Reaching out, Baby touched one of those clenched fists and said, “Just let me tell it.”
Trying to listen to this without reacting was almost beyond Mel’s capabilities. It was monstrous and her blood felt like it was boiling in her veins, searing her arteries with each beat of her heart.
She wanted to kill someone.
“It’s my story. Let me tell it,” Baby said and withdrew her hand.
Mel gave a tight nod, still not trusting herself not to scream in pure rage. Whatever else this story might be, it was Baby’s. Even if they got nothing else, they would have this to show a jury. A jury would know the lengths gone to by the criminals responsible and they would make those criminals pay.
Patience. Mel reached for patience.
“Go on, Baby. I’m listening,” Mel said, but even to her ears her voice was tight and tense.
“Well, suffice it to say Raymond didn’t get better. By the time he knew he was dying, he was in pretty constant pain. I was wondering what would happen to me, making plans, trying to find a way to get by in a world that was changing and would notice a child on her own. But Raymond had one more surprise for me. He sold me.
“It was a client who bought me, but at least he was one of the nicer ones. An older man, very rich, who treated me nicely and always seemed so very sorry after a visit with me. He came a couple of times a year. One day, while I was watching Raymond try hard not to take another dose of morphine, he showed up and that was that.”
“He took you? What about Raymond?” Mel had thought perhaps something more dramatic might happen to Raymond in this tale, like a well-deserved and gruesome murder.
“Oh, Raymond was lying on the couch and sweating and reaching for the morphine. I’m sure he died badly, but I didn’t see it. The client did indeed take me. From then on, I was a distant cousin who his family had taken in. That would have been alright, all things considered, but it didn’t turn out that way.”
Baby sighed again, remembering, then went on. “You see, my client didn’t buy me just for himself. He bought me for his son too.”
“His son was a per…ah…he also had criminal tendencies?”
With a smirk at Mel’s slip of the tongue, Baby nodded. “Much worse than that. For him, it was also about the pain. He liked to hurt young girls. No one wants to admit it, even now, but that sort of sickness can be passed from father to son like the color of their hair or the shape of their nose. Mother to son and mother to daughter too, though it manifests differently there. His son was more brutal, but the sickness inside him was his father’s.”
“And they kept you?”
“Oh yes, for a long time. Eventually, they sent me to a series of different houses because I didn’t grow up, always with different servants so that no one would notice or comment. It went on for years and years. The world changed and the son grew up, had children of his own, but they kept me locked away in my pretty houses filled with pretty things. The old man died, but the son inherited it all, so there was just him after that. The Vietnam war came and went and then…well…then there was disco and I finally understood the magic for what it was.”
“Disco?” Mel asked. The story had covered decades in a few moments of time and she was trying to catch up. Twenty years? More? What did that mean in real terms? What slot of time did that fit into when it came to Baby’s real life? She would have to wait and find out.
“Yes. Disco. And that’s how I learned to use the magic for myself.”
Donna Summer and the Gods of Death
“Baby, I’m not sure I understand everything you’re saying, but I’m still listening. Do you need to take a break? Maybe walk around a little and catch your breath?”
“No,” she answered, without so much as a glance around at the park spread out before them. “I’m getting there now and it’s time for you to hear it. You’re ready.”
I’m ready? Mel thought. What in the world has this got to do with me? Are we getting to why she asked for me when she reported the ring?
“Okay, then. I’m here for you, so talk as long as you like. If you need a break, just let me know.”
“I will. But I won’t need one. This is my favorite part.”
Mel’s brow creased at the girl’s tone, but she forced an impassive expression onto her face and nodded.
“I told you I had pretty houses and pretty things, but I always got more. Music was lacking in some ways. The old man had always insisted on classical music, but the son wasn’t so focused on those things. The houses I lived in were always well out of the way, and radio was scratchy. My TV reception was non-existent where I was that year. This is long before cable TV and internet, so whatever reached me on the airwaves was all I could get. I asked for new music when the son called to tell me he was going to be making a visit. He wasn’t mean to me when he wasn’t doing his thing, so he said he’d bring some.
“When he showed up, he brought a brand-new record player and a whole box of the newest records. There were so many that I was delighted. The son was, by then, quite middle-aged and not as bad as he once was. He never spaced his visits out far enough that the full measure of his rages returned. He always stayed a
