The Funhouse

unfair.
        She was only doing what must be done. The child needed to be disciplined and given guidance. She was merely fulfilling her duty as a parent.
         Just like Gina.
        She pushed that thought aside.
        “Lie down,” she said.
        Joey obediently slid under the covers once more.
        She went to the nightstand and put her hand on the lamp switch. “Did you say your prayers?”
        “Yeah,” he said weakly.
        “All of them?”
        “Yeah.”
        “Tomorrow night you'll say more prayers than usual.”
        “Okay.”
        “I'll say them with you to make sure you don't miss a word of them.”
        “Okay, Mama She switched off the light.
        In a small, uncertain voice, he said, “I didn't know it was you, Mama.”
        “Go to sleep.”
        “I thought it was Amy.”
        Suddenly she wanted to reach down and lift him from the bed and clasp him to her bosom. She wanted to hug him tight and kiss him and tell him everything was all right.
        But as she began to lean down toward him, she remembered the Halloween mask. When she had seen that fearsome countenance, she had thought that the demon in Joey had surfaced at last. She had been sure-just for a second or two, but long enough to have her complaisance blasted to bits-that the long-expected transformation had occurred. Now she was afraid that she would lean down and hug him and encounter another sneering troll's face-except that this time it would be no mask.
        Maybe this time he would grab her and pull her close, the better to tear out her stomach with his sharp and gleaming claws.
        The torrent of love washed through her and out of her, leaving a barren wasteland composed of uncertainty and fear. She was afraid of her own child.
        Seesaw.
        Seesaw.
        Abruptly she was aware, once more, of how drunk she was. Rubber-jointed. Unsteady. Dizzy and vulnerable .
        Beyond the vague glow of the night-light, the darkness pulsed and shifted and edged nearer, as if it were a living creature.
        Ellen turned away from the bed and quickly left the room, weaving through the shadows. She closed Joey's door behind her and stood for a moment in the upstairs hallway. Her heart was slamming like a loose, windblown shutter in a storm.
        Am I mad? she asked herself. Am I just like my own mother-seeing the work of the Devil in everyone, in everything, in places where it doesn't really exist? Am I worse than Gina?
        No, she told herself adamantly. I'm not crazy, and I'm not like Gina. I've got good reason. And at the moment… well… maybe I've had too much to drink, and I'm not thinking straight.
        Her mouth was dry and sour from the booze, but she wanted another drink. She longed to recapture that feeling of floating, that bright, pleasant mood she had enjoyed before Joey had scared her with his Halloween mask.
        She already felt the omens of a hangover: a faintly queasy stomach that would gradually succumb to a growing, roiling nausea, a dull throbbing in her temples that would become a splitting headache. What she needed, before she felt any worse, was some hair of the dog that had bit her. A whole lot of hair. Several glassfuls of hair from that funny old dog, the dog that came in a clear bottle, the dog that was distilled from potatoes. Wasn't vodka made from potatoes? Potato juice-that was what would make her feel right again. Lubricated by some potato juice, she would be able to slip back into that comfortable mood just as easily as slipping into a soft, fluffy old robe.
        She knew she was a sinner. Pouring down the booze like she did was unquestionably sinful, and when she was sober she could see the spiritual stain that alcohol had left on her.
        God help me, she thought. God help me because I just can't seem to help myself.
        She went downstairs to get another drink.
        
        * * *
        
        Joey stayed in bed for ten minutes after his mother left the room. Then, when he felt it was safe to move, he snapped on the lamp and got up.
        He went to the wastebasket by the dresser and stared down at the pile of monster models. They overflowed the can, a tangle of snarling, reaching plastic creatures. Dracula's head had been knocked off. A couple of the others also appeared to be damaged.
        I won't cry, Joey told himself firmly. I won't start bawling like a baby. She would