“Abilities?” Angela asks, almost laughing. “You mean deficiencies?”
Neither stranger answers.
Angela lets the comment go, hoping the conversation will swing in another direction, toward the end. She doesn’t enjoy the intense panic building in her chest, the numbness in her entire body. She’ll consider herself lucky if she walks away from this thing without having a heart attack.
“I have to ask,” Angela says, changing the subject. “How will you do it? Legally, I mean.”
The woman answers promptly: “We have birth certificates, social security cards—we even have pictures of your son with our client, from birth on. Photoshopped. Very professional. Very credible. No one will question it. Trust me.”
“This isn’t our first rodeo,” the man says, and there is something about his confidence that causes Angela’s bones to shake.
“Are you ready to do this?” the woman asks.
“I think so,” Angela answers, and she can’t believe those words fly from her mouth so quickly.
“Did you destroy your hard drive?”
Angela nods. “Local computer nerd assured me our conversations will never see the light of day. I had to tell him I was cheating on my husband. I paid him in cash.”
“Good.” The man rubs the top of William’s head. “Such a good boy.”
“Don’t seek us out,” the woman adds. “If you try to find us or locate William, they will kill you.”
Kill me?
“Excuse me?” Angela asks.
The man cracks a nervous smile. “That won’t be necessary, Sharon,” he says, then turns to Angela. “Right?”
“Right,” she squeaks in response.
Who are these people?
“I have to ask… you know… for my own knowledge… but why? Why William? There are plenty of kids in the system? Why did you seek out my boy?”
The strangers look at each other, then shrug as if to say, no-harm-in-telling-you.
“Our client has her reasons,” the woman says. “She’s kept an eye on William for quite some time now.”
“He’s a very special boy.”
But how? she wanted to ask but couldn’t locate the courage to further the odd, unsettling conversation.
“I’m afraid we can’t elaborate beyond that,” the woman adds.
“I was just curious.”
“Well, don’t be,” she says, her attitude changing, her voice cold and harsh. “You know about curiosity—it kills cats.”]
“I DID NOT KILL HIM.”
There was a terrible look in her eyes. Terry glared at her with an equally murderous gaze.
She breathed hard. Her chest heaved in rapid succession.
Terry gritted his teeth, the muscles in his neck becoming visible cords. The knife fell from his hand and landed on the ground. “What did you do with him? Who took him from you? No one disappears, Angela. Fuck this dream goblin bullshit! You did something with him! I know it!”
[She begins to sob]
“I put him in a safe place,” she said, her face glistening in the moonlight.
[“You’ll keep him safe?”]
“Why?” Terry asked, the knife falling to the turned soil. He put his hands on the side of his head. “Why did you do anything with him? He was our son!” She’s never seen her husband cry so much before. As he wept, his entire body shuddered with the rhythm of his outbursts.
[“He’s safe with her. Where he’s going, he’ll have lots of friends to keep him company. The other boys and girls, special like him.”]
“I couldn’t do it, Terry. I couldn’t look at him anymore. I just couldn’t. I know that makes me a horrible a person, but I couldn’t do it.”
“You bitch,” he spat. “You bitch! YOU KILLED OUR SON!”
The blade near her feet reflected moonlight, catching her eye.
“I told you, I didn’t kill him.”
Quicker than Terry could react, she went for the knife.
[They each take one of William’s hands and begin walking, toward the hustling throng of shoppers.
William glances back over his shoulder. Their eyes connect for one final moment.
“Ma-me,” he says.
She closes her eyes as a wave of dysphoria bowls her over.
“Ma-me?”
When she opens them, the trio is farther, about to be swallowed up amongst the bustling pedestrians. She focuses on William’s face, and she briefly thinks his face is filled with worry, which isn’t possible because William doesn’t worry, never has. He doesn’t laugh or smile, frown or get angry. He doesn’t do much at all. He’s just…
…he’s just William.
That’s all he’ll ever be.
She begins working on her lies, training herself to believe them.]
Terry bolted forward, grabbed for the knife, but he was too late. She snatched it first, and he immediately altered his intentions. Instead of scrambling on the floor for the only weapon, he barreled into his wife and knocked her back, sending her inside the shed.
The interior was utterly dark, the only light filtering in through the open door and the small awning window opposite the entryway. She wore the darkness like a cocoon, immediately crouching on her toes and creeping over to the darkest corner.
A shadow filled the entryway.
“Angela… why? Why did you do this to us? Why? Why? WHY?”
No more questions, she decided.
As he stepped foot inside the shed, she rushed forward, jamming the knife into where she thought her husband’s neck was. A wet sucking sound interrupted the silence, leaving her ears as quickly as it had arrived. A sticky warmth flowed over her fingers, down her hands, tickling the nerves of her soft skin. With force, she withdrew the blade, and this time the wetness dotted her face.
Terry stumbled into the puddle of moonlight in the center of the shed with both hands wrapped around his neck, gushes of crimson squirting through the cracks of his fingers.
“I told you…” she said through her teeth, “I didn’t kill our son. He’s still alive. He is safe. He is with her in the Everywhere, you dumb fucking bastard!” She stabbed him again, this time in the back, between the shoulder blades. “YOU NEVER LISTENED TO ME!” She slipped the knife inside him again, this time in the ribcage, retracting it, stabbing, retracting it, stabbing, repeating the process over and over; flowers of scarlet blooming across his midsection. “YOU NEVER PAID ATTENTION! YOU WERE NEVER THERE FOR ME!” The next swipe slashed up his arm, ripping open fabric and flesh, creating a dark red furrow which spat copious amounts of blood. She drove the blade up under his arm, penetrating the soft muscle of his armpit. The blade stopped when it struck bone. “You never understood how I felt,” she said, more calmly now. “About William. About our situation.” She ripped the knife free and pointed it behind her, back toward the house. Scarlet dripped steadily off the tip. “About this house. I hate this fucking house. I never wanted to move here and you NEVER FUCKING LISTENED TO ME!”