The Child Eater by Rachel Pollack

Rebecca said, and Mom promised and hung up. After that, they screened all the calls and followed Jack’s insistence that no one talk to Rebecca, though her messages begged Jack to call her.
    “Shouldn’t you talk to her?” his father said. “She really sounds sorry.” Jack shook his head. What if she said she was all better, and he believed her? And took Simon home, and then when Jack was at work—
    One evening, Jack’s father took him to a basketball game, leaving his mother alone with the baby. When the phone rang and Rebecca came on the machine, Mrs. Wisdom was tempted to pick it up, to see if she could get through to her daughter-in-law that she had to take the first step of seeing a psychiatrist. Like her son, she remembered, she couldn’t help but remember, when she wanted to take him to a doctor, and she let her husband stop her. But this was different—Rebecca so clearly needed help. She was obviously heartbroken, and Jack was definitely in pain. Just as Jack’s mother reached for the phone she realized Rebecca was saying something different this time, something crazy.
    “Jack,” Rebecca said, “please listen to me. Please. You have to remember. Nine years from now, a man will offer to take Simon on a special trip. To help him. Don’t let him do it . He’ll seem so kind and smart, and promise you every safeguard. Don’t listen to him. Don’t let Simon go with him. Please, Jack, you have to remember. I don’t care what you think about me, what you tell Simon about me. Just don’t let him do it. Remember .” She was crying when she hung up the phone.
    Mrs. Wisdom replayed the message three times. Rebecca sounded so desperate. But that very desperation, about something so obviouslyinsane, was clearly a sign of her madness. Jack had a right to hear the message. Of course. But what would it do for him, except entrench him even deeper in anger? After the third time, she sighed deeply and erased the message.
    Two days later, on a Sunday morning, Jack was sitting at the kitchen table, feeding Simon puréed carrots and occasionally snatching bites of a bagel and cream cheese. His mother had offered to feed the baby so Jack could relax—working long distance from his parents’ home appeared to tire him even more than going to the office—but Jack wanted to do it himself. It was late autumn, and leaves swirled around the back porch. Jack’s father stood at the window with his mug of coffee. He laughed and took a sip. “There’s something you don’t see every day,” he said.
    “What’s that?” his wife asked.
    “There’s a pair of squirrels scratching at the back door like they want to come in.” Louder, he said, “Sorry, boys. No nuts or berries available today.”
    Jack jumped up so quickly he dropped the spoon and Simon began to cry. Jack handed the baby to his mother then rushed to the window. “Jack?” his mother said. “What’s wrong?” and his father said, “Son? What is it?”
    Jack stood at the window, his mouth open as if he couldn’t breathe. The squirrels turned toward the window, stood on their hind legs and tilted their heads up to stare directly at him. One was gray, the other red. “Oh my God,” he said, hardly more than a whisper.
    His father touched his shoulder. “Jack?”
    The squirrels ran off now, along the path to the driveway and under Jack’s car. Jack turned, stared at his father, and then his mother, as if they, not the squirrels, were strange and alien. Finally he said, “It’s Rebecca. I have to go to her. She’s dying.”
    His mother gasped, and his father said, “Dying? What are you talking about?”
    Jack didn’t answer, only ran for his keys. “Take care of Simon!” he yelled.
    When he arrived home late that afternoon, Rebecca’s car was in the driveway, and he didn’t know if that was good or bad. At the back door, he dropped his keys twice before he discovered it was unlocked. “Bec?” he yelled as soon as he was inside the house.