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November 6, 1990

What was that?

Jason quietly rolled to his back to listen.

Was there someone outside the door? As hard as the seven-year-old’s ears strained to hear, the hotel room had become quiet again.

Mother didn't seem to have heard it. She still lay on the next bed facing away from him, gently snoring. Her words still kept him awake and pinned him in place like one of the orange beetles in his collection. "Go to sleep, sweetie, or I won’t buy you the remote-controlled plane Grandma wanted you to have. We’ll just have enough time to get it before we catch our flight."

It was a fib, of course. Like Santa Claus was a fib. Grandma couldn’t have known how much he wanted a plane he could really fly. But Grandma at least was—or had been—a real person, so it was easy to believe she actually had wanted him to have a Pizazz 48" Ugly Stick with a Super P8 remote. He had seen it in Boy’s Life and had been dreaming about it for months. He'd probably mentioned it to his parents a dozen times a day.

Tomorrow it would be his. If only he could keep still, that is.

It wasn’t easy. Besides the bed being uncomfortable, the room reeked of cigarette smoke. Every breath made him choke. Even so, he was now so tired he could barely keep his eyes open, and he snuggled deeper into the thin pillow.

With thoughts about the Ugly Stick fading away, Jason edged toward sleep. He came too, fully alert, at the sound he heard before. It wasn't a knock, but more a scratching sound like Buster made when he wanted to come into the house for the night.

Jason looked over toward his mother, wondering if she had heard it too. At first he thought she was asleep and didn’t hear it. But when it repeated, she silently sat up and peered over at him. Seconds later, she got to her feet and tiptoed to the door. The door opened without a sound, letting in a flood of orange light from the hallway.

Someone stood in the doorway. It couldn’t be Father. The figure outlined against the light from the hallway was taller than Father and, bulky, as if he wore a winter coat, but he didn’t stand like Father either. His frame looked looser than Father's ramrod posture.

Uncle Gary?

Once again, everything went dark. Seconds later the bathroom door scraped against the pile of the rug, and then repeated as it closed.

A thread of light showed under the door. Even though Jason desperately wanted to see or hear who was with his mother, his legs remained frozen in place between the sheets.

Finally, teeth rattling more from nervousness than cold, he tiptoed to the bathroom door and listened.

He heard muffled sighs and kisses.

An anger he had never felt before began to well inside of him. Whoever that is shouldn’t be here!

Jason hurried back to bed when the bathroom light went out.

Whispers.

The anger in his belly had grown, but now he felt a shiver of fear. Who was with her, and why were they whispering?

Was it Father after all?

He held his breath as Mother's bed squeaked. Someone had gotten into it. Moments later, it squeaked again.
Jason cringed at his mother’s sigh.

Who’s there? The words he wanted to shout froze in Jason’s throat. The bedsprings creaked. Then his mother moaned.

He’s hurting her!!
The bedsprings groaned again and mother uttered a soft cry.

Blood surged. Though deathly afraid, he knew he had to protect her.

How? He remembered the woodcarving knife he had been using to work on his balsa airplane. It was still on the table next to his bed. Bursting with tension, he noiselessly reached for it.

Gripping it tightly in his right hand, he turned on the light. “I’ll help you, Mommy!” he shouted.

The figures on the bed moved together.

“No!” his mother screamed.

Head down, Jason charged. The naked man rolled off his mother. Why was Mother naked, too?

Barely able to see because of the tears in his eyes, Jason screamed in rage.

“Jason, stop,” mother screamed. “You don’t understand.”

Now as furious with his mother as he was at the intruder, he brought down the blade.

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