Heart of Ice

“Hey, I think I have a little something for you two in the car.”

“What is it?” Danny asked. Having his father come home from a business trip all but guaranteed a surprise of some kind. Sometimes it was just a little token, picked up at the airport gift shop, other times it was the item that Santa had forgot to bring.

“It wouldn’t be a surprise,” he said, “if I told you.”

While the children squirmed in anticipation and Olivia smiled at their excitment, Michael disappeared into garage.

“Shit,” he thought, looking over at the workbench vise where he’d crushed Simon’s head with a final twist. Killing the cat, torturing the cat, had brought a kind of relief. It was like he was a kid who’d gotten the right dosage of Ritalin and was able to focus clearly. It brought a rush, too. But not now. Not when he saw the faces of his wife and children. They missed the cat. They wanted the cat to come back home. They didn’t know, and he knew they couldn’t understand anyone’s compulsion to crush the family pet’s skull.

Maybe no one could.

Maybe there was no one else in the world who could understand him.

The only one who might really understand what had made him who he was had been taken away. She was so young, but she was there. She’d seen it happen. She alone understood what had transpired. But she’d been taken away. The day after his thirteenth birthday, Michael was alone for good. Sarah, almost five, was selected by a foster couple as a “transitional foster daughter” and was moved to Riverside, east of Los Angeles. She was in the queue for full-time adoption by another couple.

They told me they wouldn’t split us up, he thought, remembering. She’s my blood.

Only one time in their married lives had Olivia seen her husband fall apart in a manner that suggested he might have residual problems from a very difficult childhood. It happened when Danny was just three. Olivia and Michael were in bed, having drifted off to a sound sleep after passionate lovemaking that had Olivia forgetting that she was anything other than a lover to a wonderful man. No wife. No mother. No chief cook and bottle washer. As she lay next to her husband, she counted her blessings. Moonlight scattered across the walls in crisp slits from the miniblinds that she’d twisted only partially shut. The blissful moment was shattered by the sound of her son’s voice.

“Mamma?” It was Danny’s little voice, as he entered his parents’ bedroom.

Olivia awoke and reached for her robe. “What is it?”

“I made an accident.” Danny started to cry, waking Michael.

“What is it?”

“He wet the bed. I’ll take care of it.”

Michael sat up like a shot. “What happened?”

“He wet the bed. Sleep.”

“What about his Pull-Ups?”

“I thought we’d try big-boy underwear tonight.”

“He’s not ready! And now he’s wet the goddamn bed. Jesus! Olivia! How stupid could you be?”

“Honey—”

Michael, still nude, bolted out of bed and chased after his son. His lean body was a contorted mass of muscles and anger. Sweat ran from his temples.

Danny’s cries turned into screams.

“What are you doing?”

“I will not,” he said. “I will not have a boy that wets the bed. You understand? I don’t care if he wears diapers until he’s ten.”

His face was red and his eyes were bulging. Olivia was stunned. His rage was way off the charts. Every little boy makes a mistake or two.

“Calm down,” she said, “You’re scaring our son!”

Michael gulped for air. “He doesn’t know what fear is.”

Olivia scooped up Danny and took the crying three-year-old into the master bedroom. “Find another place to sleep tonight.” She shut the door.

“I will not have it,” Michael said. “I will not.”

The next morning, Olivia could barely look at her husband. He apologized for what he’d said and done, but no matter what the underlying reason, there was no excuse.

He’d only wet the bed. He’s just a little boy.

Most men hate the idea of changing a diaper. Some consider it “woman’s work” or just flat-out avoid it because they’re lazy and don’t like the idea of foul-smelling, soiled diapers or even the perfumed baby wipes that are supposed to make the task more tolerable. But for Michael Barton, avoiding changing Danny’s diaper was about self-preservation. He had no idea what, if anything, he’d do when faced with a tiny penis and a helpless child. He worried that whatever had been done to him, even before Mr. Hansen, had happened when he was so small.

So helpless.

So without the ability to comprehend.

“I just can’t do it,” he told Olivia when they first brought Danny home. “I can feed him. I can burp him. Just can’t see myself changing him. Don’t have the stomach for it, babe. Sorry.”

Olivia seemed to understand.

He was hopeful that even if he was soulless and without any hope of redemption, he would never pass on the evil that had cursed his own life.

Evil, he knew, was both born and learned.

Chapter Forty-five

The last time that Michael Barton had been to Disneyland was memorable for all of the wrong reasons. It was the place his mom handed his sister and him off to a stranger in front of the Swiss Family Robinson Tree House. It was the last time he’d ever see her, and with her vanishing, the last glimpse of his own childhood.

Before it was stolen by those who did not love him or his sister.

Michael thought of a million reasons why he didn’t want to go there, suggesting that Knott’s Berry Farm was a superior attraction for young families.

“Knott’s is more fun,” he said, urging Olivia to reconsider her push for the Magic Kingdom. “I also feel like one of their chicken dinners. You like those, too, Olivia. Remember?”

Olivia did, but she also wanted to see Disneyland with Carla and Danny.

“I know you have some hang-ups about Disney, but, Jesus, Michael, get over it. The kids want to see Mickey Mouse,” Olivia said. She held her breath, almost wishing that she could reel in her hurtful words. And yet part of her wanted to shake him from whatever it was that haunted him so that her own children could experience all the joys of childhood. All that he had missed.

“I know they do,” Michael said, slipping back to his own memories. He was older than Carla and Danny when he set foot there the terrible week before Christmas when Adriana threw him away. The park was done up in all sorts of Christmas finery. But to an abused boy from Portland, Oregon, the extra lights and plastic snowflakes were merely dollops of unneeded frosting on the most amazing cake in the world.

He fell deeper into the memory. First it was foggy, then clear.

His mom had been agitated the day before she announced they’d be going to Disneyland. No need to pack, she told him. They’d be there only a day or so and could buy new things if they needed them.

“I’ll get you a Mickey Mouse shirt and hat,” she said.