The Regulators (31 page)

It's hot today, mid 80s, but Wm. Hobart was dressed like a church deacon (which I'm sure he is) in a black suit & shoes. His kid was wearing the junior version of the same getup, & was snivelling. Had a pretty good bruise on one cheek, too. I'd bet my bank account his old man put it there.

It didn't matter that I couldn't talk, because Hobart had the whole thing scripted. “My son has something to say to you, Mrs. Wyler,” he said, then, looked down at the boy as if to say you're on, don't fuck it up. “Hugh?”

Snivelling harder than ever, Hugh said he'd given in to the Tempting voice of Satan (I guess that's the TVS, just like the Stalky Little Boy is the SLB) & stolen Seth's toy. He talked real fast, crying harder & harder as he went along. The kid finished by saying, “You can go to the police and I will make a full confession. Yon can spank me, or my Dad will spank me.” Listening to that part was like when you call the weather & the recording says, “For current conditions, press one. For the current forecast, press two. For road conditions, press three.” I guess it was a blessing I was so stunned. If I hadn't been, I might've laughed, and there was nothing funny about the two of them, standing there so holy & ashamed. I was more scared of them—of the father, especially—than I am on most days of Seth.

Scared
FOR
them, too.

“I am very sorry,” the kid says, still rapping it out as if it was on cue-cards in front of him. “I have asked my Dad for forgiveness, I have asked Lord Jesus for forgiveness, and now I am asking you for forgiveness.”

I got my act together enough then to take the wagon from him—I was so wrought-up I almost dropped it on my toes—and told him that no spankings would be required.

“The boy also has to apologize to your son,” Mr. Hobart said. He looks like Moses with a clean-shaven face and a good haircut, if you can imagine Moses in a double-vented three-piece from Sears. After the things that have been going on around here for the last few months, I have no problem imagining anything. That's part of my trouble. “If you'll just lead us to him, Mrs. Wyler—”

I'll be damned if the self-righteous SOB didn't start trying to push his way right in! I pushed him right back, I can tell you. (Almost dropped Dream Floater again in the process, too.) The last thing I wanted was that fat little thief standing in front of the Stalky Little Boy. What I wanted was for them to be out of my house, and quick. Before either their voices or their emotional vibes (and tho he wasn't crying, Hobart was at least as upset as his kid, maybe more) could wake him up.

“Seth's not my son, he's my nephew,” I said, “and he's taking a nap right now.”

“Very good,” Hobart says, giving a stiff little nod. “We will come back later. Is tonight convenient? If not, I can bring Hugh back tomorrow afternoon. I can ill afford to take off a second afternoon—I work at the-stamping mill in Ten Mile, you know—but God's business must always take precedence over man's.”

His voice kept getting louder while he was talking, the way the voices of guys like him always seem to, it's like they can't tell you they've got to take a shit without turning it into a sermon. I started to feel really scared about Seth waking up. & all this time, I swear it's true, the kid's looking around like he wants to see if there's anything else worth hawking. I'd say the day is going to come when Hughie winds up on some shrinky-dink's couch, except that people like the Hobarts don't believe in shrinks, do they?

I herded them out the door & kept them going right down the walk, I mean I was on a roll. the kid, meanwhile, is asking “Do you forgive me? Do you forgive me?” over & over again, like a broken record. By the time I got them down to the sidewalk, I realized I was furious with both of them. Not just because of the hell we've been through but because they both acted like I was somehow responsibly for the thieving little fart's immortal soul. Plus I kept remembering the way his eyes were going everywhere, seeing what we had in our house that he didn't have in his.

I'm pretty sure—almost positive, actually—that a lot of Seth's “strange powers” have a very short range, like the radio transmitters they used to have at the drive-ins, the ones that piped the movie sound directly into your car radio. So when I got them down to the street, I felt safe (
relatively
safe, anyway) to ask how Hugh Hobart had come to lift Seth's Power Wagon in the first place.

Père
and
fils
exchanged a glance at that. It was a funny, uneasy glance, and I realized neither of them much minded the idea of a spanking or even a visit from the cops, but they didn't like the idea of talking about the actual theft itself. Not one little bit. No wonder the fundamentalists hate the Catholics so much. The idea of going to confession must make their balls shrivel.

Still, I had 'em in a corner, & finally it came out. William did most of the talking; by then the kid had decided he didn't like me. His eyes had gotten narrow, and they'd quit leaking, too.

Most of it I could've figured out myself. The Hobarts belong to the Zion's Covenant Baptist Church, and one of the thing they do as good church members is to “spread the Gospel.” This means leaving tracts like the one Herb found sticking out of our milkbox, the one about a million years in hell & not one drink of water. William and Hugh do this together, a father-and-son type of thing, I guess, a holy substitute for Little League or touch football. They stick mostly to houses that look temporary empty, wanting “to spread the word & plant the seed, not engage in debate” (William Hobart's words), or they put their little love-notes under the windshields of cars on the street.

They must've hit our place right after we left for Milly's. Hugh ran up the driveway and stuck the tract under the milkbox, and of course he saw Dream Floater wherever Seth put it down. Later, after his father had declared him off-duty for the rest of the day but before we got back from the mall, Hugh wandered back up the street . . . & gave in to the ever-popular TVs (Tempting Voice of Satan). His mother found the P.W. yesterday, Monday, while Hugh was at school & she was cleaning in his room. Last night they had a “family conference” about it, then called their minister for his advice, had a little over-the-phone prayer, and now here they were.

Once the story was out, the kid started in on “Do you forgive me” again. The second time through, I said, “Quit saying that.”

He looked like I'd slapped him and his father's face got all stiff, I didn't give a crap. I squatted down so I could look directly into Hugh's piggy little eyes. It wasn't all that easy to see them, either, because of the dandruff flakes and grease-smears on his glasses.

“Forgiveness is between you and your God,” I said. “As for me, I'm going to keep quiet about what you did, and I'd advise the Hobarts to do the same.” They will, I'm pretty sure. I only had to look at the bruise on Hugh's cheek, really, to know that. I don't know about the creep's mother, but what he did is absolutely
killing
his father.

Hugh backed a step away from me, and I could see in his face that this wasn't going the way it was supposed to, & he hated me for it. That's okay, I hate him a little, too. Not surprising, is it, after the weekend we put in because of his light fingers?

“We'll leave you now, Mrs. Wyler, if you're finished.” Hobart said. “Hugh has got a lot of meditation to do. in his room. On his knees.”

“But I'm
not
finished,” I said. “Not quite.” I didn't look at him. It was the boy I looked at. I think I was trying to look past the hate & shame & self-righteousness, to see if there was a real boy left inside anywhere. And did I see one? I truly don't know.

“Hugh,” I said, you know that people only have to ask forgiveness if they do something wrong, don't you?”

He nodded cautiously . . . like he was testifying in a trial & thought one Of the lawyers was laying a trap.

“So you know that stealing Seth's toy was wrong.”

He nodded again, more reluctantly than ever. By then he was practically hiding behind his father's leg, as if he were three instead of eight or nine.

“Mrs. Wyler, I hardly think it's necessary to browbeat the boy,” his old man said. unbelievable prig! He's willing to let me turn the kid over my knee & whale on his ass like it was a snare drum, but when I want the kid to say out loud that he did wrong, all at once it's abuse. There's a lesson in this, but I'll be damned if I know what it is.

“I'm not browbeating him, but I want you to know that the last few days have keen very difficult around here,” I said, It was the adult I was answering but still the kid I was really talking to. “Seth loves his Power Wagons very much, so here is what I want, Hugh. I want you to tell me that what you did was wrong, and it was bad, and you're sorry. Then we'll be done”

Hugh glared at me, & if looks could kill, I wouldn't be writing in this book now. But was I scared? Please, when, it comes to pissed-off kids, I live with the champ of champs.

“Mrs. Wyler, do you think that's really necessary?” Hobart asked.

“Yes, sir,” I said. “More for your son than for me.”

“Dad, do I have to?” he whines. He's still giving me the Death-Ray look from behind his smeary glasses.

“Go on, and tell her what she what she wants to hear,” Hobart said. “Bitter medicine is best swallowed in a single gulp.” Then he patted the kid on the shoulder, as if to say yes, she's being mean, a real bitch, but we have to put up with it.

“It-was-wrong-it-was-bad-I'm-sorry,” the kid says, like he's back on the cue-cards, Glaring at me the whole time—no more tears or snivelling. I looked up & saw the same stare coming from the father. The two of them never looked more alike than they did right then. People are amazing. They came up the street, scared but sort of exalted at the idea of getting crucified, just like their boss did. Instead I made the kid admit what he was, & it hurt, & they both hate me for it.

The important things, though, are these: 1.) D.F. is back, and 2.) the Hobarts won't talk about it. Sometimes shame is the only gag that works on people. I must think up a yarn to tell Seth, then tell the same one to Herb. The truth just isn't safe.

Feet upstairs, going down to the bathroom. He's up. Please God I hope I'm right about not being able to see into my thoughts.

Later

Big sigh of relief. And maybe a self-administered pat on the back, as well, I think The Dream Floater Crisis is past, with no harm done (except for some broken dishes & my beautiful Waterford glasses, that is). Seth & Herb both sleeping. I intend to go up myself as soon as I've written a little in this book (keeping a journal under these circumstances may be dangerous, but God, it can be so soothing), then put it back on top of the kitchen cabinet where I keep it.

Seth getting up when he did, before I had much of a chance to think what I was going to tell him, turned out to be a blessing in disguise. When he came downstairs, still with his eyes mostly puffed shut, I just held D.F. out to him, what happened to his face—the way it opened up in surprise & delight, like a flower in the sun—was almost worth the whole damned horror show. I saw both of them in that glad look, Seth
and
the SLB. The SLB just glad to have his Power Wagon back. Seth, I think, glad for other reasons. Maybe I'm wrong, giving him too much credit, but I don't think so. I think Seth was glad because he knows the S
L
B will let up on us now. For a little while, anyway.

There was a time when I thought, good college girl that I am, that the SLB was just another aspect of Seth's personality—the amoral part Freudians call the id—but I'm no longer sure, I keep thinking about the trip the Garins took across the country just before Bill & June & the two older kids were killed. Then I think about how our father talked to us when we were teenagers, and going for our driver's licenses, Bill first, then me. He told us there were three thing we were never supposed to do: drive with our tire-pressure low, drive drunk, or pick up hitchhikers.

Could it be that Bill picked up a hitchhikers in the desert without even knowing it? That it's still riding around, inside of Seth? Crazy idea, maybe, but I've noticed that this is when most of the crazy ideas come, late at night when the house is quiet & the others are asleep. And crazy does not always mean wrong.

Anyhow, with no time to lie fancy, I lied plain. I found it in the cellar, I said, when I went down to see if there were any more vacuum cleaner bags. We'd already poked around down there, of course, but I said it was way back under the stairs. Seth accepted it with no questions (I'm not sure he even cared, he was so happy to have “Dweem Fwoatah” back, but it was really the SLB I was talking to, anyway). Herb only had one question: how did the P.W. get down there in the first place? Seth never goes in the cellar, thinks it's spooky, and H. knows that. I said I didn't know, and—miracle of miracles—that seems to have closed the subject.

All night Seth sat in the den in his favorite chair, holding Dream Floater on his lap like a little girl might hold her favorite doll, watching the TV. Herb brought home a movie from The Video Clip. Just some old black-and-white thing from the Bargain Bin, but Seth really likes it. It's a Western (of course) from the late '50s. He's watched it twice already.

Rory Calhoun's in it. it's called
The Regulators
.

June 19,1995

I think we're in trouble.

William Hobart over this morning, in a rage. Herb had left for work about twenty minutes before he showed up, thank God, and Seth was out back in the yard.

“I want to ask you a question, Mrs. Wyler,” he said. “Did you or your husband have anything to do with what happened to my car last night? A simple yes or no will suffice. If you did, it would be best to say so now.”