Pitty-pat by Susan Buffum, copyright March 2020
I’m not exactly sure when it started. I guess it was after the break-up, when I’d moved into the apartment with our three and a half year old son, Max. I don’t remember anything like this happening prior to our move.
The apartment is on the third floor of a Victorian house on Maple Street. The exterior of the house is rather shabby, the clapboards in need of scraping and painting. The owner is an elderly woman whose husband died about five or six years ago. The house had gotten away from her. Tenants had come and gone from the second and third floor apartments. The second floor was unoccupied at present, the young couple who’d lived there having split up and moved out a few weeks ago. The third floor had been pretty trashed when I’d looked at it, but I’d needed a cheap place to live. Max was at day care while I worked as a medical receptionist. His day care expenses ate up most of one pay check. Rent, food, and bus fare took a big bite out of the rest. I was relieved that he was toilet trained and out of diapers. I’d used to feel like that was the only reason I was working, to pay for diapers.
At breakfast the other day Max had been eating dry Froot Loops. Well, not really eating them so much as stacking them by color to one side of his bowl. “Eat your breakfast,” I reminded him. He’d made a face in response. “Max, stop playing with your food and eat it. We’ve got to catch the bus. You still need to brush your teeth and put your sneakers on.”
“Pitty-pat likes the yellow ones best,” he replied, sliding the pile of yellow cereal ohs to one side. “There you go. You can eat those,” he said. “And I’ll eat the green ones.”
“Stop fooling around and just eat. I’ve got to finish getting ready for work. You’d better be done in five minutes, mister,” I said as I headed toward the narrow little bathroom
.
When I’d returned to the kitchen he’d eaten the green and yellow Froot Loops, had drank his milk, and put on his sneakers. His sneakers were tied. “Who tied your sneakers?” I asked. He couldn’t tie them, although I’d been trying to teach him the bunny ears method which was how I had learned to tie my own shoes when I’d been his age.
“I gotta brush my teef!” he said, baring his teeth at me before running off to the bathroom. I heard him drag his stool over to the sink, the faucet turn on, and him chattering away to himself about how he had to brush his teeth because “Mom can’t afford to pay the dentist if we get cabboties.” I shook my head as I dumped the remaining cereal back into the box then quickly washed his bowl, spoon, and cup, leaving them in the dish drainer.
“C’mon, kiddo! We’ve gotta go!” I groaned as I saw little stacks of blue and purple cereal still on the table, but we were running late.
Out the door we flew, barely making it to the bus stop in time. At the day care center down the street from the medical office where I worked I had to haul him into the bathroom to wash blue toothpaste off his chin. “You can’t go around with a blue beard,” I said making him laugh.
“Pitty-pat has a white beard,” he said. “It’s really long! It goes down to here!” He bent to touch his ankle.
“Well, maybe Pitty-pat should visit the barber and have that beard trimmed before he trips over it.”
Max shook his head. “No, he can’t do that.”
“Whatever,” I muttered, taking him back to his play group, giving him a quick kiss and calling, “See you tonight! Have a fun day!” as I ran out the door.
Last night after I’d put him to bed I’d heard him giggling and talking in his room. He has a small room under the eaves, the ceiling sharply slanted. His bed is tucked under the slanted part so I have room to open the drawers of his little four-drawer dresser. “Hey,” I said, opening the door. He has a nightlight shaped like a robot beside his dresser, and some light spilled into the room from the living room so I could see him sitting on his bed with some toy cars around him. “It’s bedtime, not play time.”
“But Pitty-pat likes my cars. We’re playing.”
I felt a flash of annoyance. It had been a bad day at work and I was tired. I had no patience for this nonsense. “Well maybe Pitty-pat should put the toys away now and read you a bedtime story and then go to sleep herself.”
“He’s a boy, remember? He has a beard,” Max replied, rolling his eyes. “Can’t you see him, Mommy?”
“I can’t see someone who’s not really there. I know you’re lonely, kiddo. I know we had to move away and you miss your friends in the building we used to live in, but things’ll get better when we can get out and meet new people in this neighborhood. Now, put the cars away, get into bed, and go to sleep. We have another busy day tomorrow.” I grabbed a handful of cars, tossing them into the plastic bin that served as his toy box. “Goodnight, little man,” I said, pulling the covers up over him as I bent to kiss his warm cheek. “Love you lots. See you in the morning.”
And now this morning he’s grumpily sitting at the table because I had to give him Cheerios. He’d blown through the entire box of Froot Loops in less than a week. “Eat your breakfast. It’s all we have in the apartment. I’ll try to run out and get a box of Froot Loops at lunchtime. I’m sorry, Max. It’s not easy having to do everything on my own like this. I’m doing the best I can.”
“Pitty-pat’s mad because he doesn’t have yellow Froot Loops.”
“Well, Pitty-pat can go to the grocery store and buy some if he wants them. He won’t starve, and neither will you. Eat your breakfast. We’re going to miss the bus.”
That evening when we got home I was a little upset to find drawers and cabinets open in the kitchen, the box of Cheerios spilled across the kitchen floor. “What in the world?” I cried. Maybe I had left the cereal too close to the edge of the table. I know I hadn’t had time to clean up, but the cabinets and drawers had not been open. The cereal must have fallen off the table, but I couldn’t figure out how it had spilled all over the place like it had. Grimly, I set the bag of groceries down on the counter, told Max to go take off his sneakers in his room, then angrily slammed the cabinet doors closed and shoved the drawers shut before grabbing the dust pan and broom and sweeping up the mess.
Later, it vaguely crossed my mind that Mrs. Maguire had come up here to see if we were keeping the place clean, and she’d done some snooping while she was at it. A few of my dresser drawers had been slightly open, their contents obviously pawed through. “Great,” I’d muttered as I sat down at the kitchen table to pay a few bills that needed my attention. “I’m not going to stand for this invasion of privacy and her leaving a mess like that! If you’re going to snoop and pry into other people’s lives then don’t leave doors and drawers open to announce your nosiness!”
The next three or so weeks passed by fairly uneventfully. And then I had a restless night, troubled by lack of money, worries about my being able to properly take care of Max, his pulling away from me, playing more in his bedroom with his invisible friend. I liked that he wasn’t always shadowing me everywhere, demanding my attention, but I also disliked his playing in his room alone, constantly chatting and laughing with this unseen friend. He seemed to be shutting me out and that didn’t seem healthy at all. I’d tried calling Danny to discuss my concerns with him but his phone just kept going to voice mail so I was frustrated there. He must have creditors hounding him. He had always been irresponsible with money and his credit cards. I thought I should get Danny to his pediatrician and talk to him about my concerns, but a part of me knew it had to be our rather socially isolated private life, although his day care worker had mentioned that he was playing by himself more off in a corner and seemed irritated or angry when other children tried to sit and play with him.
“Are you mad about something?” I asked him one night after giving him his bath. He was still wrapped in a towel, my having just dried his hair with one corner of it. He needed a haircut rather desperately.
“No,” he replied.
“Are you having any trouble in day care? Is someone annoying you?”
“Nope.”
“Mrs. Hooper says you don’t want the other kids to play near you.” He shrugged a shoulder. “Why not? You like to play with the other kids, don’t you?”
“They’re boring,” he said.
“Boring? How so?” His brown eyes met mine. “How are they boring?”
He seemed to be thinking about it but not able to find the words he needed. “They just are.” He squirmed. “Can I go play with Pitty-pat now?”
“You play with him too much,” I replied.
He gave me a surprisingly nasty look. “He’s my friend,” he said. “You want me to have friends, don’t you?”
“Yes, real ones like at day care. Not make believe ones.”
His reaction alarmed me. He pushed me away with strength that caught me off guard. As I was crouched down still I wasn’t well balanced on my toes and fell backwards against the side of the claw foot tub, banging my head against the cast iron rim. “He is real!” he flared, throwing the towel aside, grabbing his pajamas off the closed toilet lid and then stalking out of the bathroom.
“Hey! Max! You do not push me like that! Do you hear me? I want an apology!” I scrambled up off the floor, rubbing the back of my head near the crown. “Max!”
He had put on his pajama pants and was struggling to get his shirt on. His head came up as I entered his room and he told me to, “Get out! I’m mad at you!”
“Well, I’m not exactly happy with you either!” I flared. “You are never to push me like that again, do you understand me?” He just glared at me and it frightened me to see such hostility in his eyes. I really needed to get him to his doctor. He was obviously having issues with my break-up with his father. I also needed to track Danny down and get him more involved with Max again. “Put your shirt on and go to bed. No talking. No playing. Just go to bed. I don’t want to hear another peep out of you.” I closed the door firmly behind me then sat in the quiet living room fighting back tears.
About a half hour later there was noise in Max’s room. It sounded like he was hurling his toys around the room, some striking the walls, some the ceiling, others the back side of the door. “Hey!” I cried. “Max, stop that!” I jumped up, running to his door and flinging it open. A toy truck hit me in the face, making me stagger backwards. “Max, stop! Stop throwing things!”
“Mommy!” he cried. “Mommy….ow!”
His cry of pain made me blink the tears from my eyes. I reached into his room, flipping on the overhead light. His room was a mess, toys, some broken, scattered everywhere, little dings and dents in the plaster. But it was Max, cowering at the top corner of his bed, sheet nearly covering his head, just his pale face and large eyes showing, that caught my attention more. As I stepped into the room to go to him a small car flew across the room, hitting me in the shoulder, then another came soaring toward me. I swatted it away. Max was whimpering. “What’s going on in here?” I cried, rushing to the side of the bed, bending to reach for Max, being pelted by toy cars as I did so, aware that my son was not moving, that he was frightened, that he wasn’t throwing anything. I grabbed him, dragging him off the bed, sheet and all, and rushing to the doorway.
“Pitty-pat,” Max whispered. “Pitty-pat’s mad at you.”
I reached back, pulling the door closed behind me. I felt resistance, as though someone was on the other side trying to prevent me from closing it. “Let go of the door!” I shouted. “Leave us alone!”
I didn’t know what to do. The sounds of objects striking the door and walls continued. The door knob rattled. I carried Max into my room and put him on the bed. He crawled beneath the covers and huddled there. I closed and locked the bedroom door, got into bed, and pulled him close, holding him tightly. The noise spilled into the living room, kitchen, and bathroom, too. Neither one of us slept.
In the morning it was quiet. Max remained huddled under the covers, just one wide eye peeking through the folds over his head as I got up and slowly approached the door. I unlocked it and cautiously opened it, gasping when I found a steak knife embedded in a door panel about level with my eye. “Oh…” I said, shocked, stunned, and terrified.
Tearing my eyes away from the knife, I glanced into the living room and kitchen area. The cabinets hung open, the drawers were pulled out. We didn’t have much, but everything we owned was strewn about as if a cyclone had raged through the apartment. I bit back a sob, my mind frozen in horror. And then, through a blur of tears I saw a small man standing across the room, a small man with a long white beard. His burning eyes were fixed on me. I stared at him until my own eyes burned, and then I had to blink. I blinked and he was gone.
But I had seen enough. I had seen more than enough in his fierce face.
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