The Devil’s Disciple

 (This is an attempt to emulate Shirley Jackson’s view of the world.)

The mother other took another deep breath, holding onto her temper. Finally, she gave the little boy another five dollars and pointed to the ice cream van. “Just one more and bring back the change. I can see you the whole time,” she said. The boy skipped off to join the line of screaming children trying to decide if he wanted a Good Humor King Cone or a Nestle’s Drumstick. They both were dipped in chocolate and nuts and weren’t that different. He only chose the Drumstick because he liked the name and pocketed the change.
            His mother moved the booster seat out of the sun and lifted the lacy cover over the wailing baby. She offered her a bottle of milk from the ice pack, then water, and finally gave up and held out the bottle of apple juice. It was a bad idea, she knew that. The baby would have a screaming sugar-high fit before hopefully falling asleep. For now, for a few precious moments, the apple juice would keep the infant quiet. I should have diluted it with water, she thought. What was I thinking?
            She wasn’t thinking. She didn’t think anymore. Her actions were all reactions, reactions to the baby’s cries, to the putrid scent of a dirty diaper, to the demanding whines of her preschooler. A preschooler for just two more months. In two months, he’d be in that Montessori school made more expensive by the after-school care. A twinge of guilt entered her thoughts and just as quickly fled. Maybe the baby would fall asleep when she’d drive to drop off the older child. Then maybe she’d get some a chance to rest.
            She took several deep breaths while keeping an eye on the little darling walking back from the ice cream truck and jerking back the yelping beagle tugging on the leash wrapped around her wrist. Why didn’t she ask him two buy two, two of whatever? She should have asked. She could send him back. She could use an ice cream. Any sort would do. Or a drink. Or a cigarette and she didn’t even smoke. She’d forgotten about the change.
The baby had settled down until the boy returned and started tapping her on the head with his cone. “She’s a drum and I have a drumstick,” squealed the boy as he set to hitting his sister again, harder. The mother attempted to push him away but instead pushed over the booster seat. She caught it as it fell, swearing under her breath.
            “You said a bad word,” observed the boy. “You said the F-word!”
“Eat your ice cream. Mommy’s a bit stressed,” she said
“You’re not the boss of me,” he shouted.
The baby was wailing again when an old man walked over to the picnic table they were sitting around. He had a sympathetic smile. The man was well dressed in an immaculate grey suit. His brilliant white shirt had tasteful opal and gold cufflinks. In one hand was a well wrapped ice-cream cone. In the other, an old-fashion cane with a silver head. Odd, she thought, to be dressed that way in a park on a hot summer morning. Odd to be so formal at all these days. Maybe he was on his way to work. He seemed rather old to still be working. Perhaps he was a lawyer, a senior partner emeritus at one of those walnut-paneled firms. She bet he didn’t have to work seventy-hour weeks anymore. Like her husband. Would he ever make partner and cut back his hours? Or get her some help with the kids and the dog. He was the one who wanted the dog after all, surprised them with it. “Snoopy!” screamed the little boy when he saw it. “I love you, Daddy! I love Snoopy.” Snoopy immediately urinated on the floor when the boy ran to him. The father said he’d clean the mess. He did, too. For the first and last time.
The old man put the cone on the table and leaned over to scratch Snoopy’s ears. Snoopy rolled over to expose his furry pink belly. The old man scratched that too. Snoopy’s tail was wagging so hard it sent dried summer grass flying in the air. The baby’s eyes crossed when some grass fell on her face. The old man approached the baby with wiggling fingertips. “May I?” he asked, an avuncular glint in his eyes. The mother nodded approval and the old man brush the grass off the baby’s cheeks, blowing gently towards her face. She stopped crying and gurgled a set of coos before her blinking eyes tried to ward off sleep.
            “You’re hired,” said the mom.           
“A lot of experience,” replied the old man, tickling the baby’s belly. ” Mind if I sit down?” he said. “It’s quite a warm day.”
She waved her hand to the empty bench on the other side of the picnic table. “Be my guest,” she said. Snoopy pulled the leash on her wrist to jump on the old man. “Down Snoopy!” she yelled, causing the baby to start crying once more.
The little boy came around to the man’s side, cone in hand, chocolate smearing much of the area surrounding his mouth. “Who are you?” he asked the man.
“Be polite now,” said the mother.
“So, you’re the drummer boy, eh?” said the old man, snorting a laugh. “Maybe I’m the boss of you.”
            The boy pulled back a little, no longer interested in the cone in his hand. “You’re not the boss of me.”
“No? Then I’m the devil in disguise,” said the man.
The mother laughed and told the boy that was a line from an old song by a man called Elvis Presley. The boy nodded, a bit unsure, staring at the man. “What’s your disguise?”
The old man laughed loudly attracting the gaze of the baby whose crying had stopped. Even Snoopy sat as if he too was curious. The man took removed two soft red balls made of sponge from his jacket pocket. He told the boy to tightly hold onto one with the hand not containing the dripping cone while he made the other ball disappear. “Slowly open your hand,” he said. When he did, two balls fell to the ground. The mother applauded silently. The baby stared at the red balls. Snoopy picked up one and dropped it when the man commanded. “A magician,” said the boy who’d forgotten about his ice cream cone.
“No,” said the man. “The devil in disguise. Magic is an illusion, fake. I’m just disguised as a magician.” The boy gave a slight smile, not sure if he should be smiling at all. The mother’s dwindling applause stopped. She too wore a confused smile. “He’s being silly,” she said to the boy. I think he’s a magician in disguise.” She tried to ignore the tension. “Maybe disguised as a lawyer! Not so much different from a devil I suppose.” She joined the man’s laughter at her joke.
“Do another,” demanded the boy,
“Say ‘please’,” said the mother.
            “Again, again, please,” said the boy in more a whine than a plea.
The old man lifted the cone from the boy’s hand. He waved it in the air, letting the melted drops fly over the table, the boy, the baby, and the mother. Only Snoopy, hiding under the table, avoided getting the sticky mess. “Watch,” the old man said, his eyes widened in anticipation of his next move.
He stood, holding the cone high in a fair imitation of the Statue of Liberty. Then, reaching back cone in hand, he flung it high in the air. It fell square on the towhead of a young girl at a nearby table. The cone stuck to her scalp for a brief moment before sliding off leaving a brown trail of melted ice cream and chocolate on her white dress. The picnicking family shrieked in unison. The little girl started to cry – she wouldn’t stop for an hour. Her father jumped up stretching the already tight “U Conn Wrestling” tee shirt over his wide shoulders. He was loaded for bear.
“My cone!” cried the boy.
Any smile disappeared from the old man’s face as he looked down at the little boy. “Why would you do such a thing?” he shouted offering an apologetic shrug to the other family. “I am so sorry.” He mouthed the words He can be such a pain in the ass. The large father nodded and went to cleaning up his daughter. Before the mother could say anything, the baby was crying once more, Snoopy was stretching her leg now attached to the leash to its maximum reach.
As the mother struggled with the leash, the baby, and the now crying boy, the old man picked up the softer but still intact cone he’d left on the table. “Hear my dear,” he said. “You need this more than I do.”
He walked off like a latter-day Charlie Chaplin, feet splayed out duck-like, twirling the cane at his side.