"Who told you that?"
"Old man from his grave. Old man likes me better than Jory, who does sinful dancing. Old man hates dancers. Old man says only I am fit to rule in his place."
Dad was listening intently. I was remembering what Bart's shrink had advised. "Play along with the boy; pretend to believe everything he says, no matter how ridiculous. Remember he's only ten and at that age a child can believe in almost anything, so let him express himself in the only safe way he's found so far. When the 'old man' speaks, you are hearing your son speaking of what bothers him most."
"Bart," said Dad, "listen to me carefully. If your mother didn't know how to swim, and she was drowning, and I was there but looking the other way-- would you tell me so I could jump in and save her?"
Any son should have said yes immediately, but Bart considered this heavily, frowning, weighing his answer when it should have come spontaneously.
Finally he answered. "You wouldn't have to do anything to save Momma from drowning, Daddy, if Momma was pure and without sin. God would save her."
Judgment Day
. Nobody understood me and what I was trying to do. Wasn't no good trying to explain. Had to do it all on my own. I slipped away from Daddy, from Jory, from all those people who saw me as bad and unnecessary in their lives. I had come, and I could go, and it would make no difference to anyone. They didn't know I was trying to help right all the wrongs they'd done before I was even born, and all those done after I was born.
Sin. The world was full of sin and sinners. Wasn't my fault if Momma had to be punished. Though it did worry me some why God didn't want Daddy included in the punishment.
John Amos had told me that men were meant for better things. Heroic things like going off to war and doing brave deeds. No matter if legs and arms were shot off--was a far-far better way to suffer than what God had in mind for women.
Got to thinking hard on the subject, What if the pearly gates of heaven didn't open to receive my momma's purified soul? "Go forth and sin no more" I'd say if I were God. I stamped my golden staff on heaven's golden floor and struck a huge boulder far below so it split wide open and I could write on it my twenty commandments. (Ten weren't enough.) Wonder how I could split open the Pacific and let all the righteous escape the heathens that were fast on their heels?
Gee, thinking like this made me feel bad in my head, in my legs, and it made my hands and feet cold. Momma, why did you have to be so bad? Why did you have to go and live with your brother and put the burden of your death on me?
Jory was outside my door. Spying on me. Knew it was him. Was always him sneaking around, trying to find out what I was up to. I'd ignore him and concentrate on my momma's last hours. She and Grandmother oughta have good food for their last meal. Every prisoner had her favorite meal before the end. Had to do right by my momma and grandmother. What did they like to eat most? I liked sandwiches best, so maybe they did too. Sandwiches, pie and ice cream should be just fine. Just as soon as everyone was in bed, I'd slip their last meal over to them.
Black night came. All the lights were turned off. Soon everything was very, very quiet. What was that? Was it snoring I heard across the hall, in the guest room next to Jory's room? Old Madame Marisha snored. Disgusting.
I slapped turkey between slabs of Emma's homemade cheese bread. With two slices of cherry pie and a quart of ice cream in my sack, I made my way to the white whale of a house, moving as quiet as a mouse.
Down, down, down all the steep stairs into the cellar where rats, mice and spiders roamed, and two women were moaning and groaning and calling for me. Made me feel important. I lifted the kitty door that was under the wine shelves and shoved in the sack with all the goodies.
The light from the candle stub I'd given them was very dim, flickering, showing pale forms that didn't seem solid at all. My grandmother was trying to calm used to keep warm soon was ablaze, and my grandmother and mother were beating at the flames with their bare hands, trying to put it out.
"Bart!" screamed my grandmother, "if you're out there listening to us, run for help! Call the fire department! Tell your father! Do something quick, Bart, or your mother will die in this blaze--and God will never forgive you if you help John Amos kill us!"
What? Was I helping John Amos or God?
I ran like mad up the cellar stairs and out into the garage where John Amos was putting his bags in the last one of the black limousines. The other was gone, driving the maids to safety.
He slammed down the trunk of the car, turned to me with a wide grin, and said, "Well, tonight is the night. At twelve o'clock sharp--remember that. Trip slowly down the stairs and into their place and light the string."
"That smelly string?"
"Yes. It's soaked in gasoline."
"I didn't like the smell, so I threw it away. Didn't want their last meal to be eaten in a smelly place."
"What are you talking about? Have you been feeding them?" He whirled as if to hit me and then out of nowhere Jory sprang upon John Amos. The old man fell on his back, with Jory astride, and then Daddy raced into the garage.
"Bart . . . we watched you make sandwiches and slice the pie--and take the ice cream--now where is your mother and your grandmother?"
Didn't know what to do.
"Dad!" yelled Jory, "I smell smoke!"
"Where are they, Bart?"
John Amos yelled out at Daddy, "Take that crazy kid away from here--him and his matches! He's started a fire. Him and his crazy stunts, like killing that dear little puppy who loved him so much. It's no wonder Corrine panicked and ran without telling me where she was going." He cried real tears and wiped at his runny nose. "Oh, God . . . I wish to heaven we'd never come here to live. I told Corrine no good would come of this."