II
SING A SONG, ROSIE
Aimee Springfield sat back in her chair and stared at the phone. She had gotten a call yesterday from her sister, for the first time in a year; she still couldn't believe it. Rose was finally leaving Randy? After all this time? Their marriage had only lasted three years but they had been together since Rose was fourteen. Poor, stupid little Rosie, dating a high school student while she was still in a training bra.
Of course that wasn't her fault. Rose always wore her heart on her sleeve and it made her clumsy and stupid about relationships. Aimee had thought her relationship with Randy wasn't too serious—but then again, the age gap between herself and her sister was drastic. Eight years wasn't that long of a time when both parties were adults, but as children, it might as well have been twenty years. While Aimee was dating a high school senior while she was still in middle school, Rose was applying to colleges and impressing her professors.
So she had gotten sloppy. Their mother, crazy bitch that she was, hadn't been paying close enough attention to her youngest daughter. And neither had Aimee. Nobody had noticed poor, stupid little Rosie until it was too late, and she was seventeen, pregnant and then engaged in one dizzyingly stressful week.
Wasn't that why this was so surprising? Because even after sensing that Randy was no good and telling her sister, Rose dug in her stubborn little spurs and married that bastard. There was a stubborn streak in her a mile wide. She wore a pink wedding dress and smiled up at Randy so happily, and her then-husband had given her that broad, heartless smile. That horrible smile.
He was trouble, and everyone knew it. But nobody said anything. That's how their family worked—if you had a problem, you solved it yourself. Their household was like a giant survival show, where everyone was watching their own backs.
"You don't have to do this," Aimee had told Rose while zipping up her wedding dress. It was the first time she had spoken these words aloud. "You don't have to marry him."
"Yes I do," Rose insisted, and her hand flew to her belly defensively. "We're getting married, Aimee. We have a child together. Can't you just be happy for us?"
But of course she couldn't, because poor stupid little Rosie never knew what was best for her. Aimee would have liked to see her sister go to college, get a job, and have a life—but it was her fault she hadn't. She had dropped the ball. She had stopped managing her sister's life, and when that happened, Rose got into trouble.
Aimee got up and went to the refrigerator, opening it and staring at the food mindlessly. Her sister was leaving Randy. Finally. Everyone noticed the bruises, the increasingly frequent trips to the hospital for concussions, broken ribs, slipped discs. And it was always Oh I slipped in the tub or Oh I just tripped over a root while I was walking in the woods.
Everyone saw straight through it. Her sister was married to a thug, a cop who could have been promoted to detective by now but there was one or two little slips in his career. One or two little cases of "excessive force".
And that broad, horrible, toothy smile.
Aimee shivered.
(you knew he was bad for her and trouble and a monster and yet you said nothing)
She had said something! Before the wedding and after the honeymoon, a trip to Hawaii that had been cut short by a broken wrist. Rose said she slipped and fell while walking on the beach and hit a rock funny.
You didn't believe that, even then, a reptilian voice spoke up in her mind. You told her that he was a bum, but you didn't insist. If you had, she would have left him.
That was true. They didn't get along very well but Aimee sensed that Rose looked up to her, in that odd, intimate way that only little siblings understood. If she had pressed, she was certain that Rose would had told her everything, because as soon as she came back from their honeymoon, there was something different.
(you saw that she was afraid of her husband and afraid for her baby you saw that and said NOTHING)
"I told her," Aimee said aloud, her voice flat and startling to her own ears. There was a good deal of reproach in it and she heard her own pride in her tone. "I told her he was an ass."
Was that why she didn't insist? Because her little sister was stubbornly holding onto her own pride, insisting that Randy was a good man, that she'd picked a good husband, and they would have gotten married anyway, even without the baby. And so Aimee sat back and let the marriage play out, holding onto her own pride.
She wasn't going to beg her sister.
She should have. But she didn't.
Aimee closed the refrigerator and then opened the cabinet to get a wineglass. It was eleven in the morning but her sister was leaving her husband, and she needed a drink.
The bottle was almost empty, really, she should just finish it off. She poured herself a generous glass and realized there was still quite a bit left in the bottle. Oh well. She took a sip—more of a gulp, really—and savored it. Clos Du Bois, probably 1982. No, '83. Almost forty bucks a bottle but worth every glass.
Rosie was leaving her husband. Randy would follow her, no doubt about it, and there might be trouble. She made a mental note to talk to her husband about getting a restraining order.
Her phone buzzed and she jumped.
(speak of the devil)
"Hello?"
"Hi, Aimee," came that cheerful voice, and she flinched. "How's things?"
"Pretty good, Randy," she replied carefully. "Just sitting here trying to write my article."
Don't lie too much, she told herself firmly, he's a cop, he's trained to pick up on that.
"Oh really? How's that going?" Randy asked. She could hear a little crack in his voice, that seeping of malice into the tone. He didn't want to chit-chat.
She looked at her blank word processor, the little cursor blinking, and lied easily, "Pretty good. I'm about five hundred words in, so halfway done."
"That's great. Hey, I just wanted to call and make sure Rose got there safely."
Careful now. Not too much surprise. Not too much familiarity. It was like trying to bait a mousetrap without getting her finger caught. But Randy would do a lot more than pinch—he was a mean man, she knew that. They would definitely need a restraining order and perhaps a police car sitting out front before he got the idea.
"Rose? Rose isn't here," she said, sounding confused. "Why would Rose be here?"
"She didn't call?" Randy said, and then laughed. Oh, how she hated that laugh. Poor, stupid little Rosie, said that laugh, Always forgetting what she needs to do. He was her husband, but she was the sister. He didn't have a right to laugh like that. "She's coming up to visit for a few days. I told her to call you and not just drop in unannounced."
"Oh, well she didn't call," Aimee said, and tried on a little laugh of her own. It sounded more tired than anything, but it would do the trick. "That's just like her. I'll have her give you a call when she gets here, all right?"
"Thanks so much," Randy said, and she heard relief in his voice, but she could just imagine the satisfied look on his face. "Talk to you soon."
"Yep," Aimee agreed, "Bye."
She hung up the phone and glared at his name in her Contact list. What a good trick—he knew Rose only had one place to go, and that was running to the arms of her big sister. He would call, pretending that poor, stupid little Rosie had gotten mixed up and was going to drop by her apartment. Once she was there, he could come collect his property with no suspicion at all.
"Too bad, motherfucker," she murmured.
Rose was her sister, and needed to be protected.
Randy sat behind the wheel of a nondescript little car and waited. It was Day Two of the stakeout, just the beginning. It didn't take that long to drive to Gotham if you were alone, but driving with a child and a dog would take considerably longer. All he had to do was sit, and wait, and then come pick up his runaway bride and take her home where she belonged.
He turned the radio up a little louder when he recognized a song and sang along with it. "Baby I need your lovin'! Got to have all your lovin'. Baaaaby I need your lovin'…"
Oh yes he needed some lovin' all right. From his sweet, stupid, ditzy little Rosie with the big eyes and the snotty nose. Marrying her was like marrying a child sometimes.
Well, she had misbehaved. She had broken one of The Rules. The Rules could not be broken, and if they were broken, then there would be consequences. This time, it would be bigger than just a spanking or a time-out: she needed to know that he was IN CHARGE, and that she couldn't just break The Rules whenever she wanted.
His brow furrowed and his expression darkened even as he tapped on the steering wheel to the beat of the song. Before delivering her punishment, he would sit her down and talk with her and make sure she knew what she had done was wrong. He wanted her to answer some questions.
Questions like, why exactly had she cleaned out their checking account?
And, what made her think she owned his dog, that she could take him with no consequences?
Not to mention little details like why had she taken their son when his blood flowed through that kid's veins?
Yes, they would have to have a long talk. A nice, long, thorough talk while he explained in detail exactly what she was going to be punished for. She was going to be punished for being a thief and a bitch, but mostly a BAD WIFE.
(a horrible wife you trained her better than this)
He had trained her better than this. Why had she up and left now?
Well, it was no matter. He'd teach her to heel and walk and play fetch again, and keep her on a tight leash. Maybe literally. A smile tugged at his lips at that image and he changed the radio station.
"Sing…sing a song…make it simple, to last your whole life looong," he crooned.
Yes, she'd sing a hearty song when he was done. He'd teach her all her old tricks again.
Maybe even how to play dead.
"Wouldn't that be a picture!" he laughed brightly, and his smile seemed to fill the whole car.
Bash woke up the next morning sucking his thumb. That was a bad sign, it was regression—he was almost four now, and Rosie worried about his teeth. "C'mon, champ, up and at 'em," she called out while unpacking one of his outfits from their bags. It was still early, the whole place bathed in a bluish-gray morning light. She didn't dare turn on the lights because she didn't know how much Doris would charge for the electric bill.
"I dreamed a bad dream," he muttered, rubbing his eyes. "I dreamed a monster."
She paused and looked at her little son, with his sleepy brown eyes and the duck fluff blonde hair that was beginning to turn dark with his age. "That's okay, we all dream about monsters sometimes," Rosie said and patted him comfortingly. "Come on, let's have some breakfast and then we'll get you changed into some clothes, okay?"
He mumbled something else and Rosie had to strain. "What was that?"
"He smiled at me," Sebastian said, blinking owlishly. Suck, suck, suck went the thumb.
A sweat sprang out over her neck and upper lip. "Was it Daddy?" she asked quietly, kneeling on the thin rug. "Did you dream of Daddy?"
She had been afraid of this. Her son, terrified of his own father—as well as he should be, but that was something no child should have to fear. She rubbed his cheek, soft with baby fat, and gently pulled his sticky thumb from his mouth.
He shook his head. "Nuh-huh. Not Daddy. A monster."
(your daddy is a monster)
"Okay," she said, and kissed the top of his head. "Okay, well, I'll mix up a bottle of monster spray tonight. All right? Monster spray keeps the monsters away…" She started, and raised her eyebrows at him.
"An' when the monsters away, we can play," Sebastian finished, and this little charm always worked. He believed in the monster spray like some small children believe in God—in totality, in wholeness, and with sweet, childish innocence.
They would need a lot of monster spray over the next coming weeks. But Rosie didn't know that. She was trying very hard not to think about the writing on the wall, and this was made easier by her close inspection over breakfast. In this light, she couldn't see the writing at all, and was convinced she'd dreamed the whole thing.
You dreamed of monsters too, that reptilian voice in her head said matter-of-factly. Her father always spoke with that cold, calculating voice. You just didn't know it. Think about it, Rosie, think about it, and you'll—
No. She didn't want to think about it. It had been a weird dream, yes, and symbolic of something, certainly. But it hadn't been a nightmare or anything of the kind. It had been a terrible day, a terrible week, a terrible life really, and she was going a little stir-crazy. That was all.
Rosie and Bash ate Cap'n Crunch, standing over the sink because they didn't have chairs. As the morning sunlight crept through the window, it began to light the place more completely; if Rose had turned around, she would have seen the writing illuminated quite clearly.
But she didn't.
She dressed Bash, called Aimee from a payphone outside, and pointedly did not look at the wall.
"Go ahead, go crazy," Aimee said with a smile, as her nephew goggled frankly around at the marvelous toys around him. "Anything in the shop, it's your choice. Auntie Aimee's treat."
He darted off, immediately heading for the toy planes, and Rose had to call out "Be careful!" because she was a mother and that's what they did. Still, it was nice to see Bash so excited about something, and even nicer that Aimee would buy him a toy. She didn't dare look at the price tags in this little toy shop, but this was Gotham after all, where a hot dog from a corner stand cost eight dollars.
"How are you doing?" Aimee asked finally, looking at her little sister.
Rosie nodded and tucked her hair behind her ear, looking up behind that thick fringe of bangs. She looked so small and helpless with that haircut, swaddled in that oversized black coat, and Aimee made a mental note to buy her a new coat. A new coat, a new haircut—something short and sleek and sexy, her sister could be very pretty if done up the right way—and maybe some new shoes. Yes, she could manage this quite nicely.
"I'm okay," Rosie shrugged. "I'm sorry I couldn't come yesterday, I…" she trailed off and laughed, a little ashamed. "I thought I saw Randy outside your apartment."
"You could've," Aimee said seriously. "He called me, looking for you."
Fear, raw and unmistakable, flashed across Rosebud's face. "What did you say? What happened?"
"Calm down," she soothed, "I told him I hadn't seen you. He was trying to make it seem like you'd popped up here for an unscheduled visit and that you were supposed to call. He made he sound like he planned the whole thing."
"He would," Rosie muttered. "I…I can't go near your apartment," she said, eyes round, "I'm sorry, I just…"
"No, you shouldn't. Stay where you are, I'm glad you got an apartment." She was glad, but at the same time, she wasn't. Getting an apartment was something she wanted to do for her sister. Someplace nice, not fancy, but in a good neighborhood with a good school district. She already had a place in mind. Aimee had a feeling that Rosie was lying about the rent, too—there was no way rent in Gotham was a hundred bucks a month. That was ridiculous. She had probably spent most of her savings on the first month's rent and didn't want to tell her big sister because she would say it was foolhardy.
"I'll call the police," Aimee said. Rose shook her head immediately.
"No! No, don't do that. He's not on active duty right now, but he's still a cop." Rose bit her lip and looked for the top of her son's head. She found him over by the puppets, and relaxed a little. "Just…just wait a few days. He'll think I left for somewhere else, and he'll go home and try to get a few of his buddies to track me down."
She had planned this. It was why she had changed cars with the neighbors. The Cormac's were lovely people and were going up to Maine to visit their son for a few weeks, but their car was on its last legs. Rose had instantly offered to trade cars for the duration of the trip and it had worked like a charm. If Randy and his buddies traced the car—which would be their only option, she hadn't bought a bus ticket or used her credit card—they would track it up to Maine. That would buy her some time.
Enough time to get a restraining order.
"Are you sure?" Aimee persisted. "I really think—"
"Look, I know how to handle him!" Rose snapped.
"Clearly you don't," Aimee shot back, unable to help herself, "Otherwise you wouldn't have married him in the first place."
Rose reeled back as though she'd been slapped, and her cheeks flushed bright red. "High advice, Miss Divorced Twice."
Aimee cocked a cold eyebrow. "None of them beat me and my child, though."
As soon as she said it, she knew it was a mistake. Old, rusty hurt flashed across her sister's face and she turned away. Her hazel eyes were filling with tears and Aimee opened her mouth to apologize. That sarcasm's gonna get you in trouble, she heard her father's calm voice say. You wield that tongue like a whip, y'gonna cut someone.
"Rose, I'm—"
"No, you're right," Rose said icily. "You're always right. You always make the right decisions. That's what you wanted to hear, right? You're always right, I'm always wrong, and I always come to you to clean up my messes."
She left her older sister there in the middle of a toy shop and went to collect her son. Bash was sitting on the floor, staring at the puppet display, a very blank look on his face. She didn't like that look, it was almost as though her son were mentally challenged somehow.
(he could be, remember THE INCIDENT)
No, he wasn't, he was a bright, healthy boy, the doctor said so. She crouched next to him. "Hey, Bash," she said quietly, ruffling his hair, hoping he couldn't hear the strain of tears in her voice. "What's up?"
He pointed at the puppets. "What's that?"
She looked at the little marionettes. They were exquisitely made, funny looking clowns and kings and dogs with upturned noses, all of them hanging on invisible strings from a little shelf built into the wall. It was probably a little old for the kids here, and definitely too old for Bash, who's favorite toys were an old model fighter plane and a box of Legos, but they were well made, nonetheless. Brightly colored with silly carved faces and soft cloth bodies, easy for hugging and playing with.
"They're puppets, babe," Rose said, and plucked one off the shelf. "See? You can make them walk and stuff."
"No, that," Sebastian specified, pointing towards a particular puppet. She examined it with a furrowed brow. It was wearing a funny jester's hat with bells on the end, and had multicolored striped pants and a vest. It wore a red nose and had fluffy hair, with a bright, huge smile on its face.
"That's just a clown, honey, they do tricks at carnivals and birthdays and stuff." It was mild looking, as clowns go—she could understand the fear some people had of clowns. Whoever thought clowns were funny or appropriate for children? Not her, definitely. Grown men in face paint, doing pratfalls and slapping pie in each other's faces. Grow up.
Bash allowed himself to be led away by his mother, out of the shop and away from his aunt, forgetting that he had been promised a toy. All he could think about was the monster he had dreamed, the monster who stood at the edge of his bed with a dripping knife and that huge, huge smile that stretched all the way around his head.
It had been a clown.
He was positive.
So delighted to wake up and see some reviews! :D Thanks for commenting, guys, that means a lot. Also I'm sorry if I'm teasing any non-commenting readers by not including the Joker yet, but he'll show up eventually, I promise. Sorry for any little spelling/grammar errors, I don't have a beta and I suck a proofreading. xoxo, Sassy Bigfoot