A few days later, Eliza was tidying up the front hall where Billy usually
kicked off his shoes and threw down his backpack when he got
home from school. She realized that since his backpack was still lying
there, he obviously had not gotten around to doing his homework yet.
She picked up the backpack, intending to take it to the kitchen nook
where he usually did his homework, and then she was going to summon
him to get cracking on it. She would often help him with it while
she prepared dinner.
When she picked up the backpack, it tipped over and spilled out its
contents. She felt irritated that Billy hadn’t zipped it, leaving her with
this mess to pick up. Then upon inspection of the zipper, she realized it
was actually broken, of which he had not informed her either. Sighing
with frustration, she bent to pick up the spilled contents and realized
that these were not Billy’s belongings. Billy’s folders were decorated
with super heroes and his markers and colored pencils were in a hard
case, not a zippered one like this one. The backpack looked just like
his, but when she inspected the ID tag, she found Joey’s name and address.
She realized that since the two backpacks looked so similar, Joey
must have picked up Billy’s on her way out instead of her own.
Eliza hunkered down to gather the items which were splayed
across the entry. One spiral-bound notebook was lying open and as she
picked it up, she saw that it contained doodles and drawings. Curious,
she flipped through the pages, feeling the color drain from her face and
her legs grow weak. She sat down hard on the floor right there in the
entryway, her hands shaking, as she looked at the gruesome images.
Just when she had decided to put all negative musings about this
child away, she was confronted with something she could not ignore.
Page after page was filled with drawings from a child’s hand, but not
a child’s mind. These drawings were dark and horrible. She looked for
a name in the book to verify it was really Joey’s. She couldn’t believe
that the polite and shy little girl had created these images. But the evidence
was there inside the front cover: Joey’s name. It was her book.
The front pages held notes taken on science, but after just a few
page turns, she was assaulted with images that reeked of hatred and
anger. Joey was a very good little artist unfortunately; little was left to
the imagination. One picture clearly showed a house resembling that
of the Kinkaides’ blown up in an explosion with the roof flying off and
flames shooting out everywhere. A woman and man lay on the lawn
beside it, obviously dead, limbs severed, lying askew of the bodies, and pools of red colored in marker on the ground around them. What in the world?
Another drawing showed a man and a woman lying on a bed with
knives sticking up from their chests. Two X’s were drawn on each face
where the eyes should have been, clearly indicating death. Blood of
red ink was running down from the chest wounds and pooling on the
floor. No stick figures for this little artist; full bodies, unclothed and
accurately rendered. Why were they naked? Eliza felt unwelcome and
sour saliva gathering in her mouth, her stomach growing queasy. Her
hands were trembling as she turned the page.
Her mind reeled as she again beheld a drawing of an unclothed
man and woman. They seemed to be floating in darkness, black ink
filling the page. Both were beheaded and had cuts and injuries indicated
by red ink slashes all over their bodies. Blood splattered in all
directions. A long knife or sword floated nearby. The details of the
human anatomy and the graphic nature of the violence was shocking.
Eliza swallowed hard against the terrible nausea that threatened and
forced herself to look at more. In the next one, a clean white page
with a man standing alone. One single red dot on his chest over the
heart, a squiggly red line running down from it, and a gun next to him.
Turning the pages, the drawings went on and on. Always a man or
couple, usually unclothed and wounded or dead in a violent way. Some
depicted what looked like sexual contact between the couple. Graphic
and violent, hatred emanated from the pages. Her mind rebelled and
tried to deny what she was seeing. She flung the notebook down and
it banged and bounced on the hardwood floor. As she looked at it, her
head began to feel odd, as if the hall were spinning around her.
Suddenly, the nauseating sickness Eliza had been fighting back
would be quelled no longer. She felt her stomach clench and she bolted
to the guest bath down the hall, throwing up into the toilet. She
heaved until there was nothing left and she was exhausted. Then she
rinsed her mouth with water, splashing some on her face, wishing she
could use it to wash the images from her mind as well.
She curled up on the floor beside the toilet in case the nausea hit
again and positioned her face on the cool marble floor. She allowed
the chill of the marble to seep into her as it drew the hot sickness out.
She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, trying in vain to erase the images
that lingered there. She had not even looked at the rest. She couldn’t.
What now? She could not ignore this. She had to ... do ... something.
Something. But what? She turned her head over, placing the opposite
cheek on the cool tiles and tried to think. Were these images
implanted in Joey’s mind through some slasher horror movie or video
game she had seen? Eliza knew there were some very graphic video
games containing scenes so bad, they were rated to let parents know
they were not suitable for young children. She didn’t allow any of
those in her home. And they certainly did not watch violent slasher
movies. But she knew nothing of the Kinkaides. Did they have this
kind of filth in their home, and carelessly left it where Joey could
access it? There was vivid violence and even nudity in her drawings.
Where and how had she seen such things?
Did George Kinkaide perhaps have horror movies or even pornography
depicting scenes like this in his home? If he did, was it not hidden well enough so that Joey had gotten hold of it and watched X-rated movies of this type?
No child should have such knowledge as was contained in those
pictures – pictures drawn obviously by the hand of a child. In truth,
it was too bad that she was such a good little artist. There was far too
much detail contained in the images.
It was more than Eliza could grasp. She needed to talk to someone.
Brant. She would talk to him when he got home tonight and show him
the book. She would ask him what they should do.
Reluctantly, she went back into the hall and gathered up all of
Joey’s belongings and placed them into the backpack. She wished she
didn’t even have to touch them. She was tempted to go get her latex
cleaning gloves, but knew that was silly. It wasn’t as though the filth in
this book could contaminate her just by touching it, but that was how
she felt.
And there was something deeper; something inside herself trying
to shove its way to the surface – unidentifiable feelings she didn’t even
want to explore. Brant, please hurry home. I need you!
~
Brant didn’t come home that evening. He called to say he had to
fly out for an emergency meeting in London. He didn’t know how
long he would be gone. He would not even come home first because if
he went straight to the airport, he could catch a flight right away. The
company had an apartment in London that Brant used when he was
there, and he always kept some clothes and necessities in that place.
Eliza was utterly crushed. She said all of the right things to him – I
understand, I love you, I’ll miss you, Have a nice flight – but inside she was
screaming. She really wanted to talk with him about the “Joey book.”
She wanted to cry and let him hold her. And she wanted him to finally
understand something very, very wrong was going on in that house
down the street. She wanted him to help her decide what they should
do.
Now she would be alone with these thoughts; she didn’t like this
at all. But she wasn’t being given a choice. After hanging up the phone,
she stayed put, her body board-stiff, forehead pressed against the wall.
Suddenly her mind went numb and she had trouble forming a cognitive
thought. She stood there in a void, out of touch with reality for
several moments. Then something inside her mentally shifted. Gears
changed. Her thought pattern redirected itself.
She absolutely could not deal with this alone. Not now. She could
not and she would not. She would simply tell Billy to exchange backpacks
with Joey at school tomorrow and Eliza would pretend she had
never seen those horrible drawings. Yes, that was the way to handle
this. Just make it go away. She could make herself forget.
A part of her knew she was going into denial, but she didn’t care.
She simply could not cope with this right now. She had her own life
to survive. Joey wasn’t her problem. And evidence to the contrary,
there was probably a reasonable explanation for everything. Of course
there was. She tried in vain to think of something, but nothing came.
However it did not matter. This was not her problem. It wasn’t a problem
at all. Some silly drawings, an angry little girl. What’s new? Kids
were always angry at some imagined injustice, weren’t they? So that
was it then. She was done with it.
Fighting against the tidal wave of thought and emotion she had
experienced up to this point, she would find a way to accept it all as
ordinary. She could do it. All she had to do was not let her thoughts
go there. Don’t think about it. Stay very busy. That should be easy; she
was busy. Alright then, her new mantra would be: Don’t think about it.
Stay busy. Don’t think about it. Stay busy. Don’t think about it. Don’t
think about it. Don’t think about it – period.
She could do this. She had to. It was simply self-preservation.
She told herself, Get busy. Don’t think. She realized she was still standing
in the same spot where she had taken the phone call. It had only
been a few minutes, yet felt like days. It was as though time had been inexplicably suspended, and she had been immobilized by some invisible
force – frozen in place for an immeasurable interval.
By an act of pure will, she physically pushed herself away from
the wall, stretched her arms, rolled her neck and made herself walk
to the freezer to decide what she and Billy would have for dinner that
evening.
Move, she told herself. Stay busy. Don’t think. Just do. She kept up the
mantra until she was finally able to drive the unwanted thoughts and
images from her mind. Don’t think, stay busy. Don’t think, stay busy.
She turned on the counter top boom box and cranked up the volume
on her CD of Il Divo, allowing them to serenade peace to her
soul. Don’t think, stay busy. Don’t think, stay busy. Don’t think!
No problem.
