The Book of Paul -- A Paranormal Thriller (11 page)

“What’s wrong, Aunt Norine? Are you thinkin’ about what Momma said in the car?”

“Yeah, baby, how did you know?” she sniffled, looking at him strangely.

“I don’t know. Can you tell me what she meant now?”

Norine paused for a long moment. The silence was so complete that the noisy crickets outside sounded almost deafening. She had to tell him.

“I had a baby, but he died after he was born. Something was wrong with his heart, they said. When I came back here to the farm, Momma had already moved in and you were just a baby. You were so beautiful, so perfect. She knew I was jealous. That’s why she doesn’t want me to spend much time with you. When she finds out I’ve taken you away, she’s going to call the police. If they find us, they’ll take you back to Momma and they’ll lock me up. We’ll have to hide. Change our names. It’s a big risk, honey, so you need to know what you’re getting into. If you don’t want to go through with it, I’ll start unpacking and we’ll act like nothing happened when Momma comes back.”

Martin was scared of getting caught by the police and being sent back home to Momma. He was even more afraid of what would happen to Norine.

“If the police knew Momma hurt me, would they still lock you up for taking me?”

There it was. He had crossed the line. Momma said she would know if he ever told anyone what she did to him. Martin didn’t understand how that was possible, but he believed her. If it were true, she’d know what he did. Now they
had
to go away.

Norine asked about the things Momma did to him. He told her everything—the crib, the cellar, the cigarette burns, the places she hit him when she made him get naked. He told her what Momma would do if he told anyone—lock him in the cellar and never let him out.

Norine cried while he spoke, her hands on his knees. Martin hardly felt anything. It was like he wasn’t even inside his body.

When he finished, she said, “I don’t think she’ll call the police if we leave. But if I call and tell them what she’s been doing to you, she’ll deny it. She’ll say I’m trying to steal you and they’ll probably believe her. We still have to go. We still have to hide from her.”

“Did Momma know you used to live in San Francisco?”

She thought about it. “I’m not sure. I don’t think I ever told her.”

“We have to go somewhere else,” Martin said decisively. “I’ll bet Daddy knows lots of good places to hide. Maybe he can come with us. Momma’s scared of him.”

“
Who is Daddy?”
she asked, more shocked by that than anything else he said to her.

Martin spent a long time explaining, trying to cover up the parts about his lessons, but it was like he was made of glass and she could see right inside his head. “He’s a very bad man, Martin. A very dangerous man!”

Martin wanted to defend him, but a more sensible voice in his head knew she was probably right. Daddy had a grim darkness inside him—and Martin didn’t have the slightest doubt about how dangerous he was.

“You need to get some sleep now, and I need to finish packing,” she finally said, after she was convinced Martin understood that “Daddy” was not to be trusted.

“Okay,” Martin said. He was tired from all the talking. But he had one last question. “Who is my real daddy?”

Norine paused for a long moment, her eyes sad and red. She cupped his little chin in her soft, soft hand and said, “When I came back here and saw her with you, that was the first thing I asked. She said your daddy was a traveling man. When one of her…friends came and went, I asked if he was the one. She got so mad that I never asked her again. So the God’s honest truth is that I don’t know who your father is, Martin.”

Martin looked at her blankly. Like nothing she said mattered one way or the other. As far as he was concerned, his real daddy was the man who told him stories and taught him how to be brave and strong and turn off all his pain with the switch.

“Your baby that died…who was his daddy?” Martin asked blankly.

How could she tell him? What could she say? “It’s getting late, baby. We need to get some sleep so we can leave early.”

“It’s not a big question,” Martin replied, his eyes unwavering.

She thought about lying, about changing the subject, about insisting that he go to bed. Instead she said, “Sometimes men force themselves on women and they have babies.”

“Uh-huh.” Martin knew about men forcing themselves on women. Momma didn’t care what he saw or heard.

“How many?” Martin asked, shocking her once again with his emotionless reaction.

“Three.”

“Don’t worry, Aunt Norine,” he said, resting his hand on her shoulder. “After we get away from Momma, I’ll find out who they were and kill them.”

“Martin! How could you say that?” she gasped, gripping his shoulders.

“I’m tired,” he said, shrugging her hands off, turning away from her, climbing into bed. “You need to finish packing,” he said, facing all the cowboys and Indians on the wall.

She wanted to scold him, tell him he should never even think about such things. But how do you explain morality to a boy who’s been tortured by his own mother? She stood silently staring at his back, then took his advice and went downstairs to load up the car.

Martin climbed out of bed as soon as she closed his door. He sat by the window in the little white chair she made for him. It looked like all the other chairs in the kitchen, only smaller. And whiter. On the seat of the chair was a little pillow she embroidered. I LOVE MARTIN SOOOOOO MUCH! cried the big, red block letters.

Martin sat and stared out the window into the darkness, watching for any sign of headlights with the same alert patience that served him so well with the squirrels and bunnies. He heard Norine make trip after trip out to the car, stacking boxes on boxes with rattling glass jars inside. He heard her radio playing faintly in the living room. When the trunk slammed shut, he heard the weary sounds of her footsteps climbing the stairs. There was the sound of the light switching off. Then silence.

He sat and watched, the quiet only broken by crickets and the occasional body-wrenching jolt of a screech owl. Martin had heard the owls before and he only jumped a little when the screech ripped through his ears. Still, he watched and waited, listening to the creaks and groans of the house settling around him. As he listened, he heard the words Norine whispered in his ear right after he told her all about Momma and Daddy: “Don’t worry, tomorrow will be here before you know it.”

She hadn’t been right about that. And just before his struggling eyelids finally surrendered, he hoped she wasn’t wrong about anything else.

Norine woke up early. She yawned, but felt surprisingly well rested. Just to be sure, she had already consumed two oversized mugs of double-dip Folger’s. The car was packed and all there was left to do was get Martin up, dressed and into the car.

“Wake up, honey,” she said, nudging him happily. He had fallen asleep in his little chair.

“No!” Martin screamed, as he felt Norine’s hand on his shoulder. In his dream it was Momma’s long fingernails, dragging him down the stairs into the cellar again.

“It’s okay, sweetie, it’s okay,” Norine said soothingly, stroking his clammy forehead and pressing his face into her baby powder cheeks. “It was just a bad dream,” she cooed.

Martin looked around the room, his senses gradually clearing. He was still here with Norine, not Momma. They were really going to leave this awful place once and for all.

“Yesssss!” Martin cheered as she put him down on the crocheted carpet. “Yesssss!” he chanted again, marching around in circles like a toy tugboat, following the oval path of cord he helped Norine make with his own little crochet hooks.

Norine chuckled for a moment, then closed her eyes and stood motionless. “C’mon, Martin, hurry up and get dressed.”

Martin heard the urgency in her voice and the fear there too. He jumped into the clothes by the side of the bed in less time than it would take a fireman.

“Want something to eat? I have some sandwiches in the car,” she said as they marched down the stairs.

“Nope,” he answered impatiently, much to her relief.

Then he froze on the staircase. “I forgot something,” he gulped. He didn’t want to go back, but he couldn’t leave without it.

“Never mind, baby,” Norine said, their previous tug-of-war now reversed, pulling his arm toward the car. “Whatever you forgot, we’ll get another one later.”

“I forgot Mrs. Morgy!” Martin cried, and before she could remind him that Mrs. Morgy didn’t matter so much last night, Martin wriggled out of her grasp and bounded back up the staircase two steps at a time. He flew into the bedroom and grabbed the worn-out stuffed doggie with the long, floppy ears that were almost as soft as Norine’s cheeks. He was just about ready to leap back down the stairs when a far-off droning sound began snaking into his ears. The sound of a truck.

Now, wait, dear reader. Don’t think I would be so cruel as to suggest that Martin’s sentimental heart was the cause of his undoing. That those few short moments spent gathering his most precious possession spelled the difference between salvation and all the suffering to follow. That if he had only obeyed the tug of Norine’s fingers on his wrist they might have somehow escaped.

No, I wouldn’t do that to you. Martin’s date with Mrs. Morgy didn’t matter one iota. The truck had already started up the road before he even ran to get her.

Martin rushed to the window, watching the truck. He saw Norine standing outside, desperately turning her head in every direction, to the truck, to the over-packed Chevy, to the window, to his terrified face that mirrored her own. Martin couldn’t move. As the truck drew closer, he saw something else. It was Momma’s truck, but she wasn’t driving. It was Daddy. He was looking at Norine, and he wasn’t happy. He wasn’t happy at all.

Martin flew down the stairs as the truck came to a lurching halt amid a cloud of ash-dry, swirling dust. “Taking a little trip, are we?” Paul asked happily, elongating the “we” into a high-pitched song that made the blond hairs on Martin’s neck rise on a wave of gooseflesh. Martin was watching from behind the screen in the doorway, one hand gripping his little chair, the other clutching Mrs. Morgy.

Paul was leaning against the hood of the truck. “Well, that’s a funny thing, you see,” he said, cutting Norine off as soon as she opened her mouth to speak. “I was thinking of taking the little feller for a trip this very morning. Can you imagine that?”

“And who, may I ask, are you?” Norine asked, standing her ground by the Chevy, knowing he was the man Martin sickeningly called Daddy.

“My name is Paul, ma’am. I’m a very dear friend of your baby sister,” he replied, the smile fading from his hamburger-red face. “She asked me to take the boy out for a drive. Didn’t want him cooped up in the house all day.”

“She should have told me yesterday,” Norine shot back. “We’re going for a picnic.”

A picnic.
Martin knew she was making it up, but it sounded so peaceful. So perfect. Then he looked at Paul’s face and his heart sank to his ankles. He wouldn’t be going on any picnic. Not now. Not ever. He wouldn’t be going anywhere with Norine.

“A picnic, you say!” Paul hooted, clapping his hands loudly, his face flushed again with gleeful animation. “Well, judging from what you’ve got stuffed into this car, I guess you’ll be having that picnic in California…for maybe a year or two!”

Norine looked away. Paul grinned and brushed his bulk past her shoulder. “What have you got there, Martin?” he called to the trembling boy. It was the first time he’d looked in his direction.

Martin wanted to sink back into the shadows of the hallway. Instead, he stood behind the black-mesh screen and sadly answered, “Mrs. Morgy.”

“Mrs. Morgy?” Paul grinned. “What a wonderful name for a little stuffed doggy! Do you think I could have a closer peek at her?”

Martin nodded, a tentative smile returning to his face. Paul began walking to him when Norine grabbed his arm. “Just what do you think you’re doing here?” she demanded. If she was as scared as Martin, she certainly didn’t show it.

“Well, I’ll tell you what I’m doing here,” Paul said, “I’m taking Martin for a little drive.” He said it with the finality of a truck hitting a concrete wall at ninety miles an hour. “Any objections?” he added, his hands hanging at his sides like a gunslinger ready to draw.