Jack
Peggy Trottman put her patched sweater on over her freshly laundered uniform, kissed her sleeping six-year-old son on the forehead and headed out the door, passing by Norma McNamee, her next-door neighbor, who watched Tim in the mornings and afternoons while she was at work.
"Sorry, I'm running late this morning," the neighbor apologized.
"It's no problem. He's still sound asleep."
Peggy buttoned up her sweater against the chilly fall weather and headed toward town. The sun had not yet risen, and the streets were empty. She didn't mind the quiet and the darkness of early morning. On the contrary, she found them strangely comforting.
As she turned the corner onto Main Street, she saw the milkman making his deliveries.
"Mornin', Abner," she called.
"Mornin', Mrs. Trottman," he replied. "Why don't you hop into my truck, and I'll give you a ride up to the house?"
The house to which Abner referred belonged to Arabella Whitley, Peggy's employer and the richest woman in town.
"I don't want to inconvenience you."
"It's no trouble. I have to make my deliveries up there anyway."
"Thank you, then. I'm much obliged."
At least three times a week, Peggy encountered the milkman in the morning. Each time they met, they played out the same act, their lines rarely changing.
"How's your boy doing?" Abner asked, as he drove up the hill to the stately Whitley mansion.
"Good. He goes to school now."
"And your husband?"
Peggy's face clouded before she answered.
"He found work with the CCC."
"That's good news. As I always say, in hard times like these, it's a blessing to have FDR in the White House."
"Amen to that!"
Five minutes later, the delivery truck came to a stop at the rear door—sometimes referred to as the "servants' entrance"—of the grand house, and Peggy got out.
"Thanks for the ride, Abner," she said, taking two bottles of milk off the truck for her employer.
"You have a nice day, Mrs. Trottman," the milkman answered, gallantly touching the brim of his cap.
Upon entering the kitchen, the maid took off her sweater and donned a white apron. Then she put a pot of coffee on the stove and began making breakfast. Two eggs over easy and two slices of toast, lightly buttered. It was always the same. The grandfather's clock in the foyer chimed seven as she took the tray of food into the dining room. Moments later, she heard her employer's footsteps coming down the stairs.
"Good morning, Mrs. Whitley. I've got your breakfast ready for you."
In the three years she had worked as a maid in the grand house, she had yet to fail having breakfast on the table when her employer came downstairs.
"Thank you."
After pouring coffee into the fine China cup, Peggy headed up the stairs to make the bed and collect the dirty laundry. She had an established routine and stuck to it religiously. Her work was repetitive and mundane, but it paid the bills. And although Arabella Whitley was not a warm individual by any means, she treated her help with courtesy and respect.
As the maid was tucking the top sheet beneath the mattress, her eyes went to the two photographs on the bedside table. Two faces, with a strong father-and-son resemblance, were encased in silver frames.
Poor Mrs. Whitley, she thought. Losing both her husband and her son so close together like that. My heart goes out to her.
The late Mr. Whitley had been one of the twelve thousand U.S. casualties of the Second Battle of the Marne back in the summer of 1918. His wife had barely recovered from the heartrending loss when her ten-year-old son took ill from the Spanish flu and died.
Honestly, I don't know what I'd do if something happened to my Tim.
Peggy's concern did not extend to her husband.
On the other hand, if Clem were to die ....
She quickly pushed that thought from her mind. Being a superstitious woman, she believed that if she wished harm to another person, it might come back to her. Besides, for now at least, thanks to FDR's New Deal program, he was living in a CCC camp, and although she was anxious for the country to recover from the Depression, she was not looking forward to having her husband come home.
* * *
Arabella Whitley became somewhat of a hermit after her husband and son died, rarely leaving her large house. About the only person she would come into contact with was her maid. Notwithstanding, the relationship between the two women had always remained that of employer-employee and never approached one of friendship. That was why Peggy was flabbergasted when she was told she could bring her son to the house on Thanksgiving Day.
"I can't very well eat an entire turkey dinner myself," Arabella declared. "And why should you have to cook two holiday meals—especially with your husband away? No, it'll be much more practical for you and the boy to come here and eat."
"Thank you, Mrs. Whitley. I appreciate that."
Like most of the children in town, Tim, who had never been to the house, was in awe of the huge place, for he had heard many tall tales told about both the mansion and its owner.
"They say people who go in there don't always come out," the boy said to his mother as they walked down Main Street on Thursday morning.
"That's nonsense! Don't I go there six days a week and come home every evening?"
"That's different. You work there. But if anyone else was to wander onto her property, they might never be seen again. She's a witch, you know."
"Who says?"
"Everybody."
"Don't believe everything you hear. Mrs. Whitley is just a sad, lonely woman with no family."
"The kids at school say she put a spell on them, that's why."
"That's nonsense! Her husband was killed during the war, and her son died of the flu. End of story. Now, I don't want to hear any more of this ridiculous talk. You understand?"
The boy nodded his head.
"I want you to promise me you'll be on your best behavior today. This is a day of giving thanks, and Mrs. Whitley is kind enough to share her bounty with us."
"I'll be good. I promise."
Tim remained in the kitchen with his mother while she roasted the turkey and prepared the usual fixings to go along with it. He was sitting down at the table, trying to make a sailboat out of an old newspaper, when Arabella walked into the room.
"So, this is Tim?" she asked.
She doesn't look like a witch, the little boy thought. But then, I don't really know what a witch looks like.
"Do you have something to say to Mrs. Whitley?" his mother prompted.
This was his cue to recite his carefully rehearsed line.
"Thank you for inviting us to spend Thanksgiving with you, Mrs. Whitley."
"You're welcome, young man."
The unexpected smile on the middle-aged woman's face transformed her, revealing something of the beautiful woman she was when she was younger. Then the smile suddenly vanished, and a look of profound sadness took its place.
"Would you like me to make you a cup of coffee or tea?" Peggy offered.
Arabella, on the verge of tears, did not trust herself to speak. Instead, she shook her head and retreated to the living room.
"Wait until I tell my friends in school!" Tim exclaimed.
"Tell them what?"
"That I met the witch, and she didn't try to kill me."
"You hush now!" his mother scolded. "Remember your promise to behave yourself. If I hear any more talk about witches, I'll put you over my knee and give you a good spanking!"
It was an empty threat, and both mother and son knew it. Peggy never hit her child. However, whenever she was pushed to the limits of her patience, she threatened him with physical punishment. It was her way of reining him in, and it worked every time.
By midafternoon, the turkey was done. Peggy placed it on a large platter and carried it to the dining room. It sat in its place of honor, in the center of the table, waiting to be carved, surrounded by mashed potatoes, gravy, cranberry sauce, cornbread stuffing, succotash and green beans.
"You want white or dark meat, Mrs. Whitley?" the maid asked, as she hovered over the cooked bird with a large carving knife.
"I prefer the breast."
"And you?" she asked her son after she served her employer.
"I want a leg."
"You remind me of my Jack," Arabella said wistfully. "He liked the drumsticks, too."
"Who's Jack?" the little boy inquired, a question that brought a stern look from his mother.
"He was my son. He loved holiday dinners! And he always asked for the wishbone."
"What's a wishbone?"
"Don't tell me you never had one! The wishbone is that Y-shaped breastbone of a turkey. After you pick all the meat off it, you let it dry out. When it's nice and brittle, two people each grab one end of the bone, make a wish and pull until it snaps in two. Whoever has the larger piece of the bone gets to have his wish come true."
"Really?"
"Really."
"I want the wishbone!"
"Tim!" his mother cried. "It's not polite to ask for things."
"Let the boy have it," Arabella said. "What am I going to do with a wishbone. It's not likely any of my wishes stand a chance of coming true."
By the time Peggy was finished cleaning up after the Thanksgiving meal, it was dark outside. Her employer insisted on calling the town's sole cabdriver to take the maid and her son home.
"You don't want to forget this," she called, handing over the wishbone, wrapped in a linen napkin.
"Thank you," Tim said, requiring no prompting from his mother.
Then he unexpectedly leaned forward and hugged the startled woman.
"Thank you for everything! I had such a nice time today."
"You're more than welcome, young man," the middle-aged woman said, fighting back her tears. "You're welcome to come here with your mother at Christmastime, too. In fact, you can come in a few weeks' time and help me put up the tree."
Mother and son were both in high spirits when the cab pulled up in front of their house.
"Let's get you into bed," Peggy announced as she opened the door. "You've had a busy ...."
She abruptly stopped speaking, and the smile faded from her lips.
"What are you doing home?" she asked Clem, her husband, trying to keep her disappointment from showing.
"We finished up clearing the lot ahead of time, so the foreman decided to give us the holiday off. I came home to spend Thanksgiving with my wife and son, and I found an empty house instead."
"I had to work."
"All day?"
"I had to cook a turkey dinner for Mrs. Whitley, and then I stayed to clean up afterward."
"And what about Tim? Where was he all that time?"
"Mrs. Whitley invited me for dinner," the little boy proudly replied. "Look! She gave me the wishbone."
"Hobnobbing it with the rich now, are we?" Clem asked snidely. "And does anyone care that I ate a cheese sandwich for my holiday meal?"
"I didn't know you were coming home," his wife cried defensively. "If I had, I would have made something for ...."
The forceful slap across her face silenced her. It was not the first time her husband had hit her, and it would not be the last. Her only hope was to placate him before the beating escalated.
"I'm sorry. Why don't I fix you something to eat?"
Despite her exhaustion from having worked in Mrs. Whitley's kitchen most of day, she began preparing a meal for her husband. As she was frying chicken on the stove, she saw the wishbone that her son left on the counter to dry out.
If I could make a wish, I know what it would be.
* * *
Today, Americans call it Black Friday, but during the Great Depression, it was simply the day after Thanksgiving. There were no doorbuster sales, no lines of eager shoppers in front of department stores in the early morning hours. For Peggy Trottman, it was pretty much the same as every other day of the year. The only difference was the pronounced change in her relationship with her employer.
"Mornin', Mrs. Whitley," the maid said when Arabella came downstairs. "Your breakfast is on the table. I'm making your coffee now."
"There's pumpkin pie left from yesterday. Why don't you take it home to your boy?"
"Thank you, ma'am," the maid said as she placed a cup of hot coffee on the dining room table. "I'm sure Tim will love having another slice of pie."
"What's wrong with your face? It's all red."
"Oh? Nothing. I ... uh ... I think I put too much starch in the pillowcases."
The maid's lies did not fool Arabella, who could clearly make out the shape of a handprint on the other woman's cheek.
"How's your husband doing these days—what's his name? Clem?"
"He's doing good. He found work with the CCC."
"Near here?"
"No. He's been staying at a camp at the national park."
"So, you haven't seen him for a while then?"
"He came home yesterday for Thanksgiving."
"But you and Tim spent the holiday with me. I hope that didn't cause any problems for you at home?"
"No. None at all. If you'll excuse me, ma'am, I've got to go collect the dirty laundry."
That's the world for you! Arabella mused as she slowly sipped her coffee. A fine man like my husband dies young while good-for-nothing wastrels like Clem Trottman will no doubt live to an old age.
During the next several hours, Peggy completed the household chores with her usual efficiency while her employer sat in the library, reading a book in front of the fire. The maid's last task for the day was to cook the older woman's dinner.
"I hope you don't mind leftovers," she announced. "I've creamed the turkey and served it over bread, but there's not much I can do with the vegetables other than reheat them."
"That's fine. Why don't you take some food home with you so that you don't have to cook for your family. Is your husband still home?"
"No. He went back to the camp early this morning."
There was a brief period of silence before Arabella spoke.
"You know, if you and Tim should ever want to ... get out of your house for any reason, you're always welcome to come here. I've got plenty of room."
"Thank you, Mrs. Whitley," Peggy managed to say despite the lump in her throat. "I best be getting home now. You have a pleasant evening."
"You, too. And give your boy a goodnight kiss for me."
* * *
Sunday was Peggy's one day off from work. It was also the day that she cleaned her own house. Nowhere near the size of her employer's home, it took far less time. She was done by late morning, giving her the afternoon to spend with her son.
Tim was excited to see that the turkey's wishbone had dried out.
"Can we pull on it now?" he asked his mother, eager to see if it really had the power to make his wish come true.
"I don't see why not," Peggy replied.
She grabbed one end, and he grabbed the other.
"Let's make a wish, and then on the count of three, pull. Ready?"
Tim closed his eyes in concentration.
"Let's see. I think I wish for ...."
"Shhh! If you tell, it won't come true."
After a few moments, the boy indicated that he had made his wish.
"Okay. One. Two. Three. Pull."
The brittle bone snapped easily, and Tim was left holding the larger piece.
"Look, Mom!" he cried with excitement. "My wish is going to be granted."
Peggy smiled. She did not have the heart to crush his good spirts by telling him that real life did not work that way. Wishes, more often than not, never came true. She preferred to let him enjoy his childlike beliefs a little while longer.
What's the harm in believing in Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy and making wishes? He'll have to grow up soon enough to a world devoid of magic.
After lunch, mother and son went outside for fresh air and exercise. Although winter would not officially start for another three weeks, it was cold enough for them to wear a hat and mittens. It was just after three when the first snowflakes began to fall.
Tim, like most small children, was excited by the change in weather. He already envisioned building a snowman and having snowball fights with the little girl across the street. Peggy, on the other hand, was dismayed at the possibility of an early winter.
The construction crews can't work in the snow, she thought dolefully. Once the bad weather sets in, Clem will be out of work again.
When he was out of work, he would come home.
And when he does, he'll more than likely be in an ornery mood.
* * *
On the fifteenth of December, the snow fell steadily. Tim was up early enough to see his mother before she went to work.
"Just ten more days," he announced in his countdown to Christmas.
The continuing Depression meant another sparse holiday, but Peggy had managed to save enough money so that Santa Claus could leave a pair of roller skates for him on Christmas morning.
"I wish we had a tree to decorate," the boy said, looking at the corner of the living room where trees were put up during previous Decembers.
"Maybe next year. But Mrs. Whitley said you can go over to her house and help her decorate the tree there."
"When can we go?"
"Saturday, when you have no school."
Peggy was at the closet getting her coat when the front door opened.
"Morning, Norma," she called over her shoulder.
When she turned around, she noticed it was not her neighbor but her husband.
"You look surprised to see me," Clem said.
"I didn't know you were coming home," she said, a false smile appearing on her face.
"Next time, I'll send up smoke signals to let you know."
The sarcasm was not a good omen.
"I see you're leaving for work. I guess I have to get my own breakfast."
"I ...."
"Go on, go head and get out of here. I wouldn't want you to be late. After all, you're the one with a steady paycheck now."
"Bye. I'll see you tonight."
"Yeah. I'll count the hours until then."
Her husband's nasty humor brought tears to her eyes as she walked toward Main Street. For once, she was glad Abner the milkman did not appear and offer her a ride. After unlocking her employer's back door, she shook the snow off her head, removed her coat and headed to the kitchen where she immediately began preparing breakfast. Peggy had just removed the eggs from the frying pan when Arabella appeared in the doorway.
"Are you bringing Tim with you on Saturday?" she asked. "I'll have Moe, my handyman, cut down a tree and bring the ornaments down from the attic."
"I'm not sure he can make it."
"What?" her employer asked with disappointment. "I thought he was looking forward to it."
"He is, but ...."
"Your husband's home, isn't he?"
It was more of a statement than a question since she already knew the answer. She had seen in on her maid's face.
"Yes."
"And he won't let the boy come."
"I don't know. I ...."
Peggy could no longer hold back the torrent of tears that fell like floodwaters.
"I'm sorry," she apologized. "I don't want to ...."
"You go right ahead and cry. God knows I've shed more than my share of tears in my life."
"It's just that ... well .... Now that Clem's home, he'll be with Tim every morning and afternoon when I'm at work. I'm afraid that ...."
"Will he hurt the boy?" Arabella asked with horror.
"I honestly don't know. He's never been a very patient man, and lately ...."
"You've got to take Tim and get away from him."
"I can't."
"Yes, you can. You can both come here. You can be a live-in maid. The two of you can have the entire third floor as an apartment."
"Clem will never allow it. He'll come after us."
"I'm not afraid of him."
"But I am. I know what he's like; you don't."
"If you go to the police maybe ...."
"Please! I know you mean well, Mrs. Whitley, but there's nothing you can do. I ... I best be getting back to work."
Later that day Arabella phoned an old family friend, a retired judge for advice.
"Unfortunately, these domestic squabbles are something most policemen prefer to overlook."
"Why is that?"
"Because we can't arrest the husband if the wife refuses to press charges, and most are too afraid to do so."
"I don't understand these women. Why let a man beat you and not do anything about it?"
"What's that old Irish saying? 'Better the devil you know than the devil you don't.' They figure if they provoke them, they may wind up dead."
"How likely is that?"
"It happens quite a bit, I'm afraid. A husband comes home, angry at the world, and takes it out on his wife. What starts as a slap escalates to a punch. The next thing you know, he either hits her with a blunt object or strangles her with his bare hands."
"And what if there are children involved?"
"A man who beats his wife will often do the same to his child." The judge then asked, "How old is your maid's son?"
"Six."
"That's about the age when the trouble starts. If he hasn't hit the boy yet, he'll probably start soon."
* * *
When Peggy got up on Saturday morning, she was careful not to wake her husband. Once she was dressed, she went into Tim's room and gently shook him until his eyes opened.
"Shhh!" she cautioned. "Be quiet. You don't want to wake your father."
Mother and son snuck out of the house and hurried toward Main Street, fearful that Clem would notice their absence and come after them.
"There you are!" Arabella called from the front door when she saw them walking up the driveway. "I'm so glad you could make it."
"He's been looking forward to this all week," Peggy explained.
"Why don't we all have breakfast together before we decorate the tree? You don't mind making us pancakes today, do you?" she asked her maid.
"I don't mind at all."
There was a party-like atmosphere in the dining room that morning. Arabella insisted her maid sit down and join in the fun.
"Don't worry about the housework today," the employer said. "I already made the bed myself. As for dusting and sweeping, let it go for one day. It won't kill me. I'm sure Tim will have more fun if you help us with the tree."
"All right, but why don't the two of you go ahead and start while I wash the breakfast dishes?"
"Leave them. You can do them with the lunch dishes."
Peggy headed toward the living room, expecting to see a small tree since after Jack died, Christmas decorations remained in the attic. This year, however, Arabella instructed her handyman to cut down a seven-foot-high spruce that barely cleared the ceiling once the angel was placed on top.
"Moe brought down the boxes of ornaments, and we have garland and tinsel. We can also put cotton on the branches to make it look like snow."
Tim hung the ornaments on the lower portion of the tree, and his mother decorated the upper while Arabella supervised their work. However, there was a small box of homemade ornaments that Mrs. Whitley handled herself. Each one brought back memories of happier times in her life.
"My Jack made this for me in school," she announced, holding up a snowman consisting of white pompoms decorated with felt. "He also painted the angel on this blue ornament. That was right before the war."
She quickly turned her head to hide her tears.
"He's been gone more than ten years already, and yet sometimes it feels as though he's still in this house."
Once the tree was done, Peggy made them all a late lunch. After they finished eating, she and Tim returned to the living room to look at the tree. Several minutes later, they were joined by Arabella who carried a box wrapped in Christmas paper.
"This is for you," she said, handing it to the boy.
"You got me a Christmas present?"
"Yes. Why don't you go ahead and open it?"
Inside the box was a red wooden box in the shape of a cube. On five of the six faces, there were brightly painted fairy tale landscapes.
"See that crank on the side? Why don't you turn it?" Arabella suggested.
When Tim turned the crank, the music box began to play, and she sang the lyrics to the melody.
"All around the cobbler's bench, the monkey chased the weasel. The monkey thought it all in fun. Pop!"
The top of the box suddenly sprang open and out popped the puppet-like head of a jester.
"Goes the weasel," Arabella laughingly concluded her song.
Although the jack-in-the-box had taken him by surprise, Tim was not too frightened to try it again. He pushed the head back in the box and turned the crank.
"Will you teach me the song?" he asked.
"It goes like this: All around the cobbler's bench, the monkey chased the weasel. The monkey thought it all in fun."
"Pop!" the two sang in unison as the jack-in-the-box emerged. "Goes the weasel."
* * *
When Peggy entered her own house later that afternoon, she saw her husband sitting in his chair, facing her. One look at his expression filled her with dread.
"You were sound asleep this morning, so I took Tim with me rather than wake you up," she quickly explained.
"What's that you got there?" he asked his son.
"It's a jack-in-the-box. Mrs. Whitley gave it to me after we put up the Christmas tree."
"She did, did she?"
Oh, no! Here it comes, his wife thought and then told her son to take the toy to his room.
"That's why you took him with you, isn't it? So that he could decorate the tree. Because God knows his father can't afford to buy him one."
"You shouldn't feel that way."
"I don't need you to tell me how I should and shouldn't feel. Why don't you just keep your mouth shut? Your face says it all, anyway. Every time you look at me, I see it in your eyes. I'm a failure. I can't take proper care of my family. My wife has to go out and work to support us."
"You're out of work because there's a depression going on that affects the entire country. It's not your fault. You ...."
Clem cut her off midsentence with a slap to the face and then followed it with another and another.
Meanwhile, in his bedroom, Tim turned the crank on the red wooden music box.
"All around the cobbler's bench," he sang, "the monkey chased the weasel. The monkey thought it all in fun. Pop! Goes the weasel."
No sooner did the song come to an end than he pushed the jester's head back down in the box and closed the lid. Over and over and over he repeated it, trying to drown out the sound of his father's yelling and his mother's pleading. Peggy had once made him promise never to enter the room when she and her husband were arguing. For his own safety, he was to remain quiet in his bedroom. Although he did not disobey her rules, it bothered him that he could do nothing to help her.
"All around the cobbler's bench," he sang, his voice increasing in volume, "the monkey chased the ...."
The bedroom door suddenly burst open.
"Stop playing with that damned music box!" his father shouted. "Why did that crazy old bat give it to you in the first place? We don't need her charity!"
Clem reached for the toy to take it away from his son.
"No," Tim cried. "It's mine. It's my Jack."
After getting over the initial shock of his son's defiance, Clem removed the belt from his pants.
"It's high time you learned a little respect!"
Peggy, her face bruised and bleeding from her beating, grabbed her husband's arm before he could hit the boy with the strap.
"Please!" she cried. "He's only six years old. Don't hurt him."
"You're always coddling him," her husband cried, turning his fury on her.
Peggy ran back to the living room, not to escape her husband's wrath but to lead him away from their son.
"I won't have my boy growing up a sissy or a juvenile delinquent because of you!"
"You're right. We don't need Mrs. Whitley's charity. I'll take the jack-in-the-box back to her first thing Monday morning," she lied, trying to mollify his anger.
After two more feeble lashings, Clem put his belt back on and walked out the front door.
Tim opened his bedroom door a crack.
"Mom? Are you okay?"
"Yeah," she replied, sobbing softly. "I'll be fine. Why don't you go to sleep?"
"Are you really going to give Jack back to Mrs. Whitley?"
"No. But you have to keep him hidden from your father. You got that?"
"Yes. I'll keep it under my bed where he won't find it."
It was nearly dawn when Clem stumbled home. He barely made it through the door before passing out on the sofa in a drunken stupor. He slept through Sunday, waking only briefly to stagger to the bathroom. After relieving himself, he went to the bedroom to sleep on his own bed. Although Peggy shuddered at the thought of sleeping beside her husband, she did not want to risk further upsetting him by refusing to do so.
Early Monday morning before leaving for work, she checked her son's room to make sure the jack-in-the-box was hidden beneath the bed. Tim was sound asleep with his portion of the turkey's wishbone clutched tightly in his hand.
"Please, God!" she prayed softly. "Don't let that bastard hurt my son."
When the front door shut behind his wife, Clem Trottman woke from his long sleep.
I need a goddamned bath, he thought. I stink to high heaven!
He filled the tub with water and got in. As he lathered his face, he recalled the events of Saturday evening. While he regretted the argument with his wife, he put no blame on himself.
It was all her fault. She made me mad.
He put his face in the water and rinsed off the suds. While he was soaping his closely cropped hair, the bathroom door behind him slowly and soundlessly opened.
And our son. If I don't do something soon, he's going to grow up just like her. I'm the man in the family, and even though I'm not bringing home a steady paycheck right now, I demand proper respect. I ....
"What the hell is that doing in here?" he said aloud.
Tim woke at the sound of his father's voice. He got up and looked beneath his bed. The jack-in-the-box was gone. Did his mother take it back to Mrs. Whitley, after all? The little boy was not aware that at that moment the red wooden box was in the bathroom, just inches away from the tub.
Peggy was supposed to take that with her today. Isn't that just like a woman! She had one thing to do, and she screwed it up. After I get dried off and dressed, I'll get rid of the damned toy myself. It's made of wood. It ought to make great kindling for the fireplace.
At that moment, the crank on the side of the cube began to turn as though an unseen hand was winding it.
"What the ...?"
The melody coming from the music box was accompanied by a little boy's voice singing the lyrics.
"All around the cobbler's bench ..."
That's not Tim singing.
"... the monkey chased the weasel."
Who the hell is it?
"The monkey thought it all in fun."
That voice doesn't even sound human. It sounds ....
"Pop! Goes the weasel."
The jester's head exploded through the top of the box with such force that the wooden cube flew up off the tile floor and into the bathtub. It hit Clem on the temple and knocked him out. His head slipped beneath the water, and within minutes, he drowned.
* * *
Less than a week after Clem Trottman's funeral, his widow moved into the third floor of the Whitley mansion with her son. They packed up what few belongings they had into cardboard boxes and loaded them onto Moe's Ford pickup. The handyman would then would take them to their new home.
"That's about it," Peggy announced after the last carton was put on the truck.
All her late husband's clothes and personal items would be donated to the church to be distributed to the needy. She kept nothing to remember him by, not even a photograph. She preferred her marriage remain a closed chapter in her life, from a book she had no desire to reread. Given her toxic relationship with Clem, she never remarried. Instead, she remained with Arabella Whitley, more of a companion than an employee.
Long after both the Depression and World War II came to an end, and Dr. Timothy Trottman had a wife and children of his own, the two elderly women were cleaning out the attic and found the jack-in-the-box.
"I remember when you gave this to Tim," Peggy said. "He used to play with it for hours on end."
"I'm not surprised. It was my Jack's favorite toy when he was that age."
"Did you know I found it in the bathtub the day Clem died?"
"Did you really?" Arabella asked, showing no hint of surprise.
"I have no idea how it got there. I sometimes wonder though ...."
"Wonder what?"
"You don't think Tim had anything to do with his father's death, do you?"
"Don't be ridiculous! He was only six years old at the time—little more than a baby! No, your husband died in answer to our prayers."
"How could you say such a thing?"
"Because it's true. Don't deny it. You wanted him dead, and so did I."
"All right, I admit it. He was a monster, and I prayed he would die before he had the chance to harm Tim."
"I prayed, too. And I have no doubt whatsoever that Jack, my darling angel in heaven, answered my prayers."
Salem in a Halloween jack-in-the-box? He looks more like a refugee from Rudolph's Island of Misfit Toys.
