I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.

I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.

Wherever You Are

Keeping the Old Man Alive

Neighbors came by here and there.

Kathy.

Lucy.

Brought casseroles and sandwiches in disposable containers.

Chatted. Petted the dog.

Made small talk.

And eventually left.

Nobody stayed.

Nobody could.

And he understood.

It wasn't their burden.

Wasn't their lot.

Their grief.

Life went on.

For everyone but Jimmy Darling.

When Sam sat near the front door, Jimmy walked him.

When Sam sat near his food bowl, Jimmy fed him. Watered him.

When Jimmy went to bed at night, Scruffy Sam the Sublime lay on the floor peacefully at the end of the bed until morning.

When Jimmy brushed his teeth and used the facilities and cleaned his body and attended to his daily needs, the dog positioned himself within the space, quiet as a mouse.

Quiet and watching.

When Jimmy ate his simple meals of toast and butter, or ham sandwiches with pickles, or leftover neighbor-provided tuna noodle casserole, the dog stayed within eyesight.

And never begged for food.

When the phone rang at eight-thirty p.m. every night, the dog went and sat below it, beady little eyes staring presumptively at Jimmy until he got up and answered it.

"Hi, Jimmy, this is Patrick. How's Sam?"

He called every night.

"Fine."

As loquacious as Jimmy Darling had once been . . .

"He's fine."

it was now difficult . . .

"He sat under the phone starin' at me 'til I answered it."

. . . to think of things to say.

"He's very good at talking with his eyes. Given me a lengthy lecture once or twice without saying a word."

And when Patrick appeared alone on Friday afternoon . . .

"I'm, uh, sorry Little Jimmy's not with me. I was planning to bring him but, uh, Annabel picked him up from school early and took him to the zoo."

. . . the dog wagged his tail . . .

"Oh. Yeah. That's good. All those animals."

. . . and stayed in Jimmy's lap.

"So how are you and Sam getting along?"

All whole time.

"Quietest roommate I ever had. And that's sayin' a lot. Bette and Dot, they could scream with their silence when they were mad."

God, it hurt to say their names.

Say their names without hearing their cheery voices call back . . .

"Yes, Jimmy, darling?"

"Why can we do for you?"

. . . flirtatiously.

Patrick nodded.

Smiled.

And talked.

"I remember one time, they told me . . ."

And Jimmy watched him.

Funny, he thought dimly. I always thought he was the quiet one.

And then about six-thirty or so . . .

"I thought you worked nights, Patrick."

"Oh, I switched to tomorrow so I could come for a visit."

"Oh."

"But I do want to tuck Little Jimmy in. So I guess I'd better get going."

And Jimmy stood, gently depositing the aging mutt onto the floor.

"Yeah, that's good. That's important. Sam, ready to go home?"

The dog whined.

And plopped his butt down on the carpet beside the Tattler-less elder again.

Patrick smiled.

"No, I think he still belongs to you."

Knelt.

Petted.

Directed.

"Take care of him, Sam. Keep him alive."

And rose.

"I'll come back Wednesday. Is that okay?"

Jimmy nodded.

"Sounds fine."

And that was that.

Nightly calls.

Twice a week visits.

A dog near the door, the food bowl.

The bed. The shower.

And no Annabel.

A week.

A month.

Then two.

And no . . .

". . . park."

". . . museum."

". . . toy store."

. . . Annabel or Little Jimmy.

Only Patrick.

Jimmy had the feeling Annabel was keeping Little Jimmy from him.

Stay away from the creepy man, baby. He kills people.

He understood, he did.

Nothing but death here.

Then and now.

First Dot and Bette.

Now him.

Eventually.

It was only a matter of time now.

Once the dog was done attempting to keep him alive.

"Ready to go, Sam?"

Whine.

Nope.

And that would be . . .

"I'll see you Wednesday, Jimmy. Keep him alive, Sam."

. . . that.

Then one day, as Gladys Muchin's daughter was cleaning up the house, . . .

". . . okay, Jimmy?"

"Sure, Gladys. Thank you. I never was very good at cleanin'."

"Well, it's the least I can do. You know, Bette and Dot were always such a delight to be around . . ."

. . . she found them.

". . . Walker? Behind the desk in the spare room."

Letters.

All sealed up already in their envelopes.

They hadn't had time to mail them, he guessed.

Finally run out.

And since they were sealed, he didn't open them.

Could hardly bear to spare them a passing glance.

"Thanks, Dolores. I appreciate that."

Dot and Bette's letters. Not mine.

I don't write very well.

"Will you send them off for me?"

"Sure, Mr. Walker. No problem."

It has been documented time and again that a human being can withstand extreme amounts of strain and duress.

Physical and emotional.

Withstand and survive.

In the days and weeks and months following the untimely . . .

They were fine at Christmas!

. . . deaths of her mothers . . .

Weren't they?

. . . Annabel Margaret Walker Anderson . . .

I mean, god, they were them, . . .

. . . was the pure definition of subdued strain and duress.

. . . you know?

She slept.

"Moms, where'd Daddy get his dimples? Did somebody poke his cheeks real hard like Aunt Kathy does to me?"

"Yes, darling-"

"- that's exactly what happened."

She woke.

". . . morning in Sarasota. The temperature today will be a balmy . . ."

She went to work.

". . . Ana Darling. Next up, a little George Michael followed by today's discussion of Nelson Mandela . . ."

She chatted with friends.

". . . okay, Annabel? You seem a little . . . out of sorts."

Yeah, I mean, my dad killed my moms and then cremated them before I even got a chance to say goodbye. I'm . . .

". . . fine, Gene. Thanks."

She went home.

". . . cake?"

"Yes. Devil's food."

Moms used to make devil's food cake.

"I think I'm going to be sick."

She spent time with her son.

". . . Lumen at school today said if I kissed her cheek she'd grow a Cabbage Patch baby in her stomach and we would have to get married."

Moms? Help? Oh.

"I'm not sure if you should be kissing or listening to Debbie Lumen anymore."

She fought with her husband.

". . . him Sunday-"

"No. I'm not going down there and neither is Jimmy!"

"Annabel, he's all alone-"

"I don't care! I hate him!"

And she hated. Oh how she hated.

She hated the commercials on TV.

". . . beef?!"

Ma-Ba used to love that commercial.

She hated the music on the radio.

". . . time for us . . . there's no place for us . . ."

She hated her father.

". . . want you to have the responsibility. . ."

Responsibility?! They're my mothers! You didn't even bother to take the responsibility to take them to the hospital!

She hated her husband.

". . . him, Annabel? I think he'd really love to hear your voice."

"No, Patrick! I'm not talking to him again! Ever!"

"Annabel-"

She hated her husband's dog.

". . . stay with my dad? Doesn't he know he's your dog?!"

"Not right now he's not. Right now he belongs with him."

"Who says?!"

"Sam."

She even hated her son.

"Mom, can we go see Granddaddy tomorrow?"

"No. Maybe next weekend."

"But you said that last weekend!"

She hated her house.

Aunt Lucy's house had painted strawberries on the kitchen cabinets.

And it was right next to Moms' house.

She hated her job.

Could have been there. I could have been there if I'd just taken some shit nothing job in Brandon. Even Tampa. Oh god.

And, of course, she hated herself.

I never told them. I never told them how amazing they were. How they were awesome and the best moms ever. I never told them I loved them. I mean, I told them. But I never told them. Because I just didn't know.

So she stewed. She quietly raged.

She fumed.

She loathed.

Everybody and everything around her.

And she cried.

Big, rolling, miserable tears of shame and grief and self-hate.

But only in the shower.

Only alone.

And never, ever . . .

I should have been there.

. . . front of anybody.

I should have been there.

Ever.

I should have been there.

The mail was there when she came home that day.

Right there in the mailbox.

Like it was just any other day.

And she saw them.

What?

The letters.

Moms?

As if they were still at home. Alive and well.

Writing letters, baking pies, and watching The Bold and The Beautiful.

And she . . .

Ma-Da? Ma-Ba?

. . . sat right down on the hot, dry grass . . .

Is it really you?

. . . and opened the one addressed to her with trembling fingers.

Dear Annabel,

This letter may seem strange to you when you read it. Or maybe you'll understand completely which will break my heart even further. We left these for when the time comes so hopefully they did not get lost in the mail.

Bette and I have not been feeling well lately and we're concerned our time on this earth is drawing to a close. If it is, please know that we love you deeply and it has been our greatest joy being your mothers and watching you grow and mature all these years.

If you are angry with your father, Annabel, please forgive him. He was only acting as requested by Bette and I and you know how persuasive we can be. He was protecting all of us from undue pain and shame and embarrassment. Be kind and forgiving to him, dear daughter, he is a good man and has always tried to be so.

Please enjoy your life to the fullest and be happy, Annabel, however that may be for you.

We love you always and forever,

Ma-Da

Dear Annabel,

I have no idea what Dot is writing over there as we sit here at the kitchen table but I have no doubt it's just as heartfelt as the letter I am writing.

She's probably telling you about your father and how he took care of us at the end when we needed him most. I don't know what that will be yet exactly but I trust him and believe he will do what is necessary to protect us and you.

Dot and I love you, Annabel, more than you could possibly know. We have been so grateful to be your mothers all these years. Nothing could have brought us greater joy. I know you're probably thinking of all the times we all caused each other pain but that is a part of every life and we wouldn't have traded any of that for the world if it meant being without you.

We don't really know if there's a heaven or hell but we do know that wherever we are, we love you and cherish you always.

Please forgive your father if you are angry with him; he loves you so. We requested he keep the burden of decision from you in this regard to protect you.

We love you, Annabel, and we treasure you always.

Ma-Ba

There were letters for Patrick and Jimmy too.

She did not open them.

But she did sit in the blazing hot Sarasota sun and cry a well of tears of grief and release until she was drained and empty and exhausted.

Right there.

Right out there in the middle of the wide open world.

Where anyone . . .

"Annabel, baby? Hey . . ."

"Patrick-"

. . . could see.

Stage two, anger. Yeah. Along with some others.

And of course, she is Jimmy Darling's darling daughter.

Reasonable feelings don't really come into play always, do they?

Thanks to brigid1318, autumnrose2010, and midrebellion86 for reviewing previously.

Two chapters to go.