Never Fear (60 page)

No one was spared. If a woman didn’t
hand over her purse quickly enough, she was shot. If a male shopper
refused to throw his wallet to one of the trio when commanded to do
so, he too, was shot. In some cases, the individual would be shot
whether he complied with the orders of the armed trio or not. The
bloody scene was horrific.

“
One of the worst mall
massacres in history,” trumpeted CNN.

Of course, CNN meant one
of the worst mall massacres in
United
States
history. There had been a far worse
mall shooting in Nairobi, Kenya just one year past. On September
21st, 2013, four unidentified gunmen attacked the upscale Westgate
Shopping Mall in an attack that lasted three days. Sixty-seven
people died, including the four attackers. More than one
hundred-seventy-five people were wounded. All four of the gunmen,
Islamic zealots from the group al-Shabaab, were killed.

The deadliest United States mall
killing, prior to the Dallas Galleria attack that killed Marion
Towlerton, was on December 5, 2007, in Omaha, Nebraska. Eight
people were shot and killed by nineteen-year-old Robert Hawkins,
who then committed suicide.

Virginia Tech. Sandy Hook. Columbine.
So many mass shootings in so many other public places, but the
deadliest United States mall shooting now was the shooting at the
Dallas Galleria Mall that claimed Marion Towlerton’s life and that
of fourteen other unsuspecting victims (not including the three
attackers.)

On December 8th, 2014, just 11 days
after watching his mother die at the Galleria Mall in Dallas, Ricky
returned to his first-grade classroom at Ronald E. McNair
Elementary School.

At first, everyone treated
Ricky as though he were made of glass. They acted as though he
might break at any moment. They gave him a wide berth. Special
counseling sessions were set up for many of the school’s students.
There were eight sections of first grade. In those eight sections,
at least five children knew of someone who had died at the mall.
However, none of them except Ricky had actually been
at
the mall during the
attack. And none of them except Ricky had lost a parent to such
senseless violence.

All affected youngsters of whatever
age at Ronald E. McNair Elementary School were told they could talk
about their feelings with a counselor. Many of them, including
Ricky, took advantage of this special service.

But some of the less-sensitive young
boys in Ricky’s class, when the children were alone or playing on
the playground, would ask him: “How did it happen? What was it
like? Weren’t you scared?”

At first, Ricky would just shake his
head. He wouldn’t respond. He refused to talk about it. Later,
however, after two or three days of repeated interrogation by
classmates, he began to speak to his friends in first grade about
his visit to Santa Claus.

When Ricky told Jimmy
Baker about Santa’s death, Jimmy was sympathetic and said to Ricky,
“How awful that must have been for you! I would have been
so
frightened!”

But there were far more
Johnny Dodges in Ricky’s large first-grade class than there were
sensitive Jimmy Bakers, plus there were the students in older
elementary grades. After three days, one of them, Max Black, said,
“You’re stupid. Santa isn’t real.” Ricky had just recounted
(
for what was beginning to feel like the
one
millionth time
) how Santa was shot. How Santa Claus had slumped forward,
crushing him, right after Marion was shot and killed.

Max Black was held back in first
grade. He still did not know how to read in third grade, despite
being almost ten. He was a sullen boy of Serbian descent who seemed
to always have a knack of bringing down any happy gathering. It was
not surprising that he was the one who interrupted Ricky. At the
time, Ricky was on the playground talking with a trio of
first-graders, two from his class and one slightly older boy he did
not know well.

“
Santa saved my life,”
Ricky said solemnly. “After the bad man with the mask shot
him—right here—-(
Ricky pointed to his own
forehead
)—Santa kind of slumped forward
onto me. My mom was already on the floor. She was bleeding real
bad.” Ricky sniffled at this point, unable to go on.

“
What happened next?”
asked Max. Max had all the sensitivity of a charging
rhino.

“
Santa. Santa happened
next. He got shot. But he saved me when he fell on me.”

“
You know that Santa Claus
isn’t real, don’t you, Ricky?” repeated Max Black, his voice a
verbal sneer.

Ricky looked at Max and said,
defiantly, “Yes he is.”

Max laughed. A short unpleasant
staccato outburst. “No he isn’t, retard. Only babies think Santa
Claus is real.”

Ricky hit Max in the shoulder. Max hit
Ricky back in the face. Black eye and bloody nose number
one.

When Ricky returned home from school
the weekend of December 13th, after a disagreement with a different
classmate, he wasn’t sporting a bloody nose or a black eye. But his
shirt was torn.

“
What happened to your
shirt, Ricky?” his father asked.

“
This big kid who’s in
Miss Simpson’s first grade section—- he tore it,” Ricky
said.

Tom gave Ricky the
standard lecture about getting along with others and taking care of
one’s belongings. He didn’t know the extent of the pushing and
shoving that had occurred on the playground during recess
(
which Ricky started
). The incident was forgotten.

On Monday, December
15
^th

Ricky was involved in another incident
with a different boy during gym class. Principal Soames called Tom
Towlerton and asked him to come into his office for a
conference.

“
Mr. Towlerton, I know
things have been rough for you and Ricky since—well, since what
happened—but he seems to be acting out. We wondered if you’d
thought of getting him some private psychiatric counseling. He’s
been through a terrible ordeal. In fact, he’s lucky to be alive. It
has to have affected him. We’d like to help him get over
it.”

“
Get over it!” Tom said.
Sarcastic. Incredulous. “HE WATCHED HIS MOTHER DIE! How do you ‘get
over’ that?” Tom stormed from the office, angry, without responding
further, other than to say he’d think about the psychiatric
sessions the school principal suggested.

Tom did arrange for a few private
sessions with a psychiatrist, Dr. Rothstein, when he learned it
would be covered by his employee insurance at Exxon-Mobile. The
sessions were privileged, which meant that the shrink didn’t really
share every single confidence Ricky told him with Tom Towlerton,
but Dr. Rothstein did say to Tom, “You know—it’s nice to see a
little kid like Ricky after working with so many jaded teenagers.
Did you know Ricky still believes in Santa Claus?” Dr. Rothstein
smiled as he told Tom this small detail.

“
Yes—I know,” replied Tom.
“It’s the main reason Marion took him to the Galleria that day. She
wanted to get a picture of Ricky on Santa’s lap.” Tom
thought,
If only Marion hadn’t taken Ricky
to the Mall to get that picture, she might still be alive
today
...

As though reading his mind, Dr.
Rothstein said, “Well, don’t blame Marion for taking Ricky to see
Santa. And don’t think it’s a bad thing that Ricky still believes
in him. It’s actually kind of refreshing to meet a little kid who
still has that kind of childish innocence. So many kids lose the
wonder so young.”

With those closing remarks, the two
men shook hands and Tom exited Dr. Rothstein’s office, where he had
stopped for an update on Ricky’s progress.

December 19, 2014

Tom Towlerton sat down in his wife’s
seat, next to his shaken son—a little boy still covered in cuts and
scratches and dirt that Tom’s efforts had not quite successfully
removed. Tom asked, “What happened with Johnny Dodge today, outside
Anderson’s Department Store? What do you mean by ‘the
usual?’“

Ricky sat there for a moment,
stubbornly bullheaded. Quiet in a sullen way. He didn’t know if he
wanted to respond. Then he began to speak.

“
Dad—every single one of
the fights I’ve been in since...since Mom died....they’ve all been
about the same thing. Kids ask me about the shooting. At first, I
try not to talk about it, try not to tell them anything. But they
won’t leave me alone. At recess, on the bus, walking home, in
class: they all want to know the same things. What was it like?
Were you scared? How did you survive? What did you do?

At first—like I said—I
didn’t say anything. But then I started to answer them.
(
Tom’s heart broke a little bit when Ricky
lisped the word ‘started’ in his six-year-old’s
voice
.) And tonight, when Johnny Dodge and
I were standing in front of that Christmas display in Anderson’s
Department Store window, I told Johnny, ‘That’s not the
REAL
Santa Claus. That’s
just a cardboard cutout of him in a fake sleigh.’ Johnny laughed at
me and said, ‘Dummy—there
is
no
REAL
Santa Claus!’“

“
And what did you say,
Ricky?” his weary father asked, inwardly fearing the
answer.

“
I told Johnny Dodge,
‘Santa Claus is
too
real! I watched him
die.
’”

A FAMILY CHRISTMAS
TERROR

CHAPTER 19

“
That was pleasant,” Judy
said.

“
I think I’m getting
sober,” Nick added.

Grandpa said, “Judy, another round of
port for whoever wants—or needs—one after that story— except Dan,
of course.”

“
Mind your own business,
old man.” Dan shakily raised his glass.

“
I’ve already got the
decanter, Dan,” Judy said, rolling her eyes in disgust. She filled
his glass.

“
More!” Dan roared,
pushing his glass at her, dark red liquid sloshing over the
sides.

Judy looked at the pile of vomit on
the couch. “Are you going to clean that up?”

Dan looked at it, then back at her. He
shrugged. He picked up a cushion and dropped it over the smelly
mess. “There. Happy?”

Judy stared steely-eyed at
him, turned and set the bottle on the mantel. She walked to the
foot of the stairs and turned back to the men. “Thank you for
ruining the day,
Dan!
Merry
FUCKING CHRISTMAS!”
And she stomped up the stairs.

“
What’s her problem?” Dan
muttered into his drink.

Nick silently walked to the mantel and
grabbed the bottle. He sat back down and took a swig.

Jack looked at the others.
“
Secret Satan: A Christmas
Story.
”

SECRET SATAN: A CHRISTMAS
TALE

JEFF DEPEW

Pitch wiped the honey off his hands
with a dirty rag and gazed around Hell. He sighed. Was his shift
over yet? He stood beside an immense, circular abyss, miles across.
When he looked up through the swirling, smoky air, he could
sometimes catch a glimmer of light. Up Top. The surface world. Home
of the humans. And above that? Heaven.

If he walked down and around the
winding paths along the edge of the Abyss, he would eventually find
himself at another level, complete with its own type of sinner and
specific torment. And if he followed the paths even further,
walking down and down and down, he would get to the bottom. The
Pit. Lakes of fire. Immense palaces made of human bones. Cauldrons
of boiling human fat. Constant screaming. And the Big Guy himself.
Satan. But nope. Pitch was up here, in a place that was barely part
of Hell.

Fifteen hundred years of loyal
servitude to his Infernal Lord and Master, and he made one little
mistake. It wasn’t even his fault. Eons ago, he had been the
assistant manager of the premier banquet hall on Level Nine. Not a
prestigious job, but not bad. Pitch had been preparing for the
Feast of Empusa, who, at the time, was one of Satan’s concubines.
It was a grand affair, and her retinue of imps had painstakingly
planned the menu. Pitch was given a menu that called for
“Twenty-One Year Olds.” So Pitch (with much difficulty, thank you
very much) had found a dozen twenty-one-year-old virgins and served
them up, lightly broiled. How was he supposed to know the menu
should have read “Twenty One-Year Olds”? Apparently, Empusa favored
infants. The fatter the better.

Well, it hadn’t been a pretty scene,
and Empusa was not forgiving. Even though she didn’t complain until
after she’d devoured the twenty-one-year-olds. And had asked if
there were any more. But, a mistake had been made. She had been
dishonored. And Pitch was in charge. So he had been demoted up
several Levels. All because of a misplaced hyphen.