But the one that interested me the most was the story of the Pied Piper of Hamlin, the tale of a funny-looking man who played his magic pipe to lure the children away from town. They were never seen again. I envisioned Joseph, dressed like a medieval jester from the pages of the fairy-tale book, in a motley coat and tights, playing his pipe up and down the streets of Ogallala to lure the children from their homes. Children like me.
I wasn’t sure what scared me the most about living with Joseph and Miriam. Joseph with his hawk eyes and aquiline nose or the vengeful God Joseph told me about or the things he said he would do to my Lily if ever I misbehaved, how he would trap her and skin her alive. He told me how he’d do it, too, how he’d hang her by her feet, then cut her jugular and carotid veins with a blade so that she’d bleed to death. Then, with slow, deliberate movements, he sliced his cold fingers against my throat, so I knew exactly what he meant. He used words like sinews and corpuscles, words that I didn’t know, but they scared me nonetheless.
Funny how thinking about that God of Joseph’s, and of all the things Joseph would do to Lily if I was bad, somehow made me feel safer inside that home, staring out at the boys on their bikes and the girls with their chalk, kids like me who had no idea what was going on inside Joseph and Miriam’s home. To them we were just the odd ducks on the block, what Momma used to call old Mrs. Waters from down the street, the widow, who walked around talking to her dead husband as if she were chatting on the phone. I imagined those kids out that window, the kids with the bikes and the chalk, and their own mommas and daddies telling them never to play with Isaac and Matthew ’cause they were weird. Not to talk to Joseph because he was an odd duck, and then later, when all was said and done, it would be those mommas and daddies who told police that they felt something funny was going on inside our home, all along, they felt that something wasn’t quite right. Something they couldn’t put their finger on.
But they didn’t do a thing about it.
HEIDI
I slip from bed once Chris leaves, quiet so as not to wake Zoe from sleep. Beside me, she sleeps like a newborn, on her back, arms up in the air: the starfish position, the rising sun casting a golden hue across her face. I watch her sleep, the sass and defiance at bay for a time, her features relaxed, her lips flirting with a smile. I wonder what it is that she dreams about, as she lets out a sigh, and rolls over onto her side, taking the warm spot on the ivory sheets where my body has just been. I reach for the comforter from the end of the bed, and pull it up over her shoulders, closing the blinds so the impending sunlight stays out of her eyes.
I walk into the hall, pulling the door to, and find my feet traipsing across the hall to the closed office door, my hand coming to rest on the satin nickel knob. I press my ear to the door and listen for signs of movement, of which there are none. My heart beats loudly, quickly in my chest. My palms begin to perspire.
I’m overwhelmed with a sudden need, a very basic human need, like food, shelter, clothing.
A need to hold that baby in my arms.
There’s no logic as I set my sweaty palm on that satin nickel knob, only an instinct, a reflex, some innate behavior.
I know that I shouldn’t and yet I do; I turn the knob silently, astonished to find it unlocked.
An omen.
They lay side by side on the pull-out couch, Willow and the baby, a green chenille throw covering their bodies. Willow has her back turned to the baby, a pillow set over her head as if trying to tune out the sound of midnight cries or coos, or maybe Chris’s early morning shower before he departed for New York. Willow breathes deeply, evidence of a deep sleep. I tiptoe across the room, cursing a cat who follows me in, scampering under the sofa bed for a place to hide. The drapes are drawn, keeping the outside world out, tiny bands of light sneaking in through the opening in the middle, lustrous early morning light tinged with pink and gold.
In her deep sleep, Willow fails to notice the way my feet tread lightly across the carpeted room, and in my mind I’m envisioning no Willow, no sleeper sofa.
Just a beautiful baby in a bassinet waiting for someone to arrive.
The baby’s eyes are wide-awake when I finally adjust to the darkness of the room and can see her clearly. She is staring with wonderment at the white ceiling, and when she sees me, she smiles. Her legs start kicking in excitement, her arms flailing wildly about. I slip my hands under the weight of her body and lift her from the bed. Willow lets out a sleepy sigh, but doesn’t open her eyes.