…2…

The apartment seems quieter with Alex gone, like an empty theater after the audience and performers have departed. It had been a strange night for the two of them. No need to take sleeping pills. No Beethoven blaring throughout the small space at three in the morning. No more of Alex whistling when he came back from a long night. No more Alex slamming his bedroom door. No more Alex.

Neither Philip nor Sheila speak a word over breakfast. He stares down at the newspaper, not really reading the black text. Sheila does not touch her toast or tea. Philip wonders if they should turn the radio on to fill the silence, but then there is a knock on the door. Sheila murmurs something before getting up to answer it.

A group of professionally dressed men and some police officers loom in the doorway.

"Yes, sirs?" asks Sheila.

"We're from the police department," said one of the men in suits. "There's a new regulation just put into effect. We'll be seizing your son's belongings—compensation for the victim's dependents, you see. We'll be swift."

Philip and Sheila watch from the breakfast table as they carry out Alex's old things: his massive stereo, record collection, wall decorations, the window shade with Beethoven's grim visage, even his bedspread and pillows. By the time they've left, the room is bare, white, as though no one had ever lived there at all. Sheila starts weeping into her tea. Philip just stares into the newspaper headlines. He's still numb, but also much lighter, as though the confiscation of his son's belongings is cathartic, and this makes him feel guilty. It will only be him and Sheila again, as it was long ago.

…

Philip first met Sheila during the holiday season of 1953. Neither was in the bloom of youth: Philip was thirty-five, his prematurely gray hair already thinning; Sheila was forty-three, her hair still its natural dark blonde, her clothes always brightly colored, pressed, and fashionable. They met at a café where both had breakfast every morning before a long day at work. He could make her giggle sometimes, something she prized in that there seemed to be so little to laugh about. She was an intent listener, something he did not have in his life. The majority of their days were dedicated to lengthy factory hours filled with repetitive tasks, but they were bookended with quiet talks over tea and eventually awkward pecks on the lips.

The courtship had been quiet, devoid of grand passions or other such excitement, but neither minded much. They would walk along the flat block marina hand in hand, or talk over a few drinks at one of the more modest pubs. They were not madly in love, but they shared a mutual fondness and a mutual discomfort at the thought of living alone, so they married within four months of their initial meeting. It was a small ceremony; Sheila's sister and Philip's parents were the only attendees, but neither the bride nor the groom minded. They always felt small in the midst of big gatherings.

Though both had wanted a child, feeling it was the proper thing to do, they possessed precious little hope of achieving such a feat. However, after a year of marriage, Sheila had become pregnant. They feared difficulties due to the increased risk of an older woman being with child, but everything went smoothly, culminating in the birth of a healthy if slightly underweight baby boy.

Philip could still vividly remember the first time he saw Alexander: Sheila held him, a tiny creature all pink-faced and bundled in blue. The baby's curly hair was so fair that it was hardly perceptible. The child in the bundle barely stirred, so silent and harmless. Sheila had never looked as beautiful as she did then, her eyes wide with wonder, her blonde hair spread out against the hospital pillows, these being the days before colored wigs were the height of fashion.

"Isn't he a pret-ty thing?" she crooned, rocking the infant in her arms as he dozed.

"No doubt, no doubt," Philip whispered, his arm about Sheila's shoulders. "Our little Alex…"

"Yes, little Alex… my sweet little Alex…"

…

The first few years of little Alex's life were the happiest ones of their marriage. The days were blissfully routine: Philip went to work and Sheila tended to the baby. Philip would come home. They would have dinner and then sit smoking by the radio, hands intertwined, as little Alex crawled about the floor, biting his toys and babbling. He was a beautiful child, with fair hair curling around his ears and bright blue eyes, the sort of baby any parents would be proud to call their own. He rarely cried, started reading by the age of three, and generally gave them no trouble. They considered themselves lucky.

They denied the boy nothing, spending a great deal of their meager savings on clothes and toys and anything else he wanted. When he took interest in classical music around age seven, Philip spent most of his week's salary on recordings of Rossini and Mozart and Beethoven for the lad. Sheila had him attending piano lessons, but Alex's impatience frustrated his tutor, so those sessions ended before a year had passed.

Neither could tell you where, why, or how things went wrong with their son. Alex had always been willful, not one to be denied anything, and Philip found this slightly unnerving though Sheila assured him it was nothing too amiss. After all, Alex was also intelligent and self-reliant, giving them little trouble at home and never embarrassing them with public tantrums, so they let the concerned teacher's notes and detention slips go by with little comment. One teacher had suggested a good smack would keep Alex in line, but Philip was especially reluctant to use a belt or any corporal punishment on the boy. He recalled his own boyhood, a childhood friend whose father regularly whipped him for any and all misdemeanors. Rather than correcting him, the friend had grown into someone sullen, the sort who lived in a prison cell every few months, and the last thing Philip wanted was to turn his own son into such a person.

…

By age nine, Alex had gotten into his first schoolyard skirmish. He'd come home bruised, a stream of blood trailing down his forehead. Sheila fawned over him all evening, wiping his face and bandaging his little head; he winced a little, but did not moan over his injuries. In fact, the boy seemed in a rather good mood all evening. Apparently, Alex had said something nasty to a classmate, a certain Billy something or other, and the two had resorted to blows behind the school building. Alex had been the victor and poor Billy had gone home with a black eye. At least, that was what the teacher's note claimed. When they put Alex to bed, Sheila wept.

"Oh God, Philip. How awful! Could our son be becoming—oh it's too horrible to think—!"

"No need to fear, dear," he said, patting her hand. "Such things are normal in a lad his age. It is a typical thing for a young boy to show a little aggression here and there. Why, we should have worried had he never been a little forthright, am I right?"

He comforted her and himself in this way, thinking back on his school days. A little fight had here and there had not turned him into a hooligan—not that he had regularly involved himself in schoolyard brawls as far as he could recall, but still. It was nature's way.

…

By age eleven, Alex was expelled from school. The last fight had involved not only fists, but also blunt objects and the other boy had been taken to the hospital. Alex claimed it was a case of self-defense and even wept into his mother's shoulder that night. She cried with him and held him to her as though he were a small boy again. For her own sense of peace, Sheila made herself believe him.

…

By age twelve, Alex had his first brush with the law. He and two of his friends from the correctional school were caught shoplifting; not only that, they had beat up the cashier, nearly caving in one side of the poor man's face. Philip could barely look at the photographs taken of the victim. What father wanted to think his own child capable of such things?

There was another hearing, which resulted in Alex being assigned a probation officer. Philip and Sheila thought Mr. P.R. Deltoid a fine enough man, someone eager to make a difference in the growing youth violence problem. Of course, they were not convinced their son was disturbed. The boy claimed his friends (or "droogs" as he called them now) had influenced him, coerced him into harming the man by making threats against him. Deltoid seemed less than convinced. In fact, after every session with Alex, he seemed more unnerved, as though he could see something in him that his parents could, or would, not.

…

By age thirteen, it seemed as though Mr. Deltoid were visiting the Burgess abode several times a month.

Alex became more distant, though Sheila and Philip did try their best to spend time with him on Sunday nights. Card games were a common pastime. Alex usually won (not always through honest means, but Sheila told herself it was only a game anyway), though there had been unfortunate exceptions to the trend. Sheila had won once. Alex proceeded to shout at her, something about unfairness. To pacify him, they had a rematch, which he won, though he remained rather sullen throughout the evening. Eventually, these little family moments were eliminated altogether when Alex turned fourteen. He disappeared from the apartment around seven at night and never returned before three a.m.

"I've gotten a job now, you see," he told them one morning over burnt toast and oversweet tea.

"A job? At your age?" asked Sheila.

"Of course, why not?" said Alex between bites of breakfast. "I'm mature for my age, am I not?"

"What sort of work do you do, son?" asked Philip.

Alex shrugged. "Oh you know… the usual sort for malchicks my age… Well, got to head to the old skolliwoll. I'll be seeing you, pee and em!"

He made a swift exit, patting his father's shoulder and pecking his mother on the cheek before shutting the door behind him. Alex had never departed for school with such enthusiasm.

"Isn't he young to be working, though?" asked Sheila.

"Not especially so, love," said Philip. "Why when I was a lad, I worked some odd jobs so I could have some pocket money for myself. He's simply… enterprising for his age."

"Yes, I suppose," said Sheila, raising her cup to her lips. "Enterprising… our clever young boy." She said it as though she were half-convinced. There was little time to think about it; she was already late for work at the factory as it was and the bills were not going to pay themselves.

…

The only time they had ever contradicted Alex on anything was the matter of the snake— Basil. It had been when Alex was fifteen. It was almost six in the morning and Sheila had gotten up to take an aspirin. A few minutes later, Philip was woken by a shriek from the kitchen. Sheila had tripped over the large serpent and was nearly in hysterics, her hair net askew. Philip grabbed a rather heavy statuette of a nude male and rushed to his wife's aid, ready to kill the wretched thing, when Alex came up behind him and wrenched the statuette away.

"Stop it! Stop it! That's Basil," he shouted, shoving his father aside and throwing the statuette onto the floor, breaking it cleanly in three pieces.

"What? Basil?" stammered Philip, pressing himself against the wall.

Alex knelt to the ground and proceeded to lift the snake up tenderly. "He's my snake," he said. "I won him last night." Alex wrapped Basil about his shoulders. The snake almost looked like a scarf—a horrible, scaly scarf. Sheila shuddered as she picked herself up, unable to look at the horrid creature.

"Son," said Philip, brushing back what little hair he had nervously. "You know your mother and I are permissive, but—."

The boy shot his father an icy glare. "Don't you touch him."

"Don't get me wrong, son. We've no problem with you having a pet, just—could you please keep him—keep him out of the kitchen?"

Alex glared up from under his brows, took a slow step forward. His right hand curled into a fist. "Did I slooshy that correct, papapa?"

Sheila whimpered, one hand over her mouth. Philip was sweating, tripping over the following words.

"Son, we like to let you do as you please. But in this one matter, I simply—I simply must put my—well, I have to insist that you should keep Basil in your own room, for the sake of your poor mother's health."

Both expected an outburst or perhaps something worse, but Alex did nothing. Instead he smirked, looking quite bemused. Philip sensed it was not the kind of way a child should look at their own parents, but he was so relieved that he did not try his luck farther. Alex clapped him on the shoulder and chuckled.

"Alright," he said, all traces of malevolence vanished. "Never fear, pee. Basil will bother thee and em no longer." And with that, he went back to his bedroom, humming a little. Since then, they never encountered Basil again, so the event went by without comment.