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He Ate The Dates

“I told you to stay out of here.”

Jeremy, my seven-year-old brother, doesn’t bother to look at me when I speak. He just stands there staring down at our unconscious babysitter Esme.

“I just wanted to check on her,” he says, still naked even though his bath has been indefinitely postponed. “I’m worried.” His gaze is clearly focused on the discolored lump on Esme’s forehead where Joshua clocked her with the bathroom scale.

“She’ll be okay,” I assure him. “So will we”.

“I don’t think so,” Jeremy says. He starts doing that annoying thing he does with his hands, interlocking his fingers and turning his palms first out, then in. “I think we’re in a lot of trouble.”

“Oh we’re in trouble all right. But we’ll be okay. And don’t blame Josh for this. He did what he had to do.”

My little brother finally looks up at me. “I’m not blaming Josh,” he says grimly. “I’m just worried. I hope she doesn’t die.

“She’s not going to die,” I say. (At least I hope she doesn’t, considering the fact that she’s in my bed.) “Come on, go to your room and read or play video games or something. And put some clothes on for God’s sake.”

“No,” Jeremy says firmly. “I want to take my bath.”

“You do?”

“Yeah.”

This surprises me. Sure he’s been abnormally fond of bath time ever since Esme became our babysitter, but still, you would think he’d never want to get near a bathtub again after what she tried to do to him.

“The water’s probably cold by now,” I say to discourage him.

“No it’s not. I checked it. It’s just right.”

“I don’t know Jeremy. I don’t think you should be in the bathtub when they come home, just in case they’re – “

“Come on Franny,” he pleads. “I really want to.”

Maybe he needs to do this in order to cope. I sigh. “All right. But do it quickly. And as soon as you’re finished, put something on, okay?”

“Okay. Thanks.” He turns and walks solemnly to the bathroom.

“Shit,” I mutter to myself.

Jeremy Phillips: Age –- Seven. Relationship –- brother. Intelligence –- Far above average. Subject has a high school reading level and attends a school for gifted children. Athletic ability –- Below average. Subject is small and physically weak for his age. Social skills – Average. Despite his superior intelligence, small stature, and lack of athletic ability, subject has several friends and gets along well with his classmates. Interests –- Reading, video games. Vices –- A superior attitude towards his siblings.

I turn off the lights in my bedroom, close the door, and head to Mom and Dad’s room to check on my older brother’s progress. I find Josh rifling through the contents of Dad’s top dresser drawer. Josh’s mission for the past two hours has been to find the combination to Dad’s gun box so that he can get his hands on Dad’s gun. Needles to say, this is an extremely risky activity. Just being in Mom and Dad’s bedroom without permission is a punishment offense, but attempting to violate Dad’s sacred gun box is a hitting offense. Dad once slapped Linda just for opening his closet door and looking at his gun box. And then, just to drive the message home, he locked her in there for three hours. (That’s probably the main reason why she’s such a timid wuss today.) If Dad came home now and saw the gun box sitting on his bed and Josh going through his papers, Josh would be history.

“Any luck?” I ask, even though it’s obvious that he still hasn’t found it.

“No,” Josh says.

I sit down on the edge of the bed, next to the gun box. “Maybe he didn’t write it down.”

“He wrote it down. People always write down their important personal numbers. Don’t worry, I’ll find it.”

Joshua Phillips: Age –- Thirteen. Relationship –- Brother. Intelligence –- Average. Subject is a C student. Athletic Ability –- Far above average. Subject is an all around athlete, the star of several school and neighborhood sports teams. Social skills –- Far Above Average. Subject is extremely confident and attracts friends easily, mostly due to his athletic ability and good looks. Interests – Sports, girls. Vices – A bad temper, a fondness for fighting.

I lift the gun box off the bed to check its weight. It’s surprisingly heavy, considering the fact that there’s only one gun inside it – a five shot, .38 caliber Chief Special, one of the official handguns of the New York City Police Department. Dad is a big cop buff. He donates a lot of money to various police fraternal organizations and in return gets to go on ride alongs and vice raids. He told me once that he would have become a cop himself if the pay hadn’t been so low.

“Do you know where the bullets are?” I ask.

“In the closet, on the top shelf.”

The closet door is open. I glance up at the top shelf. There are two small gold colored boxes stacked in the center, between a folded plaid sweater and a shoe box. They’re both marked “.38 Special.”

“That’s all there is – just what’s in those boxes?”

“There might be more somewhere, maybe in the basement. It doesn’t matter how much ammo we have if we don’t find that combination.” He unfolds a piece of paper, reads it, and tosses it aside. “Did you put the chain on the door?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Did you and Linda pile that stuff in front of the door like I told you to?”

“Not yet. I was going to but first I went to check on Jeremy. I found him with Esme.”

Josh takes a rubber band-bound bundle of papers out of the drawer. He yanks off the rubber band, throws it on the floor, and starts examining the papers one by one. “How is she?”

“She’s still unconscious.”

“Good. I hope she stays that way.”

“No, not good Josh. What if she doesn’t wake up?”

“That’s the least of our worries.” He drops a paper onto the floor, then another.

I lie down on my side, propped up on one elbow, and replay Esme’s meltdown in my mind. Why did she freak out the way she did? Sure she’s our babysitter, but she’s only seventeen, a mere three years older than Josh. She should be on our side of the fight.

“We should have turned the T.V. off when she told us to,” I say. “That might have been what set her off – seeing all that violence. She’s always been squeamish about blood. Remember last Halloween – how she wouldn’t let us watch that movie about the serial killer? What was the name of that movie?”

“The Agonizer.”

“The Agonizer. She wouldn’t let us see it even though it was Halloween. She’s always had a hang up about gore.”

Josh finishes reading the last paper in the bundle and drops it on the floor with the others. “So she hates violence so much that she tries to drown a seven-year-old kid. That makes a lot of sense. Nah, she’s just gone nuts like the adults. Maybe whatever’s happening to them affects older teenagers too.” He starts rifling through the drawer for more papers.

“Do you think Mom and Dad are going to be nuts too when they come back?” I ask.

“Yeah,” Josh says without looking up. “Yeah, I do.”

That’s Josh. No false hope, no fake optimism.

“Go back to the living room. You and Linda pile all that junk in front of the door.”

On my way back to the living room I stop by the bathroom to check on Jeremy again. He’s in the tub soaping himself with a washcloth, a solemn, almost mournful expression on his face. He seems okay, so I leave him alone and head for the living room.

I find Linda exactly as I left her, sitting on the sofa with her head down, lost in thought. Only a few feet away from her, on the other side of the room, the television is providing yet another glimpse of hell: A schoolyard full of children being kicked and stomped on by their teachers and parents. But Linda is oblivious to the televised carnage. She’s totally preoccupied with the latest riddle Jeremy has chosen to torment her with.

Linda Phillips: Age – Nine. Relationship – Sister. Intelligence – Average. Subject is a B student. Athletic Ability – Far below average. Subject is overweight and clumsy. Social Skills – Below average. Subject is a shy and often teased loner. Interests – Painting, romantic movies, teenage singing idols. Vices – Chronic day-dreaming and inattentiveness.

Linda is smart in her own way, but she’s not clever smart. Anagrams, puzzles and especially riddles almost always leave her stumped. Whenever Jeremy wants to avenge himself against her for some perceived slight he always challenges her with a riddle. Where he gets them from I don’t know, but he seems to have an endless supply. This one goes something like this: A man is stranded on a desert island with nothing but the clothes on his back, a Bible, and a calendar. There’s a fresh water lake on the island but no food, and yet he manages to survive for a whole year. How does he do it?

Jeremy sprang that gem on Linda at breakfast this morning, right after Esme told us that Mom and Dad never came home from their night out.

“The answer must have something to do with food,” Linda muses out loud. “He has water, but what does he do for food?”

“Will you stop obsessing over that stupid riddle!” I snap.

“I’m not obsessing, I’m just trying to figure it out.”

“With everything that’s going on? Here, help me put this stuff in front of the door.”

I go over to the boxes of books that Dad stacked up against the wall next to the door to our apartment. The books were donated by Dad’s friends and co-workers, some of our neighbors in the building, and various strangers who read the small article in New York People two months ago about the charity my Dad founded – “Bridges of Books.” Bridges of Books sends used books to impoverished villages in third world countries, villages that don’t have libraries. A very noble charity. I’m not close with Dad, but I have to admit, he’s civic minded.

There are ten boxes, each containing two dozen or so hardcover and paperback books. The combined weight of them in front of the door will be more than enough to slow down anyone who wants to get in. Besides the books there’s also some other stuff we can use as a barricade: the coat rack, the umbrella stand, and the small wooden dresser where we keep our gloves, scarves and sweaters.

I grab one side of a box of books and wait for Linda to assist me, but she just sits there like a lump.

“Linda, will you give me a hand?”

“Okay, okay.” Linda grudgingly drags herself off the couch. She grabs the other side of the box. “What if Mom and Dad need to get inside in a hurry?”

“Then we’ll move everything and let them in. But this way we’ll have some time to check out their mood.”

“The chain is on. Won’t that give us enough time?”

“Putting this stuff in front of the door will give us extra time.”

Linda and I lift the box and plop it down in front of the door.

“They’re gonna be pissed about Esme,” Linda says.

“Josh did what he had to do. If they’re pissed when they come home it won’t be about that.”

We pile the books, the coat rack, and the umbrella stand in front of the door. But the dresser is a little too heavy for us, so we leave it where it is. I don’t have any upper body strength whatsoever, and Linda has less, so by the time we finish all the lifting we’re both exhausted. We go back to the living room and collapse onto the sofa.

The cable show on the boob tube is now broadcasting the most horrendous display of corporal punishment I’ve ever seen. A quarterback-sized man is seated on the hood of a car with a boy about Jeremy’s age across his knee. The boy’s pants are pulled down and the quarterback is laying into him without mercy. About a dozen other adults are cheering him on. Somehow this time-honored and widely accepted practice is even more horrifying than the other violence we’ve seen today. Linda, probably recalling her own parental hammering, cringes.

“We should turn this off,” she says.

“Josh said to leave it on, in case there’s a news broadcast.”

As if on cue, a victorious Josh enters the room carrying Dad’s five shot .38 caliber revolver, a small instruction booklet, and one of the boxes of bullets.

“Got it!” Josh crows. “You know where he wrote it down? On the bottom of his night table drawer, in ink in really small letters.” He sits down next to me on the sofa, gun in hand.

“For God’s sake be careful with that thing Josh,” I say.

“Don’t worry. It’s not loaded – yet.” He puts the box of bullets and the gun on the table and starts leafing through the instruction booklet. “Shit, I wasted all that time looking for a piece of paper. I should have known he’d write it on something more permanent. Did you and Linda pile that stuff in front of the door?”

“Uh-huh.”

The poor kid on the television is screaming at the top of his lungs.

“Change the channel,” Josh says without looking up from the booklet. Linda picks up the remote and starts channel surfing, but the only thing available on the cable channels is either child torture or static.

“Try the networks,” I say.

Linda switches to the major networks and comes up with static on all but two: Channel Thirteen, which – incredibly – is showing its scheduled programming (a new Masterpiece Theater production of “The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie”), and Channel Four, which is showing a live discussion between an anchorman-type of guy in a suit (the show’s moderator, I assume) and a well-dressed, middle-aged woman who looks like she might be a professor of some kind. They are debating the cause of the current “crisis.”

“I disagree with that conclusion,” the professor says curtly. “I don’t have any children, and yet for the past twenty-four hours I’ve felt the same uncontrollable rage towards pre-adolescents that mothers and grandmothers have been experiencing.

“So you don’t think this ‘rage’ is a matter of biology?” the moderator asks.

“No. I think it’s a matter of psychology.”

Josh smirks. “And when I start shooting people it’s going to be a matter of bullets,” he says with his typical bravado. He has figured out how to open the cylinder of the gun and is loading bullets into it one by one.

“Which people are you referring to?” Linda asks.

“Anyone who tries to hurt us.” He inserts the last bullet into the gun, closes the cylinder, and sticks the gun in his waistband, like a teenage thug in a movie. “I’ll show them rage.”

“Just make sure I’m out of the line of fire,” I say. “Remember, you’ve never fired a gun before.”

“There’s nothing to it. All you do is point and shoot.”

“Of course. And all that firearm training that cops and soldiers get is really just for show.”

“Would you rather I lock it up again?” Josh snaps.

I shake my head. “No. No, of course not. I’m just razzing you.” I do have serious doubts about whether or not Josh can score a hit even at point blank range, but still, having the gun is a definite advantage, even with him pulling the trigger.

“You mean this is all the result of mass hysteria?” the moderator asks. He reaches a hand up to adjust his tie and I see that the back of his hand has scratches on it. What has he been doing with his rage for the past twenty-four hours?

“No, not mass hysteria. Mass hysteria is usually caused by some kind of shared trauma, and it’s usually a localized phenomena, restricted to the area of the trauma event. What we’ve been seeing is a global phenomena that crosses all societal and cultural boundaries. It’s far too extreme to be classified as mass hysteria. If I had to give it a name I’d call it spontaneous global mass rage.”

“Wow. She’s really waxing analytical,” Josh says sarcastically.

Maybe it was the way Josh said it, or maybe it was the words he used, but all of a sudden I get this stupid joke image in my mind of the professor standing in the driveway of a big suburban house, wearing a sweatshirt and a shit eating grin and waxing a big yellow Cadillac with license plates that read “ANALYTICAL”. I’m sure I’ve heard a joke like that somewhere – about “waxing analytical”. Or maybe it was one of Jeremy’s riddles – wherever I heard it, thinking about that image makes me laugh.

“What?” Josh asks, leaning back and resting his right hand on the handle of the gun.

“Nothing,” I sputter, trying to hold back the laughter. “Nothing.” Josh and Linda both stare at me. I try, but I know I’m going to laugh again, so I decide to leave the room. I do a fake clearing-my-throat cough and say “I’ll go check on Jeremy.”

As I make my exit I sense Josh and Linda watching me. They probably think I’m cracking under the pressure. So what? They’re in no position to judge. They’re just as scared as I am. That’s why Linda’s obsessing over that stupid riddle and why Josh was so fanatical about finding Dad’s gun. I don’t blame them for being scared but by the same token they shouldn’t blame me for “waxing fearful.”

I laugh again. Then, as I pass Mom and Dad’s bedroom I hear a cell phone ringing. It’s Mom’s cell phone, on her night table. Mom always leaves it home when she goes out to dinner with Dad, since Dad always brings his. At breakfast this morning, after we turned on the television and found out what was happening, but before her meltdown, Esme told us not to touch any of the phones in the apartment. She said to wait for Mom and Dad, or her parents, to call us, not to call them. Well the phone in the apartment went dead an hour ago. Now someone’s calling Mom’s cell. Despite the risk, I have to find out who it is. I pick up the phone and press “talk”.

“Hello?”

“Franny, it’s Dad.”

“Jesus Dad, are you okay? Is Mom okay?”

“We’re fine. We tried calling the apartment but we couldn’t get through.”

“The phones are dead. Where are you? Why didn’t you come home last night? We waited and waited. Esme – “

“Is Esme still with you?”

“Yeah, but she’s hurt. She . . . Dad, she tried to drown Jeremy in the bathtub. Josh had to hit her.”

“Is she all right?”

“No. She’s unconscious. Dad, what’s going on? Grownups are killing kids everywhere – all over the world. Even their own kids.”

“I know. But don’t worry. Everything’s going to be okay.”

I ask the big question. “Are you and Mom . . . mad at us for anything?”

“No. Of course not.”

“You sure?”

“Why would we be mad at you? Now look Franny, you and your brothers and sisters stay right there in the apartment until we get back. Don’t open the door for anyone except us, not even if it’s someone you know. Understand?”

“Okay.”

“Tell Josh that I called, and that we’ll be home soon.”

“Okay. Is Mom there with you?”

“She’s right here.”

“Let me speak with her.”

There is a brief silence. Then I hear Dad say something. I can’t make out what he’s saying, but a few seconds later I hear a weird gutteral sound, almost like a growl.

“Dad?”

“Franny, your mother says she’ll talk to you when we get home. Now remember, don’t open the door for anyone until we get back. We’ll see you in a little while.”

“Okay.”

He hangs up.

Charles Phillips: Age – Forty-four. Relationship – Father. Intelligence – Above average. Subject is a stockbroker, an expert on currencies and financial investments. Athletic ability – Above average. Subject is a talented amateur golfer and tennis player. Social skills – Above average regarding his job and charity work. Subject has the respect and admiration of all of his co-workers and friends. Below average regarding his family and home life. Subject is a disinterested husband and a domineering parent. Interests – Sports, guns, sleeping with younger women. Vices – Cruelty, philandering, belief in physical punishment.

If Mom had spoken to me I would have given both of them the benefit of the doubt. I would have believed that they were still basically on my side in life, and not out to kill me. But Mom didn’t speak to me. And what was that weird growling sound? No – Despite Dad’s insistence that he and Mom aren’t mad at us, I’m not comforted. Just the opposite – I’m overcome with dread.

I know I should tell Josh about Dad’s phone call, but for some reason I can’t bring myself to do it. At least not right away. I proceed to my original destination: Jeremy’s room.

The door is open. Jeremy is sitting on his bed in his bathrobe, staring into space.

“Hey, you okay?”

It takes him a few seconds, but he finally acknowledges me. “Franny, I know what this is all about,” he says.

“You do?”

“Yeah. It’s child envy.”

“What?”

“Child envy. That’s why the grownups are killing us – because they envy us.”

“Why would they envy us? They have all the money and power and freedom. We’re just pawns. I can’t wait to become an adult, so I can do what I want, when I want.”

“Come on Franny. All grownups envy kids. Think about it. Everything these days is about being young. Movies, T.V. shows, commercials, magazines – they all focus on kids. And adult life sucks. Grownups have to go to work, pay bills, and – worst of all – make plans for the day when they’re old and sick. A grownup would have to be crazy not to want to be a kid again. But none of them can be, so they hate us. And all that hate has finally boiled over into mass hysteria.”

“No,” I say. “Not mass hysteria. Spontaneous global mass rage.”

“Whatever.”

I consider his theory for a moment. “No,” I say finally. “It couldn’t be just that. What about Esme? She’s only a few years older than Josh. She’s not an adult. If this is all about child envy, why did she try to drown you?”

Jeremy rolls his eyes. “Franny, of course Esme is an adult. She’s always been an adult, even when she was my age. She told me so herself. She said she never had a chance to be a kid because of how screwed up her parents are.

Esme Adams: Age – Seventeen. Relationship – Babysitter. Intelligence – Above average. Subject is an A student. Athletic Ability – Average. Subject is strong and healthy but shows no interest in sports. Social Skills – Far above average. Subject is not only popular with her classmates and teachers but is also capable of controlling (and winning the affection of) younger children. Interests – Studying, writing poetry, babysitting. Vices – None apparent. Additional Information – Subject is surprisingly well adjusted and cheerful, considering that both her parents are alcoholics who verbally abuse her and her younger siblings.

“Talk about child envy,” Jeremy says, shaking his head solemnly. “Esme must have a real bad case of it.”

“Esme! Shit, I better go check on her!”

“I’ll go with you.”

“No. You stay here. And get dressed.”

I hurry to my room, open the door, and turn on the lights. As soon as I see Esme I know that she’s dead. Her eyes are open, her skin is grey-white, and she’s obviously not breathing. My first thought is: Somebody has died in my bed, in my room. I’m never going to be comfortable sleeping here again. My second thought is: Eventually we’re going to have to get her out of here. And that will mean opening the door and going outside. Damn!

I reach for the switch to turn the lights off, but then notice a red envelope propped up against the radio on my dresser. I identify it immediately as a gift card of some kind, but what the occasion is, and why I failed to notice it until now, I can’t imagine. Even though I want desperately to get away from my late babysitter’s remains, I go over to the envelope. “To Franny” is written on the front. I recognize the handwriting: Mom’s. The flap isn’t glued shut, just inserted into the envelope. I lift the flap and take out the card.

It’s a “Thinking About You” card. On the front is a cartoon showing a sleepy-eyed sloth hanging from a tree branch. The caption underneath it reads “Thinking About You”. Inside the card is a second caption reading “Let’s Hang Out Together”. In the blank spaces around the inside caption, and on the back, Mom has written me a letter.

Dear Franny The Spy,

Or should I call you Franny the Flirt? I had a little spare time after I completed my latest search of your room (Yes, I search all your rooms for drugs) so I figured I’d drop you a note. So you’re still keeping those cute little files you started writing after reading “Harriet The Spy” in the fourth grade. Well, what’s cute for a ten-year-old isn’t so cute for a twelve-year-old, especially when the twelve-year-old in question is a self-righteous, judgmental brat. So my intelligence level is “average”, huh? My social skills are “adequate”, but only within my “elite circle of shallow, money-marrying, emotionally stunted, upper middle class women”. Well, at least you approve of my taste in men. I saw you flirting with Ricky the other day, bending over in your short shorts to pick up your little brother’s Hot Wheel car. You did that just to be helpful, right? And all that talk about how you hate boys your own age. Too bad Ricky didn’t go for it. And too bad your father doesn’t approve of my going through your things, otherwise I’d tell him what you wrote about him in your files. As it is, I’ll just have to settle for secretly hating your would-be man stealing guts.

n Mom.

P.S. One last word of advice. You should smile more. Men who like little girls like them to be fun and innocent, not serious and sulky – no matter how short their pants are.

Child envy. Shit, maybe Jeremy has a point. Judging from Mom’s card, there’s certainly more to her hostility than the fact that I dissed her and Dad in my files. That bit about me flirting with her personal trainer/crush du jour Ricky? Completely untrue. Regardless of what I was wearing at the time, If I did bend down to pick up one of Jeremy’s toys I did it for a purely selfless reason – to keep it from being stepped on. Yes Mom, I did it just to be helpful. And what do my shorts have to do with anything? Obviously somebody has issues with my body. Envy issues.

I toss Mom’s card and it’s envelope into the garbage can next to my night table. Well, her little missive has certainly taken the mystery out of what her state of mind is going to be when she gets home. Even if she hasn’t succumbed to the spontaneous global mass rage she’s still going to despise me. Either way I’m screwed. And yet I’m not afraid. In fact, all of a sudden I feel very calm. And it’s not just because Josh has found the gun. No, it’s the fact that, as far as my parental relationships are concerned, all bets are off. Not that the bets were ever really on. To be honest I’ve never really cared much for either one of my parents. I know that sounds awful but it’s true. Dad is too cold and too dependent on punishment to love, and I don’t have anything in common with Mom. But still, I’ve always felt obligated to feel at least some affection towards them, since they were my parents, and since neither one of them hated me. But now, with Mom’s declaration of war against me, I’m free of that. Whatever happens when they come home, they’ll be no holding gack on my part and no guilt later if I survive. And if Josh has to pull the trigger, so be it.

Franny Phillips: Age – Twelve. Relationship – Self. Intelligence – Above average. Subject is a straight A student. Athletic Ability – Above average. Subject has a brown belt in karate and is training for her black belt. Social Skills – Below average (by choice). Subject considers her peers foolish and immature and has no close friends. Interests – Martial Arts, observing and recording the characteristics of her family and acquaintances. Vices – An inability to like or love people.

I return to the living room. Josh is sitting at one end of the couch, watching the television, his right hand still resting on Dad’s gun. Linda is sitting at the other end, muttering calendar related terms to herself (“weekend, weekday . . . “), once again trying to figure out the answer to Jeremy’s tormenting riddle. I sit down between them and check out the T.V. The moderator and his professor guest are strangling a little girl in a parochial school uniform. Where they got her from I don’t know. The moderator is using his tie to choke the life out of the poor kid, while the professor is lifting her feet off the ground and pulling her body in the opposite direction of the moderator’s garrote, increasing the pressure on her neck.

“There’s nothing but atrocities on the tube,” I complain. “Turn it off. Let’s play some CD’s instead.”

“Leave it on,” Josh says. “There might be a news update.”

“This is a news update.”

“Days, dates . . . “

“No it’s not. It’s one of those . . . shit, what do you call them? News magazines.

A loud thud at the apartment door puts an end to our argument. All three of us jump off the couch and look anxiously towards the foyer.

Another thud. Josh switches off the television and takes Dad’s gun out of his waistband. None of us move from the couch. There are a few seconds of silence. Then the doorbell rings.

“Shit!” Josh says. He edges past me and creeps to the entrance of the foyer.

“Is it them?” I ask stupidly, even though it’s obvious that the door is still closed and there’s no way that Josh can tell who’s there. Josh waves a hand at me to shut me up, and keeps his eyes focused on the door.

Silence. Then a voice. Dad’s voice. “Josh? Franny?”

Neither one of us answers. Josh glances at me, a finger raised to his lips, then turns back to the door.

“Paper, numbers, letters, boxes . . . “

I look at Linda. Amazingly, she’s still pondering Jeremy’s riddle and muttering calendar components under her breath. Only now she’s muttering the words a lot faster, almost frantically, as if her life depends on solving the riddle. I want very much to get away from her at this moment, so I tiptoe up to Josh and stand behind him.

“They must have tried to open the door,” he whispers to me, “but all the junk stopped them.”

“Did you hear Mom’s voice?”

As we watch, the doorknob turns, and we see the door being pushed forward against the boxes of books. Whoever’s pushing against the door continues to apply pressure. The stack of boxes slowly starts to give way. A half an inch. An inch.

Then Mom’s voice. “Of course they’re in there! That’s why the door is blocked!”

“Is it them?” Jeremy asks coolly. He has come up behind me, still in his bathrobe, and is standing with his arms folded across his chest, eyeing the door without fear. His cool amazes me. What will it take to make this kid sweat?

“Yes,” I say. And wouldn’t you know? That one word breaks him. His cool turns to fool. Grinning senselessly, he abandons the self-preservation instinct and shouts “Mom!”

“Shut up idiot!” Josh hisses. But it’s too late.

“See!” Mom shouts. “I told you they’re in there! Come on! Push! All of you!”

“Shit! They’re not alone!” Josh cries.

Mom and Dad and their allies push against the door and move the boxes back another two or three inches. Thank God for the chain lock on the door! It holds just long enough for the three of us to run back to the couch and duck behind it, where Linda is already hiding. Jeremy follows Linda’s example and sits down on the floor with his back to the couch, but Josh and I remain standing. Josh holds Dad’s gun straight out in front of him, gripping it with both hands. I curse myself for not having secured some kind of weapon from the kitchen, a knife or a cleaver or something.

“Day, date, diem . . . “ Linda mutters.

Mom and Dad and their fellow child haters throw themselves against the door one last time. I hear the sound of wood splintering as the chain lock is ripped from the door jamb, and then the sound of the boxes crashing to the floor.

“I got it!” Linda shouts. “He ate the dates! He survived by eating the dates!”

And then the living room is filled with grownups, and Josh starts shooting.

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