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Authors: T. M. Wright
Tags: Horror
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saying that, in her case, what it covers is probably as lousy as the mask itself."
"That's unfair, Tim."
"Life's unfair."
"Are you ending the argument on that profound note?"
"I didn't know we were having an argument; I thought it was a discussion."
"No, it's an argument, and you've made your point. I guess I don't have the ability to choose my friends wisely. I guess you'll have to choose them for me."
"Don't be stupid."
"I can't help it, Tim. I don't see things the way you do, so I must be stupid."
Tim shook his head slowly, in frustration. "What in the hell are you becoming so defensive about?"
"Because . . . because you act as if my handicap isn't . . . isn't just physical." Tears were starting. "You act as if it's . . . as if I'm still a child, as if. . . ." Tears were flowing freely. Tim put his hands on her shoulders. She pushed him away. "But I'm not a child. I'm not a child!"
"Christine, please. . . ."
She abruptly wheeled the chair around so that her back was to him, put her hands over her face.
Tim went around, gently pried her hands away. "What is it, darling?"
After a long moment, she looked up at him. "I'm sorry, Tim." She grinned pathetically. "That was stupid, wasn't it? Forgive me."
He put his arms around her, felt her tears through his shirt. "It's okay. I understand."
Christine whispered, "I'm glad one of us does."
"We won't discuss Marilyn Courtney ever again. Agreed?"
She nodded against his shoulder.
He repeated, "Agreed?"
"Agreed, Tim." Still a whisper. "Agreed."
Â
February 20, 1961
Â
T he child opened her door an inch. " Mith King?" she said.
The babysitter heard the child and reflected a moment on being called Mith King, liked how adult it made her feel, how truly more than just a teenager. She turned her head. "Yes, what is it?"
"It's cold, Mith King."
"Well, it's colder in here. Go back to bed."
The child became confused. She could feel that it was warmer outside her room. "Blanket, Mith King. Light on."
The babysitter did not reply.
"Blanket, Mith King. Light on."
The babysitter stayed quiet.
" Mith King, I cold!"
The babysitter jumped to her feet, turned, faced the child, pointed stiffly at the child's room. "Go to bed. Go to bed, you freakin ' little brat!"
The child's jaw dropped, and trembled; she hesitated, as if in shock, turned, and fled to her room. The babysitter followed, flicked the light on, saw the child struggling to climb over the dropped side of the crib: From the crib's mattress it had been easy, but from the floor it was impossible.
"How in the hellâ?" the babysitter started. Then she remembered: When she changed the child's diaper an hour ago, she'd forgotten to lock the side up.
She went to the child, lifted her by the armpits, plopped her into the crib. "Now, goddamnit , you had better go to freakin ' sleep!"
The child stared at her, wide-eyed. " Yeth , Mith King. Thorry , Mith King."
The babysitter crossed to the door, turned the light out, and left the room.
Chapter 9
Â
C hristine wondered if she felt cramped in her little house, if it was really too small, too functional. She wasn't sure. Tim seemed happy in it, and that was important. The districtâCornhill: rich with the aura of another timeâwas good for his work. "Gets the old creative juices flowing," he had told her, looking a little embarrassed by the inanity. "Any time but the present." She thought it was untrue. His photography had everything to do with the present. In effect, his camera was his soapbox. Look , his pictures said, at what we're doing to ourselves, at what we're doing to our cities. Where is our future?
And what about her own future? Christine wondered. Her art? What had she been able to do since moving into this house? Only her painting of Jimmy Wheeler, and that was really for no one's eyes but hersâa Jimmy Wheeler she had created out of a quick chance meeting, grief, and wish fulfillment.
The doorbell rang. She felt a little annoyed
"That's unfair, Tim."
"Life's unfair."
"Are you ending the argument on that profound note?"
"I didn't know we were having an argument; I thought it was a discussion."
"No, it's an argument, and you've made your point. I guess I don't have the ability to choose my friends wisely. I guess you'll have to choose them for me."
"Don't be stupid."
"I can't help it, Tim. I don't see things the way you do, so I must be stupid."
Tim shook his head slowly, in frustration. "What in the hell are you becoming so defensive about?"
"Because . . . because you act as if my handicap isn't . . . isn't just physical." Tears were starting. "You act as if it's . . . as if I'm still a child, as if. . . ." Tears were flowing freely. Tim put his hands on her shoulders. She pushed him away. "But I'm not a child. I'm not a child!"
"Christine, please. . . ."
She abruptly wheeled the chair around so that her back was to him, put her hands over her face.
Tim went around, gently pried her hands away. "What is it, darling?"
After a long moment, she looked up at him. "I'm sorry, Tim." She grinned pathetically. "That was stupid, wasn't it? Forgive me."
He put his arms around her, felt her tears through his shirt. "It's okay. I understand."
Christine whispered, "I'm glad one of us does."
"We won't discuss Marilyn Courtney ever again. Agreed?"
She nodded against his shoulder.
He repeated, "Agreed?"
"Agreed, Tim." Still a whisper. "Agreed."
Â
February 20, 1961
Â
T he child opened her door an inch. " Mith King?" she said.
The babysitter heard the child and reflected a moment on being called Mith King, liked how adult it made her feel, how truly more than just a teenager. She turned her head. "Yes, what is it?"
"It's cold, Mith King."
"Well, it's colder in here. Go back to bed."
The child became confused. She could feel that it was warmer outside her room. "Blanket, Mith King. Light on."
The babysitter did not reply.
"Blanket, Mith King. Light on."
The babysitter stayed quiet.
" Mith King, I cold!"
The babysitter jumped to her feet, turned, faced the child, pointed stiffly at the child's room. "Go to bed. Go to bed, you freakin ' little brat!"
The child's jaw dropped, and trembled; she hesitated, as if in shock, turned, and fled to her room. The babysitter followed, flicked the light on, saw the child struggling to climb over the dropped side of the crib: From the crib's mattress it had been easy, but from the floor it was impossible.
"How in the hellâ?" the babysitter started. Then she remembered: When she changed the child's diaper an hour ago, she'd forgotten to lock the side up.
She went to the child, lifted her by the armpits, plopped her into the crib. "Now, goddamnit , you had better go to freakin ' sleep!"
The child stared at her, wide-eyed. " Yeth , Mith King. Thorry , Mith King."
The babysitter crossed to the door, turned the light out, and left the room.
Chapter 9
Â
C hristine wondered if she felt cramped in her little house, if it was really too small, too functional. She wasn't sure. Tim seemed happy in it, and that was important. The districtâCornhill: rich with the aura of another timeâwas good for his work. "Gets the old creative juices flowing," he had told her, looking a little embarrassed by the inanity. "Any time but the present." She thought it was untrue. His photography had everything to do with the present. In effect, his camera was his soapbox. Look , his pictures said, at what we're doing to ourselves, at what we're doing to our cities. Where is our future?
And what about her own future? Christine wondered. Her art? What had she been able to do since moving into this house? Only her painting of Jimmy Wheeler, and that was really for no one's eyes but hersâa Jimmy Wheeler she had created out of a quick chance meeting, grief, and wish fulfillment.
The doorbell rang. She felt a little annoyed
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