Free The Child Eater by Rachel Pollack Page B

don’t . . . I don’t know . . .”
    “Ah,” Veil said. A finger pointed to the alcove with its small wooden bed, white pillows and a quilt of alternating squares of roses and squiggly signs.
    Matyas stared, mouth open but unable to make a noise. He had never slept in a bed. Once, when a guest had left early, he’d sneaked into the room and lain down on top of the scratchy blanket. He couldn’t remember now what it felt like. All that stayed in his mind was what happened when his father walked in and caught him. For days he could hardly move to do his chores, and when he did, he had to check constantly for any drops of blood that might leave a stain on a sheet, the floor, a dish.
    Now he walked over to stand just outside the alcove where he could stare at the bed. It looked so soft! But suppose it was a trick! Maybe if he dared to lie down he would burst into flames, or snakes would rear up to tie him so he couldn’t get away, and fire demons would roast him. He said, “Mistress—”
    “Veil,” she said, and when he looked confused she added, “There is no reason to call me Mistress. I prefer my name.” When he did not continue, Veil added, “I apologize for interrupting you. What were you going to say?”
    “I can’t lie there! That’s your bed.”
    “Ah,” she said. “I see the problem. Matyas, I am very old, and old women often prefer to sleep sitting up. This rocker suits me quite well. And since I am not using the bed, it’s for you.”
    Carefully, just in case it was indeed a trick, he lowered himself onto the bed where he lay on top of the quilt. A small sigh escaped him as he closed his eyes. He had never felt anything like it. For a moment he wanted to cry, something he had not done since before he could walk. But then that passed, and a moment later he was asleep.

Chapter Eight
JACK
    It was barely six in the morning when Jack arrived at his parents’ house. He didn’t tell them what had happened—he couldn’t bring himself to reveal how crazy she was, as if they might say I told you so, even though he knew they’d always liked her. So he just said that she’d fallen into depression and had refused help and had tried to harm Simon.
    Mr. and Mrs. Wisdom loved Rebecca, but they loved their son more, and baby Simon most of all. Over the next days, Grandma took care of the baby while Jack’s dad did his best to cheer him up, and every now and then suggest that maybe Jack should talk to her, maybe now she’d accept psychiatric help.
    Jack didn’t answer. He remembered when he’d had all those terrible dreams, and his mother wanted him to see a doctor but his father refused. How would it look if someone from the Wisdom family got his head shrunk? More normal than normal, that was what they were supposed to be. Well, Rebecca was as far from normal as it was possible to get. At times Jack wondered if he was back in his dreams, if he was still nine years old and trapped in an endless nightmare. But then he’d look at Simon, asleep in his crib or laughing at some silly face from Grandma, and he’d think how he could never have dreamed something so wondrous and pure.
    And he thought of Rebecca, how much he ached for her. You can’t dream love , he thought. You can’t command it, or control it. Even anger can’t shut it off.
    Rebecca called every day. The first time, Mrs. Wisdom picked up the phone and when she heard Rebecca’s voice asking for Jack, she got all confused and said she would check if Jack was there. “It’s Rebecca,” she whispered to her son, who stared blankly at the television as if it was a wall. Jack shook his head. The older Mrs. Wisdom told the younger that Jack wasn’t there, she had no idea when he was coming back, and in fact had no idea where he was.
    “And Simon?” Rebecca asked.
    “He’s fine,” Grandma said, and wondered if she’d revealed too much. Or not enough. Could she have encouraged Rebecca to get help?
    “Please tell Jack to call me,”