mask.
When she had seen that fearsome countenance, she had thought that the
demon in Joey had surfaced at last. She had been sure–just for a
second or two, but long enough to have her complaisance blasted to
bits–that the long-expected transformation had occurred. Now she was
afraid that she would lean down and hug him and encounter another
sneering troll’s face–except that this time it would be no mask.
Maybe this time he would grab her and pull her close, the better to
tear out her stomach with his sharp and gleaming claws.
The torrent of love washed through her and out of her, leaving a barren
wasteland composed of uncertainty and fear. She was afraid of her own
child.
Seesaw. Seesaw.
Abruptly she was aware, once more, of how drunk she was.
Rubberjointed.
Unsteady. Dizzy and vulnerable.
Beyond the vague glow of the night-light, the darkness pulsed and
shifted and edged nearer, as if it were a living creature.
Ellen turned away from the bed and quickly left the room, weaving
through the shadows. She closed Joey’s door behind her and stood for a
moment in the upstairs hallway. Her heart was slamming like a loose,
windblown shutter in a storm.
Am I mad? she asked herself. Am I just like my own mother–seeing the
work of the Devil in everyone, in everything, in places where it
doesn’t really exist?
Am I worse than Gina?
No, she told herself adamantly. I’m not crazy, and I’m not like
Gina.
I’ve got good reason. And at the moment . . . well . . . maybe I’ve
had too much to drink, and I’m not thinking straight.
Her mouth was dry and sour from the booze, but she wanted another
drink. She longed to recapture that feeling of floating, that bright,
pleasant mood she had enjoyed before Joey had scared her with his
Halloween mask.
She already felt the omens of a hangover: a faintly queasy stomach that
would gradually succumb to a growing, roiling nausea, a dull throbbing
in her temples that would become a splitting headache. What she
needed, before she felt any worse, was some hair of the dog that had
bit her. A whole lot of hair. Several glassfuls of hair from that
funny old dog, the dog that came in a clear bottle, the dog that was
distilled from potatoes. Wasn’t vodka made from potatoes? Potato
juice–that was what would make her feel right again.
Lubricated by some potato juice, she would be able to slip back into
that comfortable mood just as easily as slipping into a soft, fluffy
old robe.
She knew she was a sinner. Pouring down the booze like she did was
unquestionably sinful, and when she was sober she could see the
spiritual stain that alcohol had left on her.
God help me, she thought. God help me because I just can’t seem to
help myself.
– She went downstairs to get another drink.
Joey stayed in bed for ten minutes after his mother left the room.
Then, when he felt it was safe to move, he snapped on the lamp and got
up.
He went to the wastebasket by the dresser and stared down at the pile
of monster models. They overflowed the can, a tangle of snarling,
reaching plastic creatures. Dracula’s head had been knocked off. A
couple of the others also appeared to be damaged.
I won’t cry, Joey told himself firmly. I won’t start bawling like a
baby. She would enjoy that. I’m not going to do anything she would
enjoy.
Tears continued to slide down his cheeks, but he didn’t call that
crying.
Crying was when you wailed your head off and got a runny nose and
blubbered and got red in the face and just totally lost control of
yourself.
He turned away from the wastebasket and went to his desk, from which
Mama had removed all of the miniature monsters he had collected. The
only thing left was his bank. He picked that up and carried it to the
bed.
He saved his money in a one-gallon Mason jar. Most of it was in coins,
squeezed bit by bit from his small weekly allowance, which he earned by