Intensity

sandwich for her. "Ham and cheese with mustard."
        A ruffle of lettuce showed at the edges of the bread. He had placed two dill pickle spears beside the sandwich.
        As Vess put the bag of potato chips on the table, Chyna said, "I don't want it."
        "You have to eat," he said.
        She looked out the window at the deep yard in late-afternoon light.
        "If you don't eat," he said, "I'll eventually have to force-feed you." He picked up the bottle of aspirin and shook it to get her attention. "Tasty?"
        "I didn't take any," she said.
        "Ah, then you're learning to enjoy your pain."
        He seemed to win either way.
        He took away the aspirin and returned with a glass of water. Smiling, he said, "You've got to keep those kidneys functioning or they'll atrophy."
        As Vess cleaned the counter where he'd made the sandwich, Chyna said, "Were you abused as a child?" and hated herself for asking the question, for still trying to understand.
        Vess laughed and shook his head. "This isn't a textbook, Chyna. This is real life."
        "Were you?"
        "No. My father was a Chicago accountant. My mom sold women's wear at a department store. They loved me. Bought me too many toys, more than I could use, especially since I preferred playing with… other things."
        "Animals," she said.
        "That's right."
        "And before animals-insects or very little things like goldfish or turtles."
        "Is that in your textbooks?"
        "It's the earliest and worst sign. Torturing animals."
        He shrugged. "It was fun… watching the stupid thing crawl on fire inside its shell. Really, Chyna, you have to learn to get beyond these petty value judgments."
        She closed her eyes, hoping he would go to work.
        "Anyway, my folks loved me, all caught up in that delusion. When I was nine, I set a fire. Lighter fluid in their bed while they were sleeping, then a cigarette."
        "My God."
        "There you go again."
        "Why?"
        He mocked: "Why not?"
        "Jesus."
        "Want the second-best answer?"
        "Yes," she said.
        "Then look at me when I talk to you."
        She opened her eyes.
        His gaze cleaved her. "I set them on fire because I thought maybe they were beginning to catch on."
        "To what?"
        "To the fact that I was something special."
        "They caught you with the turtle," she guessed.
        "No. A neighbor's kitten. We lived in a nice suburb. There were so many pets in the neighborhood. Anyway, when they caught me, there was talk of doctors. Even at nine, I knew I couldn't allow that. Doctors might be harder to fool. So we had a little fire."
        "And nothing was done to you?"
        Finished with his cleaning, he sat down at the table. "No one suspected. Dad was smoking in bed, the firemen said. It happens all the time. The whole house went. I barely got out alive, and Mommy was screaming, and I couldn't get to her, couldn't help my mommy, and I was so scared." He winked at her. "After that, I went to live with my grandma. She was an annoying old biddy, full of rules, regulations, standards of conduct, manners, and courtesies I had to learn. But she couldn't keep a clean house. Her bathroom was just disgusting. She led me into my second and last mistake. I killed her while she was standing in the kitchen, just like this, preparing dinner. It was an impulsive thing, a knife twice in each kidney."
        "How old?"
        Slyly playing with her, he said, "Grandma or me?"
        "You."
        "Eleven. Too young to be put on trial. Too young for anyone to really believe that I knew what I was doing."
        "They had to do something to you."
        "Fourteen months in a caring facility. Lots of therapy, lots of counseling, lots and lots of attention and hugs. Because, you see, I must have offed poor grandma because of my unexpressed grief over the accidental deaths of my parents in that awful, awful fire. One day I realized what they were trying to tell me, and I just broke down and cried and cried. Oh, Chyna, how I cried, and wallowed in remorse for poor Grandma. The therapists and social workers were so appreciative of the wallowing."
        "Where did you go from the facility?"
        "I was adopted."
        Speechless, she stared at him.
        "I know what you're thinking," he said. "Not many twelve-year old orphans get adopted.