Free Monstrous Affections by David Nickle Page A

said.
    “I know.” Dad smiled down at her with what seemed like real
love — but it didn’t make her feel better. He cradled the little wooden
skeleton with nearly as much affection as he lowered it to the
stinking tar.
    “This is going to help us all,” he said, as he dipped it head-first
into the boiling tar. “Everything’s better from now on.”
    “Dad?” said Shelly as they worked. “What do we need a tar baby for
anyway?”
    Dad was watching the tar. “You remember what I told you about
Mr. Baldwin, don’t you, honey?”
    Shelly remembered the story, all right; Dad had told it his first
night back, while everyone sat around the kitchen table not looking
at each other and picking at their food.
    Mr. Baldwin was Dad’s prison buddy — his cell-mate for years.
And Mr. Baldwin swore by his tar baby; a little man he kept under
his bunk.
    Mr. Baldwin’s tar baby was made from a pot on the roof of the
pen’s south wing when it was under construction back in the 1970s
and Mr. Baldwin had drawn work duty there. According to Dad, Mr.
Baldwin was a puny fellow, more like a boy than a man in those days,
and although Dad wouldn’t say why, small size and smooth skin was
always a problem in a jail house. “Particularly when you’re like Mr.
Baldwin, and won’t stand for nothing,” he said.
    Mr. Baldwin had explained how he’d made the tar baby when
he and Dad were cell-mates for a few months before Dad’s release,
and Dad had paid close attention. After all, Dad explained — Mr.
Baldwin was still alive after all these years, and although he wasn’t
any bigger, and his skin wasn’t smooth anymore, it wasn’t scarred
much either. Mr. Baldwin said he’d never been forced to do anything
he didn’t care for, and over time since that day on the roof when the
tar baby got born, everyone got to calling him Mister.
    “It was a good time, when I was in with Mr. Baldwin,” Dad
said, eyes focused far away and voice gone wistful. “No threats, no
fights — nothing bad, nothing harmful. Men were respectful. The
tar baby taught everyone a lesson.”
    “Sounds boring,” said Blaine, watching the tar boil and bubble,
the brambly skeleton now vanished beneath its surface.
    “Hush,” said Dad. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,
boy.” He leaned forward, peering through the thick fumes into the
pot. “We need a tar baby, little girl, because your brother thinks
peacefulness and respect are boring .”
    Shelly still didn’t understand why Dad wanted a tar baby now
that he was outside of jail, but she figured it was better not to press
the point. Dad was concentrating.
    “Is it done?” she asked instead.
    “I think so. Lord, I wish Mr. Baldwin were here now. He’d know
for sure.”
    “Maybe we should wait,” said Shelly.
    Dad thought about this, and shook his head. “No. It’s time now.
Blaine?” Without looking up, Dad held his hand out. Blaine rolled
his eyes at Shelly, and hefted the can of turpentine. Dad took it,
unscrewed the top and held it over the pot.
    “Hold your nose,” said Dad. He mumbled a verse about hair and
salt and lizards, and began to pour. The turpentine in the hot tar
made an awful dark vapour where it etched out the tar baby from
the rest of it, and even though Shelly’s nose was held tight, she could
taste it on her tongue and feel it in her eyes as it rose up around
them and blotted out the dim light of the evening. She shut her
eyes against it, sealed her lips, but it was still around her; she felt
it sticking to her like the tar it’d come from, and the substance of it
stayed on her even when the smoke cleared and Dad, arms tar-black
to the elbow and grinning like a little boy, pronounced them done
for the night.
    “Come on,” said Blaine. “Get up off the ground, stupid, and let’s
go.”
    Shelly flinched back — expecting another punch maybe. But
Blaine stood against the darkening sky with Dad, his hands tucked
safely into his armpits.
    “Before the cops