Now and on Earth by Jim Thompson Page B

was sure that-
    She groaned again. Her stomach revolved like a football being rolled inside a sweater. She clutched herself, and the involuntary spasms of her stomach rocked her back and forth.
    "I won't!" she screamed. "I won't, I won't, I won't!"
    They wheeled her out to the delivery room, the doctor pathetically tagging along behind the nurses, and the closing door cut off Roberta's hate-filled and outraged protests…
    Shannon was born at twelve minutes of twelve. I cannot say that we were cruel to her. Roberta may sometimes have neglected to heat her milk or change her diapers, but Roberta was sick a great deal. I may have smoked too much too close to her, and kept her awake with my typewriter. But I was trying to write a novel, the advances on which were necessary for our existence. I suppose that the worst I can say is that our kindness and attention were deliberate. We had to think about doing things for her. Occasionally, conscience stricken, we'd smother her with gifts and caresses. But we always had to think-we never did it automatically. And to Shannon, I guess, it seemed a long time between thoughts.
    Our spasmodic fits of affection upset her, and she learned to fight against them. She distrusted us, so she ordered her own life; and, all things considered, I think she did well.
    There was a summer evening, when she was about two, when we were all sitting out on the lawn of our home. Shannon suddenly announced that she had to go to the toilet. Roberta declared that she didn't.
    "She's just trying to make me get up, Jimmie," she said. "I never sit down for a minute that she doesn't think of something."
    "Have to go," said Shannon.
    "Well do it in your pants then," said Roberta. "Hurt bottom," said Shannon. "You take me, Daddy." I started to get up, but Roberta said, "No, don't you give in to her now, Jimmie." So I sat back down again.
    "You don't really have to go, baby. Wait a minute and you'll get over it."
    "Have to go," she repeated.
    "Go by yourself then," snapped Roberta. "All I hope is that a big bitey gets you."
    Shannon looked toward the dark house, and her knees shook a little. And then her head went back and she marched up the steps and through the door.
    She was still gone after fifteen minutes, so I went in, and there she was sitting on the stool and grinning toothlessly to herself. And she had had to go; there was no doubting that.
    "Stink the biteys," she said. "Stinkem to def."
    Fighting, fighting…
    Shortly before she was three we took a house adjacent to one of the parks. One day when I was escorting her and Jo there, we saw an old man approaching, and Jo shrank behind me.
    "That man," she whimpered, "he said he was going to cut my ears off."
    "Oh, he was just joking," I laughed. "You're not afraid, are you, Shannon?"
    "Uh-uh," said Shannon. "I fix him."
    She was carrying an enormous rag doll with a china head. Before I could stop her, she was down the sidewalk, had drawn the doll back over her shoulder, and had hurled it with all her astonishing energy straight into the old man's solar plexus. I'm not exaggerating when I say it almost killed him.
    You couldn't scare her by the mention of policemen. The mere fact that we told her they would get her for her misdeeds was proof to her that they were vulnerable. It got so bad that we couldn't take her downtown. At the sight of a cop she was off, fists flying, mouth open to bite and slash. And even at two and three she could inflict serious damage. We were warned officially, more than once, that if we didn't do something about her, it would be just too bad.
    She wasn't afraid of-well, she just wasn't afraid. In her lonely friendless world she had survived the horror of not being wanted, and she knew there was nothing worse to fear.
    We tried, we tried very hard to make things up to her. Remembering, we would buy her some trinket or article of clothing that Jo actually deserved. But with the coming of Mack, with his square shoulders and low chuckle, it