shoulders from above, and he felt the suction flippers tugging at his face, at his head. He almost screamed. But he didnât want to arouse anyone. Somehow the child had not drowned after all, had crawled out of the toilet, and had waited over the door for Howard to return.
Once again the struggle resumed, and once again Howard pried the flippers away with the help of the toilet stall, though this time he was hampered by the fact that the child was behind and above him. It was exhausting work. He had to set down the knife so he could use both hands, and another dozen wounds stung bitterly by the time he had the child on the floor. As long as the child lay on its stomach, Howard could seize it from behind. He took it by the neck with one hand and picked up the knife with the other. He carried both to the toilet.
He had to flush twice to handle the flow of blood and pus. Howard wondered if the child was infected with some diseaseâthe white fluid was thick and at least as great in volume as the blood. Then he flushed seven more times to take the pieces of the creature
down the drain. Even after death, the suction pads clung tightly to the porcelain; Howard pried them off with the knife.
Eventually, the child was completely gone. Howard was panting with the exertion, nauseated at the stench and horror of what he had done. He remembered the smell of his dogâs guts after the car hit it, and he threw up everything he had eaten at the party. Got the party out of his system, felt cleaner; took a shower, felt cleaner still. When he was through, he made sure the bathroom showed no sign of his ordeal.
Then he went to bed.
It wasnât easy to sleep. He was too keyed up. He couldnât take out of his mind the thought that he had committed murder (not murder, not murder, simply the elimination of something too foul to be alive). He tried thinking of a dozen, a hundred other things. Projects at workâbut the designs kept showing flippers. His childrenâbut their faces turned to the intense face of the struggling monster he had killed. Aliceâah, but Alice was harder to think of than the creature.
At last he slept, and dreamed, and in his dream remembered his father, who had died when he was ten. Howard did not remember any of his standard reminiscences. No long walks with his father, no basketball in the driveway, no fishing trips. Those things had happened, but tonight, because of the struggle with the monster, Howard remembered darker things that he had long been able to keep hidden from himself.
âWe canât afford to get you a ten-speed bike, Howie. Not until the strike is over.â
âI know, Dad. You canât help it.â Swallow bravely. âAnd I donât mind. When all the guys go riding around after school, Iâll just stay home and get ahead on my homework.â
âLots of boys donât have ten-speed bikes, Howie.â
Howie shrugged, and turned away to hide the tears in his eyes. âSure, lot of them. Hey, Dad, donât you worry about me. Howie can take care of himself.â
Such courage. Such strength. He had got a ten-speed within a week. In his dream, Howard finally made a connection he had never been able to admit to himself before. His father had a rather elaborate ham radio setup in the garage. But about that time he had become tired of it, he said, and he sold it off and did a lot more work in the yard and looked bored as hell until the strike was over and he went back to work and got killed in an accident in the rolling mill.
Howardâs dream ended madly, with him riding piggyback on his fatherâs shoulders as the monster had ridden on him , tonightâand in his hand was a knife, and he was stabbing his father again and again in the throat.
He awoke in early morning light, before his alarm rang, sobbing weakly and whimpering, âI killed him, I killed him, I killed him.â
And then he drifted upward out of sleep and saw the