Cursed Be the Child by Mort Castle Page A

domestic disturbance. He was a public spirited citizen, a conscientious member of the community.
    “Good night, dear,” he said, as Vicki started up the stairs. “Always enjoy our marital chitchats. And by the way, fuck you very much.”
    He expected to hear the bedroom door slam, but he didn’t. Of course not. Vicki wouldn’t want to wake…
    Missy! Jesus!
    It was Missy who’d triggered this binge.
    He ran his hand down his face. Oh, Jesus, he was seriously fucked up and not just booze fucked up.
    Crazy-sick-nut-case fucked up.
    All right, then… He’d spent the day trying to drown his problems, but he was alcohol courageous now.
    He went into his study, turned on the light and sat at the desk. A sheet of paper was in the Underwood. There was nothing on it.
    He pulled open the right-hand desk drawer and took out the pistol. The .25 caliber automatic felt small and perfect in his hand.
    He didn’t doubt himself at all. He felt calm, almost relieved.
    It was time for the truth.
    He had…sexual desires…for children.
    And that was all the reason anyone needed to put a bullet in his brain.
    So, big deal! Everyone fantasizes. That can’t be changed. That’s the way it is. But he had never done anything.
    And shit, he had never had fantasies about Missy. Missy was his kid, and he loved her, loved the hell out of her, loved her the way a father was meant to love a kid—and that was all there was to it.
    But what was with Missy?
    Hell, what was with him, turning it into something it wasn’t?
    He decided he was okay—drunk as a skunk, but okay. He put the pistol back in the drawer. He didn’t need it. He was okay.
    He told himself that with every step he took downstairs. It was his final thought as he passed out on the rec room sofa.
     
    — | — | —
     

Fifteen
     
    It was four in the morning. Vicki Barringer was asleep, dreaming she stood before the throne of the Lord. God was not white-robed and bearded, but looked something like Walter Cronkite, only with more compassionate, less analytical eyes. Vicki had a confession to make.
    “I was unfaithful to my husband.”
    “Yet he is still your husband, and you are yet his wife. Do what you must to earn your husband’s forgiveness, but first, you will have to forgive yourself,” God said in a pleasant voice that had no trace of thunder rumbling in it. God nodded, as though indicating she was to move along to the next item.
    “I haven’t spoken in years to Carol Grace, my own sister,” Vicki said. “I’ve cut her out of my life. I hardly even think of her. I thought she was intolerant, but I’m being no less intolerant of her than I accused her of being of me.”
    “Yet she is still your sister, and you are yet her sister. Love her so that she will love you.”
    A deep calm settled on Vicki as she slept and dreamed and had moments of understanding. She said to God, “I turned away from You.”
    God said, “But here I am. And I have not turned away from you.”
    Four hours later, when the alarm buzzed, Vicki was not able to recall the details of her dream. However, she did feel a sense of peace within her, as though everything that was wrong in her life could be set right, as though there was always something she could rely on no matter what.
     
    The child was not dreaming. She was not asleep, but neither was she awake. She was not Melissa Barringer. She understood that. She had no choice but to accept it and do what she had to do.
    She slowly got out of bed. In the ethereal glow of the night light, she took off her underwear. Naked, she left the bedroom.
    In the dark hall, she paused a moment, then moved to the stairs and descended without the need of holding onto the bannister.
    In the kitchen, she did not turn on the light. She went to the counter and opened the drawer by the sink. Face expressionless, she took out a steak knife and touched the blade with her thumb. She rejected it. She chose a long carving knife.
    The fingers of her right hand