Wicked Angel

  She was very uncomfortable with Kennie for a few moments, for she was embarrassed with herself. But what was it about Angelo Saint that she did not like? She could not explain it, and she was ashamed. Kennie was smiling at her, a kind, adult smile, and he had actually patted her hand which was smaller than his own and said, “Never mind. It isn’t important, Miss Whythe. Maybe you wouldn’t understand. It’s just that I’ve caught on about Angelo, and he knows it.”

  “What have you caught on?”

  Kennie hesitated, and then shuffled his feet. “Oh, I don’t know. I just think that he’s a fake. Kind of like an actor, or something. You know, not real. Just pretending.”

  “Why, for goodness sake? Why should he?”

  “I don’t know, Miss Whythe. And maybe I’m wrong.”

  She had looked closely at Angelo the next day, and all at once he had glanced up and met her eyes, and though he instantly smiled his charming smile his eyes became cold and watchful and full of thought. She had been uneasy with him after that, and he knew it, and she was angry at herself and a little angry with Kennie. After all, only children who had been browbeaten, ignored, “rejected,” and unwanted, learned to be deceitful for their own protection. That is what they had taught her in her childpsychology classes during her education courses, and then in adolescent psychology. But had there not been a hasty and almost unwilling exploration into the child-psychopath mind, too? It was as if her prof had been annoyed by that brief excursion, and had not believed it, and had not wanted to believe that some children are innately evil and not the “victims” of “problem” parents, inferior environment and what he obscurely called “local discriminations and social restrictions and inequities.” She had thought then, though a young girl: Why is there such an insistence these days on believing that all wrong and all wickedness and crime do not exist of themselves, but are the results of what is vaguely called “conditions?”

  If anyone, she thought as she looked at Kennie’s generous face and firm, honest lips and intelligent eyes, had a right to be maladjusted, evil, twisted in nature, asocial, delinquent, cruel and uncontrollable, then Kennie was the one. But he was not. He was the living refutation of theory; he had been unloved and rejected, beaten and despised, brutally treated by both parents from almost his very birth. Yet he was gentle and strong, kind and loving, full of sympathy and understanding, responsive at once to friendship and completely responsible. It was very disconcerting.

  All had gone well until a certain day. She had asked Kennie to stand up and read from the current book the class was studying, for he had an excellent and resonant voice. But as he stood up a page fell from his book, and from the little distance at which she sat Jane saw that it was scrawled over with characters written in red pencil. A neighboring boy had politely reached down and picked it up for Kennie, but his eyes had been caught by the writing, and he had looked aghast. Suddenly curious, other boys leaned from their desks and read. They said nothing. The first boy handed it to Kennie, who read it. He had suddenly paled, looked mortally sick, and fallen into his seat, speechlessly.

  Jane had come at once from her seat and taken the sheet of paper. She read, as from a kind of dossier: “Kenneth Landowski (alias Richards). Son of Stanislaus Landowski and Eva Landowski, deceased. Born January 3, 1953 in the City. Stanislaus Landowski, a laborer and drunkard, and chronically unemployed, had been on welfare with his family from April 2, 1956 to June 19, 1958, and had received psychiatric treatment from Drs.—and—, with no result of an encouraging nature. On June 5, 1959, he had murdered his wife Eva, and had been executed in Sing Sing on January 4, 1959. Only witness, son Kenneth, who had to be sent to a children’s nursing home for a period of one year, mind affected.” Then, in large block printing was the query: “Do we want a person of this background among us?”

  Jane had thought she would faint. She heard a dim sibilant sound, and looked about her. The news was traveling from boy to boy, moving swiftly like a serpent from desk to desk. Kennie sat as if struck dead, his eyes staring emptily before him. Jane had then touched his shoulder, bent to smile into his face, then had taken the paper to her desk. She had held it up to the class, and all the boys watched her intently.

  “You’ve heard about anonymous letters, written by cruel and malicious people,” she said. “This is a sample. It was meant to hurt Kennie, whom we all like and respect. Why, I don’t know. There is a wicked boy in this class. I won’t ask him to show himself; he won’t. But, as certainly as he has an immortal soul, both God and man will punish him, finally, for this unprovoked attack on Kennie. And this is what we do with anonymous letters, and if you boys ever receive them in the future, do the same.” She had opened her bag and taken out her lighter and burned the letter, and the boys had watched the flame like children hypnotized. She had then resumed the class.

  But from that day on Kennie was avoided, uncomfortably. And he withdrew, with pride. It was never the same. Finally a mother or two appeared indignantly in Miss Simmons’ office, and had been dismissed, tartly. The question remained, however, how this information from Kennie’s dossier had been made available to some boy in the class. The file which contained the boys’ histories was always locked, and only Miss Simmons had the key. Jane had given it great thought. If a teacher wished to refresh her memory about a boy she had only to ask Miss Simmons for the key, and it was given her in Miss Simmons’ presence, and then returned at once. Of course, Miss Simmons herself frequently opened the file. It was a terrible mystery. Then Kennie, only a month ago, had come to both Jane and Miss Simmons and had quietly asked to be released from the school. He said he thought he would prefer public school. Arguments did nothing; the boy had a determined nature. He left.

  Miss Simmons had asked every boy in the class, separately, if he had ever found her key and opened the file. Each one vehemently denied it, and with indignation. He had been believed. Jane did not mention it, but she remembered that Miss Simmons was an old lady and sometimes absently left the key in the lock, herself, until some teacher rescued and returned it. Jane herself had come upon the file once or twice with the key fixed in the lock. Some boy—but who?—had seized the opportunity to peer with animal curiosity at the history of his friends, or to see what had been written about himself. But why had Kennie been singled out? The teachers had been questioned; they had been in and out of Miss Simmons’ office frequently, a few days before the scarring note had been found. They could not recall any single boy as being present during their visits, though sometimes Miss Simmons was absent at the time.

  Now Jane, thinking about Kennie, looked at Mark Saint. Her eyes were abstracted, and she repeated what she had said: “I don’t know, Mr. Saint. I can’t make accusations on anything so nebulous.”

  “Yes,” said Mark, in a sick voice, “everything is always so nebulous. And so clever.”

  “Perhaps you are doing Angelo an injustice,” said Jane, the child psychologist, the child lover, the child defender. Mark gave her a cigarette, and they smoked together in a little silence. Jane was becoming more confident, and she regarded Mark with severity. Was he, after all, a really “understanding” parent? He loved Angelo, but perhaps did not devote as much time to the boy as he should. Otherwise, how could he think such things of him? A man should spend at least two hours with his son every day, and every weekend. That is what she had been taught. Of course, the fact that a man might have business on those weekends, or work to do at night, or friends to cultivate, was of no importance when it concerned The Children. The Children were all.

  Jane did not know at what instant, while she was sitting there tranquilly smoking and rebuking Mark in her stern young mind, that a picture, clear and vivid, rose up in her mind, and shocked her so much that she dropped her cigarette. Mark bent and picked it up, and saw the shock on her face, and he said softly, “Well, what is it, my dear?”

  But Jane did not hear him. She was remembering a certain day when she had gone into Miss Simmons’ office for something which she co
uld not now recall. Angelo Saint had been sitting in the visitor’s chair, waiting, with an envelope in his hand. It was lunchtime, and she had pleasantly asked him why he was not in the cafeteria. “Oh, I’ve already had my lunch, Miss Whythe,” he had answered in his rich and cajoling voice, and he had stood up at once with his perfect manners. “I have an invitation here, for dinner, for Miss Simmons, from my mother. I could have laid it on her desk, but I thought it would be more polite to give it to her in person.” His thick dark brows had knitted anxiously, and he had looked at her with a winning question in his eyes. “Don’t you think that is the best way?”

  “Of course,” she said at once, trying to smother her instinctive dislike for him which she would not acknowledge even to herself. It was just that uneasiness. … “But don’t stay here after the bell rings if Miss Simmons hasn’t returned, will you?”

  She had not looked at the file to see if Miss Simmons had again forgotten to take the key out. Why should she have? She was not concerned with the file that day; she could not recall, now, just what her errand had been. But she had left Angelo, smiling, in his chair, waiting for Miss Simmons.

  She had no proof! she thought passionately to herself, avoiding Mark’s eyes. No proof at all. If the key had been there, if Angelo had seen it, if he had taken the opportunity to open the file and read, if no teacher had entered, if he had done it swiftly, if he had had this in mind for a long time … So many ifs, and all of them vague and not to be proved, and each depending on the other, in an incredible chain of events.

  “Help me,” said Mark. “If there is just one thing that troubles you, one thing you can be sure of, one thing that will help Angelo.”

  “You’re not sure yourself about anything,” said Jane, and though she was still seeing that picture of Angelo in the office, she shook her head. “Brilliant children often do things that adults misunderstand. It can always be easily explained—if a parent takes the time, and has the love and patience and understanding to find out.” Her dark eyes admonished him, accused him. He stood up, and looked down at her a long time. Then he spoke almost inaudibly:

  “Little Jane Whythe. You know something, you suspect something, and you won’t tell me, out of a misguided sense of justice. My dear child, listen to me. You’re still in danger, if Angelo did that to you deliberately. Or perhaps he’s satisfied now. I hope so! But someday, he won’t be satisfied—oh, my God!—with just hurting someone! Someday, if he isn’t stopped now, and perhaps treated, he will—”

  Jane frowned at him formidably. What awful things to say about “a child,” and especially on the part of “a parent”! Why, the poor man needed psychiatric treatment immediately, and “tender, loving care”! She blurted out, “Mr. Saint, you look very tired and worn. In that condition,” she continued primly, “one needs help.”

  “Angelo needs help,” said Mark, in a fading voice.

  “He does, indeed,” said Jane, and stood up with tiny dignity, dismissing him. “He needs his father’s love and interest.” She was certain now, after talking with Mark, that the things she had vaguely feared and suspected were only shadows, and she was filled with contrition and determination to give more time to Angelo and understand him. And she was ashamed. For the first time she loved Angelo, in her pity for him that he had such a father—neurotic, almost hysterical, high-strung, and apparently consumed with dislike for his son. Was there an Oedipus complex in the background? Were father and son competing for the affection of the wife and mother? Oh, that explained everything! Jane gave Mark a knowing smile, and shook hands with him.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “You aren’t eating your dinner, dear,” said Kathy to her husband. “And I fried that chicken myself. Betty doesn’t do it right. And I made the hollandaise sauce; I don’t like the prepared variety. It’s your favorite dinner, and you aren’t eating a thing! I’m hurt.”

  “Sorry, darling,” said Mark, and put his fork into a succulent chicken leg. But the utensil was heavy in his fingers; his stomach turned. Kathy was regarding him anxiously. “I do wish you’d go to Dr. Hauser, and not Dr. Bowes. You haven’t had your yearly check-up. Mark, you must have lost at least ten pounds, and you can’t afford it!”

  “I’ve been working hard,” said Mark. “Please don’t worry. We have a new contract, and it’s tricky.” Angelo ate with his usual finicky care, but he watched his father through his eyelashes. So, the old boy was still thinking of that stinker, dear Auntie Alicia! Much good it would do him. He, Angelo, had effectively scared her away, forever. Now, there was no threat to his good and happy life, and no unexpected visits when he had to see her ugly watching face. Above all, her nasty watching face, which could never be deceived. There were few people in Angelo’s world now who dared to threaten him by understanding him or withholding adulation from him. Even that stupid Jane Whythe had at last succumbed; she couldn’t do enough for him. She murmured at him affectionately; she had him read his compositions in class, and led the applause. She had told him, over and over, with intent, sedulous emphasis, that some day he would be a great artist of some kind, which affirmed his own opinion. He had been on guard for a time, watching for any sign that she had known all about that broken-arm episode. He had seen it for at least ten school days, and had plotted again. But then, all at once, the suspicion was gone, and had been replaced by affection, admiration and sincere acceptance. Angelo had an idea what had happened: She had brooded on the matter for a couple of weeks, and then had settled it in her own mind as unjust and unpardonable on her part. She was compensating now for her earlier coldness and suspicion, and he wallowed in it with malicious pleasure and enjoyment. She was safe; he no longer had to waste time thinking of something more drastic. In a way that was disappointing; he so enjoyed those episodes of secret violence. But a fellow couldn’t have everything, he thought philosophically. Everything was fine. Kennie Richards, or Landowski, had vanished, like the others he hated, from his life.

  Sometimes even Angelo paused to wonder if he loved his parents. Of course, Mum was an idiot, but she adored him. He supposed he loved her; he would love her more if she would just stop wearing those foolish whirling skirts and pretending to be young for his sake. At any rate, she was indispensable. He could not imagine a world empty of her idolatry, empty of her admiration and the gifts and comforts and luxuries she heaped on him. He was the very center of her world, as he was the center of his. Nothing could menace the place he had in her life; nothing could remove him from the core of her existence. When he had been younger, he had been enraged when his parents had embraced in his presence. But that was before he realized that Mark was nothing to Kathy compared with her son. Let him have the crumbs! He was a crumb himself.

  He did not actively dislike his father; there were even times when he was fond of Mark, especially when Mark unexpectedly brought home a lavish gift. But was he the center of Mark’s life? At five, the doubt had inflamed the boy with fury. But now that he was ten he understood that if his life were to be surrounded with pleasant things and all that he wished, Mark must have another life besides his son, a life concerned with business which brought in a great deal of money. So Angelo indulgently forgave his father for not centering every thought and every deed upon him. This did not prevent him from annoying Mark at times; after all, a fellow had a right to a little fun. And the best joy of all was making game of Mum in Mark’s presence. It was really funny to see the vexation in Mark’s eyes, and how he had to restrain himself from speaking. Oh, people were imbeciles! They were expressly created for the exploitation and use and pleasure of the Angelos of the world, and in particular Angelo Saint. Angelo enjoyed his life very much. But he was always on guard to see that no one else menaced that paradise by dislike, by understanding him, by demanding their own rights in preference to his own desires. Even Mark’s infrequent punishments, such as a stern rebuke or sending him away from the table, and even the one and only occasion when he had physically punished his son, had been forgiven. They assured Angelo t
hat his father was also engrossed with him even if he had other interests in the world outside.

  Preternaturally acute though he was, and always watchful, Angelo did not know that while Mark was listlessly playing with his food he was not thinking of Alice Knowles. Angelo did not know that Mark was thinking of him, for Mark had never indicated to the boy that he had his fearful suspicions and secret terrors about him. Not once did the boy suspect this, for was he not the most clever creature in the world, and were not his parents stupid and incapable of mistrust or dark conjecture with regard to their son? As for all the others, they too had been stupid. But that was because he was so superior to them in every way, and so adroit, and never left any untidy ends floating about. Sometimes he told himself, virtuously, that it was not his fault at all. The others were the culprits.

  Mark said, the food in his mouth nauseating him, “When are we going to have Jack McDowell and that nice girl of his to dinner? We were at the engagement party and other parties in their honor.”

  “Oh, I’m going to give Mary a shower soon,” said Kathy restlessly. “Frankly, though, I don’t care much for either of them. Mary puts on airs, just because her father was a famous surgeon in the City, and Jack has a way of—peering. It’s an occupational disease of psychiatrists, I suppose.”