
 

“But that’s television. Maybe she’s having trouble struggling with these emotions. Maybe they scare her. So she’s expressing them through Mr. Chickbaum.”
 

I mulled it over, thinking about the conversation I’d had with Ellie that morning. I remembered what she’d said.
 

He says you’re wrong, Daddy. Mr. Chickbaum says there are still plenty of reasons for us to be afraid of the dark.
 

“Maybe we should talk to someone,” I suggested. “A doctor or something. If it will set your mind at ease, then let’s look into it in the morning.”
 

“Okay.”
 

I reached over to my nightstand and turned the light off. Valerie did the same on her side. We kissed good night, and then rolled over. We slept with our backs to each other—skin touching, but facing in opposite directions. We’d discovered long ago that we both slept easier that way.
 

I lay there in the darkness, wondering why I was afraid—and what I was afraid of. Not Ellie, certainly. I was concerned about her. Worried. But not afraid.
 

I closed my eyes and the darkness deepened.

The next morning, the rain was gone and the sun returned just in time for Hannibal’s latest kill—the mangled upper-half of a red and black spotted newt. I kicked the tiny lizard carcass into the driveway. It landed with a plop, lost between the gravel.
 

When I reached my office, I spent the first hour of the day online researching childhood behavior and imaginary friends. When I was a kid, I suppose my parents would have spoken with a child psychiatrist. Our generation just uses Google. My search returned 1,590,000 websites—everything from Wikipedia to a band from Los Angeles.
 

I learned a lot. Imaginary friends usually came about when a child was feeling lonely. That made sense. Ellie was shy, and she’d been picked on a lot by the older kids. Imaginary friends often served as outlets for expressing desires which children knew they’d get in trouble for. That made sense, as well. Ellie had been mad at Hannibal for killing the bird, and had lashed out. When she realized she was in trouble for what she’d said, she blamed Mr. Chickbaum. One website said that deep down inside, children understood that their imaginary friends weren’t real, even if they pretended or insisted that they were. That eased some of my fears, but I was still concerned about Ellie’s sudden dark turn. Several sites suggested that a child’s conversations with their imaginary friends could reveal a lot about that child’s anxieties and fears.
 

Deciding to pay closer attention to Ellie’s conversations with Mr. Chickbaum, I emailed some of the links to Valerie. Then I logged off and got to work.

I was the first one home that night, so I started making dinner—baked tilapia, french fries, and canned peas. Valerie and Ellie got home just as I was pulling the fish from the oven. Ellie seemed herself—perky, happy and talkative (her shyness evaporated when she was with us). We ate dinner and talked about our day. Valerie loaded the dishwasher while I helped Ellie with her homework. Then the three of us watched TV and played video games until it was time for bed. I tucked Ellie in, read her a chapter of
Charlotte’s Web
(we were up to the part where Templeton the rat runs amok at the county fair), and then kissed her goodnight. I turned off the light as I left the room. Her nightlight glowed softly in the corner next to her dresser. I shut the door behind me and then stood in the hall.
 

After a moment, when she realized that I wasn’t returning to the living room, Valerie tiptoed down the hallway and stood beside me. She cocked her head to the side and gave me a quizzical glance. I put my finger to my lips and pointed at the door.
 

We waited for ten minutes, and I was almost ready to give up, retreat to the living room, and explain my actions to Valerie, when suddenly, we heard Ellie stir. From behind the closed bedroom door came the sound of her sheets rustling. The bedsprings creaked. Small feet padded across the carpet. Then Ellie spoke. Her voice was a hushed whisper. Obviously, she assumed we were in the living room, and didn’t want us to hear her.
 

“Mr. Chickbaum! I didn’t think you were going to come tonight. You always come out as soon as Daddy turns off the light.”
 

She paused, as if listening to a response. I found myself leaning forward, listening for one as well. As soon as I realized that I was doing it, I felt like an idiot. But then I noticed that Valerie was doing the same thing. It was a testament to the power of our daughter’s imagination. I grinned, shaking my head. Valerie smiled.
 

Ellie spoke again, answering some imaginary comment.
 

“He had you trapped? Why doesn’t he just leave you alone?”
 

My heart beat once. Twice.
 

Then, “I hate that mean old cat!”
 

Valerie stiffened, and reached for the doorknob. I reached out, clasped her hand, and motioned again for her to be still. We continued eavesdropping on her conversation.
 

“It’s not fair that you have to hide from him,” Ellie complained. “You were here before he was.”
 

There was a pause, and then, “I know. But Daddy and Mommy never go into the field, so they won’t find the door. If we could just keep Hannibal out of there, too ...”
 

Another pause, and then Ellie giggled.
 

“They think you’re make believe. I don’t understand why you don’t just show yourself to them. Then you could live with us. Hannibal can’t get you if you stay inside the house. Mommy won’t let him in here because he pees on the wall.”
 

In the living room, Valerie’s cuckoo clock, which had belonged to her grandmother, chimed softly.
 

“Mommy and Daddy would like you,” Ellie said. “They’re nice. Not like Hannibal.”
 

I frowned.
 

“But why do you have to wait for the rest of your people? Maybe Daddy can help you fix the door? He’s good at fixing things. He fixed my wading pool last year when it had a leak. Maybe he could—”