Little Monsters

by Adrienne Brodeur

He read the New York Times, Boston Globe, and Cape Cod Times cover-to-cover daily and had done so for decades. There was no subject he could not speak knowledgeably about.

think he’s just a typical man. You know, someone who takes what he wants without thinking twice.”

Perhaps he should invite her to his birthday party? That was an idea. Young and beautiful guests might show his colleagues he wasn’t a relic.

Stephanie picked up his phone and typed in her contact information. “How the kids do it, today. Text me,” she said and exited the bar without looking back.

Jonah, the recalcitrant prophet. Jonah and the whale. That was his sign!

“While he slept,” Toni said, “I consulted the Tarot.” Steph sighed. Toni handed her a card, the Ten of Swords—a man on the ground, ten swords sticking out of his back. “That’s pleasant.” “Your half-siblings are working through some trauma,” Toni said. Who the hell wasn’t? Steph returned the card. “And it’s not your run-of-the-mill trauma,” Toni continued. She placed the card in the middle of the deck and shuffled. “It’s big-time stuff. In fact, the whole spread told the story of wounded people.” “Come on, Toni,” Steph said. “All I’m saying is, pay attention,” Toni said. “Wounded people wound.”

Woah

Ken had always had a soft spot for wild animals.

“You could be ankle-deep in underwear in this room and not care.” “And that’s what makes you you!”

Lol love

“Voters do not go easy on women with sloppy homes.” Neither does my brother, thought Abby.

She still tiptoed around her brother’s moods. Her father’s, too, for that matter. “Have a great half-birthday, girls,” Ken said, exiting without a word of thanks to Abby. “Oh, Kenny-loo.” Abby muttered the words softly enough to pretend she hadn’t intended Ken to hear them. “Kenny-loo” was what Danny McCormick used to call her brother in grade school, code for “He was fat enough to break the loo.” It was mean, and she regretted it instantly. What was it about siblings that made you shrink back to your worst childhood self?

Then Abby saw them, the couple who’d visited her at the studio a few weeks back. Yes, it was them—the dark-haired one was carrying the baby, the blonde followed. They were wandering up the driveway, plucking honeysuckle from a bush and pulling stems through to extract drops of honey. The sight made Abby flash back to an early memory: Kenny placing drops of honeysuckle on her tongue. How old had she been? Four? Five? They used to pretend that the nectar gave them superpowers: hers was invisibility, his was strength. She remembered the feeling of wanting more, but the second she could taste the honey, it was gone.

“And look at the other one,” Tessa said, narrowing her eyes. “I know her from somewhere.” Strange, that was exactly how Abby had felt when she’d first met Steph.

“How about to the tune of something we know, like ‘Shake It Off’? That’s catchy.”

Love

“Gramps can dish it out, but he can’t take it,” Tessa said. “Kind of like Dad.”

Tessa leveled her gaze at Abby. “What is the deal with you and Dad, Aunt Abby? Like, really, what’s the actual deal?”

It wasn’t his fault that the world’s leading scientists, CEOs, and politicians were—and had always been—white men. Moreover, it didn’t make them monsters.

More abandonment. So, you turned to your sister.” Here George paused, an idea forming. “Is it possible you relied on her too much?” Ken felt a prickle behind his eyes. “Maybe you turned Abby into a mother figure. Or… maybe something else?” George was fishing. “For sure, you needed love. And none of this was your fault; you were a kid. Childhood is all about survival, and you did what it took to survive.” George stated these hunches as facts, as if he were reciting the periodic table. Where was all of this coming from? “At some point, your needs and expectations became too much for your sister.” George sat up tall, a meaty hand on each thigh. “And that’s when she disappointed you, too? By withdrawing her love and taking up with your best friend, David?” Silence. “Am I getting close?” More silence. “Female abandonment is a dominant pattern in your life.”

“Steinbeck called rejection the hell of fears.” George closed his eyes and recited: “ ‘And with rejection comes anger, and with anger some kind of crime in revenge for the rejection, and with the crime guilt—and there is the story of mankind.’

George continued, “Hiding your feelings doesn’t signify a mastery of them.” “Presenting a strong exterior hasn’t failed me yet,” Ken countered. “Are you sure?” asked George, his voice muffled beneath the mask. “I think you’re wrong, Ken. I think if you don’t remove your mask soon, it will fuse to your face, and you’ll never be able to feel deeply. Not only pain but also joy.”

“I’m dead serious, Ken—you call me anytime, day or night.” As if, thought Ken. “Sure thing, George,” he said.

Everything was set, and yet, Steph couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right.

Steph didn’t know why her nerves were frayed.

“Think the lobbies are ready?” her father asked. “Let’s check,” Steph said, grabbing tongs and a pair of fireproof gloves.

Fred coded

“What good will focusing on the hurt do?” Her father’s voice was unbearably gentle. “We need to forgive your mother and move on.” Steph faced her father. “You can’t get past pain without going through it,” she said, a mantra of Toni’s. “It’s called denial.”

don’t want to lose you over this,” Michael said, trying to compose himself. “You’re not going to.” “That man… he’s not your father. I am. I raised you. You’re the only daughter I have,” he said. “And nothing will change that. Ever. I promise. I swear.” Steph

“Your ‘father’ ”—he held up air quotes—“is a man who got a teenage girl drunk and took advantage of her while his wife was pregnant,” her father said, eyes narrowing. “So, no, Steph. I really don’t know why you want to know that man.”

But then she pictured Ken’s blame-thirsty finger pointing at her—How dare you, Abby. You promised not to tell—and her heart raced. Had what happened between them all those years ago been more his doing than hers? Gretchen certainly thought so. Abby had overheard her stepmother telling her father that he needed to do something about Ken’s “inappropriate” behavior, and her father telling Gretchen to mind her own business, that they were just kids. Abby hoped that might be the end of it, but once Gretchen had put the notion out into the world, there was no bringing it back. Ken had heard the hushed arguments, too. Within a few months, Gretchen left their house once and for all. Neither Adam nor Ken had ever mentioned her by name since.

Had Ken been old enough to know better? Had it been his fault? Abby didn’t know. He’d been a child at the time, too. Still, why did he get to be both—perpetrator and victim? Why did he get to be the angry one?

????

With each wallop, some bit of anger came loose. Her not owning the Arcadia. Whack. All the times she’d felt silenced or smothered. Whack. When men told her to smile. Whack. The misogynist comments of a certain presidential candidate. Whack. “Jailbait,” her brother’s word. Whack. Her father’s mood swings and absences. Whack. David’s marriage. Whack. Whack. Whack.

Ironic after the taylor hate comment

using the base of her middle initial, E—for Emily, after her mother—to create a bean-shaped splotch across the upper-left buttock of the boy in the scene. Then, all at once, the title came to her: Little Monster.

They embraced in the unhurried manner of people who’d loved each other their whole lives. Abby leaned into the warm bulk of him, waiting for their breath to synchronize. The baby fluttered inside her, and she lost her bearings in the entwinement, worried that her news might change everything. David pulled back to take her in. “Rebecca and Peony went to Martha’s Vineyard for the day,” he said, tucking a strand of strawberry hair behind her ear. “So, we can have the whole afternoon to ourselves.” He started kissing her neck.

“The marriage is over,” he said with finality. Abby considered this. “Does Rebecca know it’s over?” “Deep down, yes, I think so,” David said. Deep down. Rebecca probably didn’t have the first clue.

Abby pushed him away gently. “Your timing is off, as usual. Jenny will be over any minute,” she lied. David sank back, disappointed. “Soon,” Abby promised, noticing for the first time that his dark hair was flecked with gray at the temples.

He took care with the items he deemed valuable, acknowledging those books, trophies, photographs, and other memorabilia that “sparked joy” before boxing them up. Once again, Adam marveled at his liberated mind’s access to facts. He couldn’t recall ever having read Marie Kondo, and yet…

But should Adam hang on to this memento? He’d kept it as a reminder of his greatest regret, a drunken night almost four decades ago, the only time he’d cheated on Emily.

For thirty-eight years, this little fucker had been reminding him of his betrayal. No more! He crushed the equine body in his palm and poured the chunks into the garbage.

In Hebrew, the name Abigail meant “father’s joy” or “cause of joy.”

Then the image of that young woman at the New England Aquarium gala intruded into his thoughts, her dress pulled up, hair across her face. That memory had become as persistent as a terrier lately, which didn’t seem fair. He’d had one indiscretion. One! He shoved the family portrait in between some books and sealed the box.

Finally, Adam’s office was bare, no books on the shelves, no photos or plaques on the walls, nothing remaining in his desk drawers. It took only two trips with the dolly to get his entire professional life into his car, and this thought made him want to cry. No, he would not cry, absolutely not. Adam turned the key, slung an arm over the passenger seat headrest, and backed out of his reserved parking spot for the last time. He would show them.

So fragile <3

Well, she’d be damned if she was going to handle this mess alone. Jenny strode across the lawn, mentally berating Ken for shirking his responsibilities, hiding out in his office, and working twelve-hour days in the summer. She considered pounding on the door—that might be satisfying—but instead threw it open without warning.

and someone named Stephanie Murphy who, judging from her email address, worked for the city of Boston. Abby paused at that name. It was familiar, but she couldn’t place it. She Googled “Stephanie Murphy, city of Boston” and a photo appeared, a woman in uniform, a cop. Abby magnified the image. It was her. The woman who’d visited her in the studio a few months back with her wife and baby boy. She’d seen them again in Ken’s driveway—they were purportedly headed to Jenny’s garden tour—as she was whisking her nieces away to the dune shack. At the time, Abby assumed it had been a coincidence. An irrational thought made its way to the surface. The woman was a police officer… maybe their family was being investigated. But for what? Could this have to do with Ken’s campaign?

succumbed to the tug of sleep, welcoming random images that slipped past—a periwinkle sky, Charon in his aquarium, a pattern of stucco memorized from the crib.

He was so old school that he signed his texts, a fact that charmed her.

They wore the same outfit—a nod to their twinhood reserved only for church these days—but the dress fit Frannie differently, riding higher on her thighs and tighter across her chest. Tessa still looked twelve, coltish and compact, but Frannie had changed. Her body looked liquid.

“Frannie’s dress is a little short, don’t you think?” Jenny cocked her head. “That’s what this is about? Mid-thigh is the style.” Ken karate-chopped his upper thigh. “Nothing ‘mid’ about it.” “Oh, Ken,” Jenny said, pleasure brightening her eyes. She moved directly in front of him and patted his lapel, a condescending smile on her face. “You’d best prepare yourself. Boys will be checking out your daughters from here on out. And that will be the least of your concerns.” There was glee in his wife’s voice. Then she gave the knot of his tie a sharp tug, tightening it around his neck. “Men will also stare and have their disgusting man thoughts.”

In the end, the highest bid for Jenny’s prize arrangement hadn’t come from a congregant or even a local but rather from a tourist couple from Boston who were in Provincetown for the summer. Lesbians, no less, two attractive ladies—one blonde, one brunette—with a baby boy.

“I’m just the man who’s lucky enough to live with her.” If the line was good enough for Jack Kennedy, it was good enough for him.

“Oh, Ken,” Jenny said, patting his leg condescendingly. “What?” he asked. Jenny looked back at the girls. “It’s possible your father doesn’t know?” There was no way his wife would suggest lust in front of his daughters. Would she? “Shall we?” Jenny said. The girls nodded. “On the count of three, then,” Jenny said. “One, two, three…” They shouted “Envy” in unison. Ken felt as if he’d been stabbed. That was absurd. People were envious of him, not the other way around. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

He had three pills in his pocket, two fast-acting Ritalin and one clonazepam. What’s it going to be, Hamlet? Up or down? The smart thing to do would be to stay cool, of course. Adam knew that. But revving up always felt better than slowing down. Might as well go out with a bang, he reasoned. He tossed back the Ritalin and swallowed them dry.

Wut

watching her thumb stroke the top of the mug handle absently. Back and forth, back and forth. Funny how a small gesture could elicit a big memory. His mother had had the same nervous tic. She’d worn down the glaze on her favorite coffee cup with all her rubbing.