I left the garage and went into the kitchen, and somehow or other my arm that was really a plane wing knocked several breakfast dishes to the floor. I saw my bowl of cereal with raisins, little bugs on a creamy sea . . .
"Bart, you did that deliberately!"
"Yes, Momma, you always say I do everything on purpose. This time I let you see how right you are." I picked up my glass of milk, hardly touched, and hurled it at her face. It missed her by inches, for she was quick to dodge.
"Bart, how dare you do that. When your father comes home I'm going to tell him, and he'll punish you severely."
Yeah, already I knew what he'd do. He'd spank my behind, give me a lecture on obedience and having respect for my mother. And his spanking wouldn't hurt. His lecture wouldn't be heard. I could tune him out and Malcolm in.
"Why don't you spank me, Momma? Come on . . . let me see what you can do to hurt me." I held my knife in position, ready to jab it in if she dared to move closer.
Was she going to faint? "Bart, how can you act so ugly when you know I don't feel well today. You promised your father you would behave. What have I done to make you dislike me so much?"
I grinned meaningfully.
"Where did you get that knife? That's not the knife Jory gave you."
"The old lady next door gave it to me. She gives me everything I ask for. If I told her I wanted a gun, a sword, she'd get them, for she's like you are-- weak, so eager to please me, when there isn't a woman alive who will ever please me."
Real terror was in her eyes now. She moved closer to Cindy, who was still in her highchair, making a big mess with her graham cracker and her glass of milk, dipping in the cracker until it was mushy, then trying to rush it into her mouth before the mushy part fell off. And she wasn't scolded.
"Bart, go to your room this moment. Shut and lock the door from the inside, and I'll lock it from the outside. I don't want to see you until your father is home. And since you didn't think enough of your breakfast to eat it, then you don't deserve any lunch."
"You can't tell me what to do. If you dare, tell the world what you and 'your husband' are doing. Brother and sister living together. Living in sin. Fornicating!" (A good 'Malcolm' word.)
Staggering, she raised her hands to her face, wiped at her running nose again, stuffed the tissues in her pants pocket, then picked up Cindy.
"What yah gonna do, harlot? Use Cindy for a shield? It won't work, won't work, I'll get the both of you . . . And the police can't touch me. I'm only ten years old, only ten, only ten, only ten, only ten . . ." and on and on I kept saying that like I was a needle stuck in the same groove.
In my ears was John Amos's voice, telling me what to do. I spoke as in a dream: "Once long ago there was a man in London called Jack the Ripper, and he killed prostitutes. I kill strumpets too, and bad sisters who don't know right from wrong. Momma, I'm going to show you how God wants you to be punished for committing incest."
Trembling and looking weak as a white rabbit, too scared to move, she stood with Cindy held in her arms, and waited as I stalked her . . . closer, closer, jabbing with my knife
"Bart," she said, her voice stronger, more under control, "I don't know who has been telling you stories, but if you harm me or Cindy, God will have his revenge on you--even if the police don't lock you up, or put you in the electric chair."
Threats. Empty threats. John Amos had already told me a boy my age could do anything he wanted and the police couldn't do a thing to stop or punish him
"Is that man you live with your brother? Is he?" I yelled. "Tell me a lie and you'll both die."
"Bart, calm down. Don't you know it will soon be Christmas? You don't want to be put away and miss all the toys Santa Claus will put under the tree for you."
"No Santa Claus!" I shrieked, even more furious-- did she think I believed in that nonsense?
"You used to love me. All your life you have held back telling me so in words, but I could see it in your eyes. Bart, what has changed you? What have I done to make you hate me? Tell me so I can change, so I can be better."
Look at that, trying to win me moments before her death . . . and her redemption. God would feel pity for her when she was butchered, humiliated in every way possible.
Squinted my eyes and raised my razor-sharp blade that my grandmother had not given me--it had been a gift from John Amos, given shortly after that old witch Marisha came.
"I am the dark angel of the Lord," I said in my quivering old voice, "and I am here to deal out justice, for mankind has not yet discovered your sins."
Swiftly she moved Cindy and turned her body so the little girl wouldn't be injured when I thrust. Then, while I was watching what she was doing, her right leg shot out and caught my wrist with a hard kick. The knife went flying. I ran to get it, but she moved quicker and kicked the knife under the counter. I threw myself down to feel for it, and in that time she must have put Cindy on the floor, for suddenly she was on top of me, twisting my arm behind me. With a handful of my hair in her other hand, she made me stand up.
"Now we'll see who is boss, and who will be punished." She shoved and dragged me, and never released my arm or my hair, as she forced me into my room and threw me on the floor. Quicker than I could scramble to my feet, she slammed the door and I heard the key turn. I was locked in.
"You whore, let me out. You let me out or I'll set this house on fire. And we'll burn, all burn, burn."
I heard her raspy breathing as she panted, leaning on my closed bedroom door. I tried to find the stash of matches and candles I'd stored in my room. Gone. All my matches, all my candles, even the cigarette lighter I'd stolen from John Amos.