The Kill-Off

It is a hideous thing to live in terror of one's own son, but I do. I try to keep it concealed, to carry on, to maintain some semblance of father-and-son relationship, but it is becoming increasingly difficult. I am terrified of him, more and more every day. And he is very well aware of the fact. I have the frightful feeling at times that he can read my mind. At times, I am almost sure that he can. He seems to know what I am going to do even before I know it myself. Nonsensical as it sounds, he does know. So, I have not taken the steps which I doubtless should have. I have avoided seriously contemplating such steps. He would kill me before I could carry them out.

He is capable of it. He has threatened to-to kill both Hattie and me.

To be fair to him, if that is the right word, he has made no such threats recently. There were occasions recently when I was hopeful that he might be coming to his senses. But…

About three weeks ago, I thought I saw signs that he was losing interest in that degrading yard work. He was leaving later in the mornings, returning earlier at night. He apparently felt-I thought-that he had cheapened me all he could by doing such work, and was now on the point of dropping it.

I asked him to do so. 'Not on my account,' I said. 'I know it's useless to appeal to you on those grounds. Just do it for yourself. Just think of what it looks like for a boy of your background, and intelligence to-'

'I'm considering it,' he said. 'I may possibly do it, if you don't urge me to it.'

'Well, that's fine,' I said. For, God pity me, there was some comfort-a relative lot-in even such an insolent, heartless reply as that. 'You don't have to do that kind of work, or any work. I'll be delighted to give you any money that you need.'

'Don't be offensive,' he said. 'Don't bother me.'

He said it quite mildly. I felt considerably encouraged.

Then, I came home the following night to find every drawer, every cabinet, in my office had been opened and rummaged through. No, he hadn't broken them open. He had simply picked all the locks.

Now, he was seated in my chair, his feet up on my desk, absently smoking a cigarette.

I was so angry that for a moment I forgot my terror. I told him that he had better explain himself, and promptly, or he would have serious cause to regret it.

'Where is the stuff?' he said. 'In your safety-deposit box?'

'It's where you'll never-what stuff?' I said. 'I've warned you, Bobbie, you-'

'I had an idea it was,' he nodded. 'Well, it looks like I'll just have to buy some.'

He got up and started to leave. I grabbed him and whirled him around. 'You rotten, filthy scum!' I said. 'I'll tell you what you'll do, and what will happen to you if you don't! You'll-'

'Let go of me,' he said.

'I'll let go of you! I'll drag you straight down to the courthouse! I'll-'

I let go of him suddenly. The fiendish sadistic whelp had crushed his cigarette into my wrist.

'Don't ever do anything like that again,' he said calmly. 'Do you understand me, father?'

'Bobbie… son,' I said. 'For God's sake, what do you want? What are you trying to do? That-that girl-'

'Don't interfere with me,' he said.

He drove into the city the next day. He has made one other trip in since then. For what purpose, I needn't explain.

How he manages it I don't know. How a seventeen-year-old boy in a strange city can promptly locate a narcotics peddler and make a purchase, I don't know.

Perhaps he doesn't buy it. God-and I know I'm being ridiculous-he may make it! I have an insane notion that he could, if he wanted to. Anything that is mean and vicious, rotten, cruel, filthy, senseless…!

He is still doing the yard work, of course. Degrading himself, playing the flunkey, to buy dope for her.

If I could discover his motive, I might be able to do something. But what possible motive could he have? The girl is completely undesirable. As intelligent and handsome as he is, he could have his way with virtually any girl in town, without the deadly risk he is running. For it is a deadly one. It would be so, even without the complication of narcotics. Pete has only to find them together-in a certain way-and that will be the end.

Pete will kill him. Pete might even kill me.

I have almost driven myself crazy wondering what to do, but I can think of nothing. I can only wait, go on as I always have and wait- -watch helplessly while doom approaches.

And Luane is responsible. Bobbie was always somewhat peculiar, withdrawn, but except for that sluttish old hypochondriac it would never have happened.

I broke with her last week. I may have to tolerate him, but I do not have to put up with her.

I told her there was nothing at all wrong with her, that I would not under any circumstances visit her again, that if she wanted a doctor she would have to call another (the nearest is twenty miles away). Then I walked out, leaving her to whine and complain to her own filthy self.

I should have done that long ago. I forebore only because it might seem that I was bothered by her slander, and thus lend weight to it.

Bobbie seemed pleased when I mentioned the matter casually at the dinner table.

'That was very wise of you,' he said. 'I'd expected you to do it sooner.'

'Well,' I said, 'as a matter of fact, I had been con-'

'But, no, I can see that this way is Bette' he said. 'It eliminates you pretty conclusively from the potential list of suspects. Now, if you'd cut her off sooner, let it be known that you were no longer going near her place before you established that you held no grudge against her… '

'Stop it!' I said. 'What are you talking about, anyway? I refuse to listen to any more such nonsense!'

'Why, of course.' He winked at me, grinning. 'It isn't very discreet, is it? And we don't need to talk, do we, dear father?'

I have been wondering lately if he is really my son. Wondering idly, wishfully perhaps, but still speculating on the matter. After all, if she would hop into bed with me so quickly, why not with another? How do I know what she was doing during the hours when I was away from the house? Obviously, she was of not much account. A woman who would behave as shamelessly as she did, tempting me until I could withstand it no longer, playing upon my kindness and sense of honor…

Well, never mind. He is my son. I know it. And I would be the last man in the world to attempt to evade my responsibilities. But that changes nothing, as far as she is concerned.

She had better not complain to me any more about Bobbie's abuse. Not one word. Or I personally will give her something to complain about. I would send her packing if I dared to, which regrettably I don't. It would look bad, as though the scandal had hit home. It would look like I was afraid-on the run.

So things stand; to this sorry, unbearable state I have come. Chained to a Negro woman-and I am not responsible to her. Inflicted with a son who- who-well, at least he isn't a Negro. Not really. If a Negro was only one-sixteenth white, would you call him a white man? Well, it's the same proposition. It's-

It's unbearable. Maddening. Completely unjust.

I don't know what I would do without the comfort of Hank Williams' friendship. I spend much of my free time with him, and he spends much of his with me. We understand each other. He admires and respects me. He is glad that I have gotten ahead, even though his own success has been somewhat modest. True, he seems unaware that he hasn't gotten on-he seems to have forgotten that he ever talked of being senator or governor. But,