That’s What Little Girls Are Made Of

by Ken Goldman

Artwork by Carole Humphreys

I’ll have another cup, doctor. Thanks.    

Sam, just between us and my palm pilot I’m not quite right about this Robbins case. Yeah, I know any Freudian would debate how the kid never had a chance growing up with that man. Hell, Jung himself would search Rebecca’s history for some kind of defining moment, then shout “Aha! See? Here it is!”

Fuck ‘em and the Rorschach they rode in on. Behaviorists are a different breed, aren’t we, Sam? We empiricists know not to look for demons hiding in Rebecca Robbins’ past. But Dr. Phil could tell you that much. The present is a lot more complicated, isn’t it, doctor? 

Where the ass goes the brain follows. Behavior determines feelings, not the other way around. Yesterday’s gone and tomorrow’s not here yet, so only today matters, yada yada and yada. That’s what all those high falootin’ determinist researchers tell us. Their studies and a quarter will buy another cup of this swill we’re drinking.

Tomorrow I’m switching to decaf.

Nights found Rebecca sitting cross-legged on the floor inside the family

parlor while little Barbara Anne wailed from upstairs. The six year old tried to lose herself in the warbling of the tiny canary she had named Carrot. Its trilling always brought a smile to the child’s face. 

Harry Robbins approached so silently his daughter didn’t hear him, but she detected the faint smell of whiskey following one of the baby’s diaper changes.

Since Mother died the man had been changing her baby sister less each day. 

Rebecca sometimes believed he had not cleaned her at all.

 Harry stared at his daughter through reddened eyes. When finally he moved, he moved quickly. Reaching inside the cage he snatched at the canary. The trapped creature fluttered only a moment before finding itself captured inside his huge hand.

“And how are we this evening, Carrot?” Robbins addressed the tuft of yellow feathers without the slightest hint of playfulness in his voice. Turning to his daughter he added, “Are you paying attention, ‘Becka?”

The little girl nodded. Time had arrived for another lesson. She didn’t always understand the point of her father’s exercises but recognized they were important. 

“In this world you should rely on nothing, ‘Becka. For instance, tonight I relied on you to do the dishes. But I was wrong to depend on you to do that, wasn’t I?”

It seemed a trick question. Rebecca simply nodded.

“Well, honey, you can relax ‘cause I did them myself, just like I did your little sister’s poopy pants. I let my disappointment in you work for me, honey. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

Rebecca again nodded without really understanding. Carrot’s golden head peeped from behind her father’s thumb as if the bird were playing peek-a-boo. The dark eyes suddenly bulged and the canary managed only a brief squeak as its tiny bones crunched like dried twigs. For one terrible moment Rebecca almost cried “Stop! Oh, please, Daddy! Don’t!” But she remembered that tears had no part in her lessons, and staring at the mangled bird she caught herself before tears came. The child remained upon the tattered rug as her father dropped her crushed pet into her lap. Holding the creature inside her palm she wiped her nose with the back of her other hand while struggling to interpret the meaning her father intended.

“Rely only on yourself, ‘Becka. Disappointment gives you strength. That’s your lesson for today.”

Rebecca shut her eyes. With concentration she hadn’t much time to consider her choices. She squeezed her hand into a tight fist and mashed the bird into a sticky paste until the canary’s blood oozed through her clenched fingers in crimson rivulets. With a tentative smile she held the dripping remains for her father to inspect the residual pulp. 

“Daddy. Is this right?”

“No point in asking what’s right or what’s wrong, ‘Becka. It’s like playin’ soft ball, the way I showed you. Either you get on base or you don’t. No one cares how you do it.”

Rebecca seemed confused.

“No,” she clarified, again holding out her palm. “I mean, did I do this right, the way you wanted?”

The man grinned through cigarette stained teeth.

 “That’s good, ‘Becka. That’s real good.” Harry left the little girl sitting on the floor, completing his lesson with a reminder of a previous exercise. “No one who hopes for strength to endure life’s hard knocks gives in to weakness. You have to swallow self pity or it swallows you.”

Rebecca remained for a full hour. Finally she got to her feet and carried her canary to the bathroom, fully intending to watch Carrot swirl down the gullet of the toilet bowl. This wasn’t self pity, she told herself. This was only ceremony.

But she changed her mind.

  [You have to swallow pity, ‘Becka.]

Raising the dead bird to her lips she put its head into her mouth.

 [That’s my little girl . . . that’s my perfect angel . . .]

[Rely on nothing, ‘Becka.]

[Disappointment gives you strength . . .]

The messages were so mixed, so hard to understand.

The canary had gone cold, its feathers dry although caked with blood.

Rebecca began to chew . . . and chew . . . and chew . . .

 [Swallow, Rebecca . . .]

[ . . . and something about hard knocks . . .really hard knocks . . .]

The lesson was in there somewhere.

Upstairs, Barbara Anne was crying again.

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So what’s your take on this, Sam? You know, whenever Rebecca describes her act she giggles as if sharing some pajama party secret. What was going on inside her head when she took her baseball bat and bludgeoned the skull of her baby sister, then shoved fists filled with the infant’s brains into her mouth? 

Was she just being Daddy’s dutiful daughter even if, in this case, Daddy was a certified creep? 

Harry Robbins did a damned good job of rewiring the kid’s affective patterns, that’s certain. But where is Rebecca’s outrage at the man? Where is her disgust?

So much for sugar and spice and everything nice, huh? 

I guess Harry has a lesson for all of us. Man’s been dead ten years now and Rebecca’s turned forty still muttering something about eating her carrots and being strong. Freudian, Behaviorist, or Barney the Dinosaur, it comes to the same thing.

Nature or nurture, fucked up is fucked up.

Guess I’ll see you Wednesday, then?

What’s that?

No, my average par four approach club has always been a seven iron. You mean all these years you’ve been using a nine?