Crying Uncle
by
Leslie R. Lee
Blood drained from her head so quickly, it felt like her bones had turned to dust. She grabbed the kitchen table trying to remain upright.
The parcel had been innocent enough. Aileen hadn’t even thought about it when she’d picked it up from the post office. Just supplies for her business she’d forgotten about. So many things just weren't available in this small town in the Pacific Northwest. She'd scribbled her name on a piece of paper, grabbed the parcel, and hurried away from the people at the counter. At least they were courteous, smiling hello’s and how are you’s. And she was actually able to mumble polite greetings in return. It had taken time but she didn’t feel quite such an outsider. No longer a stranger or a tourist. She didn’t have to miss Southern California quite so much.
But here in her cabin, this isolation she’d needed so badly for its protection, craved for its anonymity, now filled her stomach with fear. She was alone.
Breathe, she thought forcing away the dizziness, breathe. Come on, you can do it.
She pulled the object, mummified in plastic bubble wrap, from the parcel. It wasn’t heavy, about four or five pounds. Just heavier than it should have been for a simple sock puppet. Her sock puppet. That much she could recognize through the plastic. The puppet’s materials had been gifted to her by the crazy old man. But she'd been the one to construct it.
Aileen caught sight of herself in the reflection of her microwave. A plump, unattractive woman of twenty-five going on sixty-five, she thought. Her hair was brown, straggly, long to hide her face. Her complexion was pale from lack of sun. Unhealthy. But, there was no denying it, she was getting better. Thanks to the crazy old man. She wished that he was here now. He might be crazy but maybe that’s why they got along so well. Some said that he was an Indian, or from the “old country”, or a witch. Aileen thought that he was just Canadian. And also, that he was pretty strange. The first time he’d spoken to her he’d almost given her a coronary.
“What the hell’s wrong with you, child?” the old man had screamed, grabbing Aileen’s arm so suddenly her heart leaped into her throat.
The forest surrounding them swallowed her terrified shriek. She had neither seen nor heard him as she trudged along the deserted road leading back to her home. He might as well have dropped from the sky.
“What do you mean?” She tried to pry the vise like grip from her arm. He wasn’t hurting her but it was like being held by a statue. Despite warnings from the town’s folk to stay away from him, he wasn't completely unknown to her. She’d spied on him as he performed some sort of exercise in the forest. Rain or shine, he was out there doing his strange dance like moves. Without his knowledge, she’d tried to copy him. His sinewy, scarecrow thin physique was a far cry from her fat body. Yet, the moves were simple requiring a little balance and a little concentration. She found that following along wasn’t that hard. Had he’d seen her after all and was now going to demand money?
“You! I’m talking to you! You’re all broken. Hiding. Afraid all the damned time.”
His grip was sucking the energy from her. “No, no. Not me. You’re confusing me with somebody else.”
“You’re hiding from him aren’t you?”
What did this horrible little gnome know? “Let go of me. I’m not hiding.” Her big woolen hat kept falling over her eyes as she struggled to free herself. The weather was always wet and cold and clammy. Big down jackets and gloves and boots and hats, big woolen hats, kept her from freezing to death.
“Why are you hiding from him?”
“I’m not. I’m not hiding. Let go.”
“What about those others he’s hurting?”
She froze. What did he know? He released her so suddenly she stumbled backwards and sat in the muddy road. She swore at him. He didn’t notice and looked up.
“I gotta go,” he muttered.
Who else was he hurting? Aileen knew exactly who the he was. There was only one person in her life. That man crowded out every other face in her existence. Almost her entire life was defined by what he'd done to her. The rest of her life was consumed with trying to bring him to justice. When nobody would believe her, believe that a monster lived in their midst, she’d fled, beaten and bitter. Her own family thought she was lying. Or worse, was nuts. Making the stories up, they’d said. She was the bad person. The bad person for accusing such a sweet man as Uncle Straw. She was the mad woman. But she knew what he’d done. And underneath that façade of the loving and caring uncle, the oh so generous and kind man, trustworthy to a fault, was a beast with roving hands and saliva covered teeth. Behind those rimless glasses were eyes so hungry they were voids that could never be filled No matter how many little girls and little boys Uncle Straw consumed, he was an evil emptiness.
His little puppet show was a staple at all the children’s events. Out came the little sock puppets to play and sing and dance. The children would squeal with delight and wonder. At least for a little while. As long as they were young and hadn’t been polluted by TV and video games and other electronic entertainment. Uncle Straw’s audience was young, very young. He was cunning. Oh yes, so smart, so patient. Never attacking at the obvious moment. The times that were best were always the times when there were people around. Birthday parties were best. Noisy and chaotic. Stalking the young things who trusted him so much was much easier in the confusion. All he needed was a quiet place and just a few moments. In these rich people’s homes there were always places where you could get a child alone for a few minutes. And Aileen's niece was just perfect. She was ripening into that very special age. Oh yes, her time was definitely near. People would forget the insane accusations leveled against him. Nobody else had come forward. None of them could remember. Only Aileen had somehow burst out of the void. And she was gone. And Aileen's niece would be very special. And it would be soon...
She snapped back to find cold mud seeping through the seat of her pants. The crazy old man was sauntering down the road. The daydream's horror made her want to retch.
“Wait,” she called.
She hadn’t said anything to him at first. Just told the old man that she wanted to learn the strange exercises that he performed every day. He’d chuckled to himself and asked no more. And slowly she had shed a few pounds, regained a little strength, found a little courage. She didn't dread each day. She was still fat, she knew it. Destroying her body had seemed the appropriate response to being cast out by her own family. Loneliness was her proper punishment for failing to help the others. She even managed to stop drinking. The visions and dreams though, seemed no less real.
The old man never asked her again about what had happened to her. He viewed her mood swings as though they were his own private entertainment. That really drove her nuts. She’d throw things at him, curse him, swear that she’d not come back. But even that felt good. She was getting stronger.
However, Uncle Straw hovered at the edges of her vision, sapping her will, her strength. She’d see him cackling his triumph as people turned against her. Everyone hated her for telling the truth. She took a little comfort that while the storm shook the families, he didn’t dare do anything. He became very hungry. His eyes wanted to suck the life out of the children around him. Nobody else saw it. But she did. Whenever his prey was around but protected, he was nothing if not a saint. The parents hadn’t known what to make of her absurd accusations but their alert level was higher than it had ever been. Wait, he had to wait. And it wasn’t on his schedule, it wasn’t his hunt. This inactivity was imposed on him by Aileen. Oh, that must hurt. The deprivation was driving him over the edge of madness. People attributed his shaking hands and pallid demeanor to the strain of the investigation but Aileen knew better. He needed his fix. He needed to rape and abuse. It was his power trip, his source of strength, the hunger inside of him was like an ice cold dagger in his brain. At night, he’d find a brief respite by using his little sock puppets. Little Susie Sally, the little girl sock puppet so beloved by the children. Take it, he’d tell the puppet covering his hand. You do it or you’ll be punished, you bad girl. That’s what he said in the quiet of his bedroom when nobody was around. Take it.
She’d come out of these dreams shaking, weeping, mindless. The crazy old man would don her big pink ear muffs. Keeps out the noise he said. He looked ridiculous. And he was always ready with a mug of tea. He’d taken to sleeping over every now and then in her cabin. She hardly even noticed. Somehow, it seemed perfectly natural that he’d throw himself onto her couch and start snoring.
Eventually, she told him everything. Told him that she somehow knew what that evil man had done to her and was still doing. How she’d been too much of a coward to continue to fight and ended up just running away. She was safe. But the others. All the children left behind. Abandoned, unprotected, while she cowered in the forests.
"I'm gonna show you some things," he said one day, after she had thrown a fit that left broken dishes all over her kitchen.
"Like what? Something that's going to actually help me?" She ached for a drink. And for food. Things to fill the emptiness within her.
"They're old things," he said in an offhand way as if describing stuff out of a gardening catalog. "They're powerful things. And they're unpredictable. Dangerous in all ways."
"Yeah right.”
“They’ll help you see the pain inside of you.”
Then the crazy old man showed her. If she was willing to take on the risk, there was some sort of protection waiting for her. She hadn’t intended to knit something. However, after almost slicing off her thumb trying to carve a piece of hard wood, the crazy old man suggested knitting. So, she’d made the puppet. It hadn’t started out as a puppet. It was supposed to be a scarf. If she needed protection, she wanted something that could be worn all the time. But as she worked she realized that it was a little woolen animal. Knitting had not been one of the things that came naturally to her. With time and a lot of bent needles and used up yarn and sheer stubbornness, she’d created a little green sock puppet.
Covering her hand, it felt right to her. It looked like a green lizard or maybe an alligator. When she put it on, it moved easily, naturally. Almost as if her puppet was imbued with a life of its own. The old man took to giving it a wide berth. Especially after she sewed the eyes onto it. Milky white stones the old man had given her. The yarn and thread came from the general store. The teeth though came from a dead animal that she’d dug up accidently in the forest. She was revolted at first, but then decided that she would take four teeth from the skull. They were big and difficult to attach to the sock puppet’s mouth. But with the help of glue and strong twine, the mouth now sported a fine set of fangs. She liked that. Fine fangs. The crazy old man seemed fascinated and repelled at the same time.
She’d laughed at him. It was just a puppet. She had made it with the idea that it would be her protector. Her fetish. She’d pretended that it could talk.
“Hi, Mr. Greeny Head,” she said.
“Well hi, Aileen, how are you?” it’d say back.
“I’m just fine. How are you?”
“Fine.”
And that was the extent of her creativity. At least that’s what she thought. But soon, she found that she could speak with it comfortably and it would answer back. She knew deep in her heart that she was just parroting back her own inner most thoughts. Cheaper than therapy, she thought. But sometimes... the way it spoke... Especially of revenge. At first, she liked the way it described its fierce retribution. At first. But then as time passed and she darned on the finishing touches, the symbols of power that the old man had taught her, the descriptions chilled her more than the cold damp wind whistling under the doors of her cottage.
“I should get going,” it said one day.
She turned it to face her. It only spoke when it was on her hand. “What do you mean?”
“I have places to go,” it smiled slyly. “People to meet.”
The old man got up and left her cabin. He said it gave him the willies when the thing spoke like that. And he’d taken to wearing all kinds of talisman’s around his neck.
“Where are you going and who are you meeting?” she laughed back at it. She actually laughed these days. Even around other people. People in town greeted her by name now and she didn’t run away or act too weird. It felt good.
“You know who I’m going to see,” it said back, and turned to look out the window. “I’m tired of the rain here. I need some sun. Some desert.”
“You won’t like it,” she told it. “You’re safe here.”
“But there are others who aren’t safe. You know that.”
The shiver trickled up and down her spine. This wasn’t fun any more. “Stop that. You’re not going anywhere.”
She tried to pull it off her hand. She frowned. It seemed caught.
“You don’t have to go,” it said.
“Neither of us are going.” She struggled to peel it off her left hand. The edge clenched around her wrist.
“He deserves it. You should do it but I’ll do it for you. I’m good that way.”
“Stop it!” This was definitely no fun anymore.
“I can bring him to you. You can deal with him yourself.” It sounded so reasonable. But the way it snapped it jaws and grinned. Why wouldn’t it come off her arm? “I’ll give you a taste if you like.”
And suddenly it flashed out biting her shirt front, latching on to the material so quickly that it tore. She tried to jerk back but it was too quick. She jumped out of the chair and tried to pull the creature off her chest. It tore open her flannel shirt and the t-shirt underneath. It actually felt like her hand was the one being manipulated rather than her hand controlling the puppet. It released the torn material, shaking it from its mouth and leaped again. She shrieked as it lunged at her grabbing a hunk of her flesh right above the sternum. She stumbled against a wall pinned by her own hand. The creature seemed content though to just clamp on. The pain wasn’t too bad. She held it back with her other hand. Pulling at it though just pulled at her flesh and the teeth were very sharp.
Terror and embarrassment struggled within her. Backed into a corner by her own hand. It was ludicrous. Yet, she was frozen, pinned by the pricks of the teeth. Images of herself being hauled away in a straight jacket flashed in front of her. Still, she couldn’t find the control to force the jaws open. The tiny red tongue she had given it seemed to lap at the blood trickling down her skin. Insanity. She’d finally flipped out. This couldn’t be happening.