Under My Bed

By Al Sarrantonio

When Daddy says I'm bad, he puts me to bed and turns out the
lights. He does that a lot, and I don't like it, but at least I've got
somebody to talk to when I'm in here. Daddy thinks I'm alone, but
there's a man under my bed.
He only comes up out of the trapdoor after the lights go out and
Daddy shuts the door and goes away. The man says he doesn't like
lights; he says he doesn't like Daddy much either, and I have to
smile when he says that.
He lives somewhere down below the bed, though I'm not really
sure where. The living room is downstairs below my bedroom, so
he can't really live there or Daddy would see him; he must live in
the little space underneath the floor.
He talks to me about things when I'm shut up in here because
Daddy says I've been bad. Daddy says I've been bad a lot, every
time I do something he doesn't like. Daddy doesn't smile a lot and I
don't think he likes me very much anymore.
There was a time when Daddy did like me, but that was a long
time ago, when Mommy was still here. I even remember Daddy
picking me up and swinging me through the air, letting go and
then catching me again, with a big smile on his face. He called me
his "little Billy boy." He must have liked me, or he wouldn't have
called me that. I even had friends then, and I remember Daddy
taking me and all my friends to the ball game once. I spilled soda
on myself, and Daddy didn't even get mad; he just smiled and said,
"Let me give you a hand there, Billy boy," and helped me clean it
up. I spilled soda on myself last week when Daddy's girl friend was
here and I thought he was going to kill me.
I remember things began to change just about the time me and
Pete Cochran became best friends. Pete's father worked at home,
and Mommy used to come over to Pete's house to pick me up after
we finished playing. Pete and I played super-heroes, or Huck Finn
and Tom Sawyer, or the Hardy boys, and one of us would make
believe he was in trouble and the other one would save him. It was
fun, and we almost always played it at Pete's house.
But after Daddy and Mommy started fighting I couldn't go to
Pete's house anymore, and then Pete couldn't come to mine, and
after a while Daddy wouldn't let me go out at all. The fighting got
worse and worse, and most of the time I stayed locked in my room.
Daddy stopped calling me "Billy boy," and they both started putting
me to bed a lot, sometimes in the middle of the day. I almost
always had my pajamas on. I think they wanted to get rid of me so
they could fight, and I used to lie in bed and listen to them yell at
each other and sometimes throw things around. Once, the police
came, and that was exciting, but otherwise it wasn't very good.
They started to hit me sometimes, too. Mommy hit me once and
told me that she and Daddy never wanted to have me, and that the
only reason they had me was because Daddy thought it would keep
him and Mommy together. She smelled like whiskey when she said
it. "At least Pete Cochran's father knows what love is," she said.
After Mommy left, I asked Daddy if that meant that Mommy was
Pete Cochran's mommy now instead of mine, but the way he looked
at me made me never ask him that again. Things got very lonely
after that, and I never went out and didn't see my friends anymore.
The man under my bed came out for the first time right after
Mommy left. A few nights I heard sounds down there, like mice or
squirrels, and I hid under the covers. Then, one night after Daddy
shut me up in here and it was real dark, I heard the trapdoor open
and the man came out. I heard him puffing as he pulled himself
out of the hole, and then he lay there for a while breathing hard. I
was scared stiff and yelled for Daddy to come and when he did
come and turned on the light the man was gone, back down in the
hole; but as soon as Daddy turned out the light and left, the door
opened again and the man pulled himself out. I yelled for Daddy to
come back but he wouldn't, so I pulled the covers up over my head
and listened through the mattress. I could hear him moving
around down there. After a while I couldn't hear him moving, so I
pulled one side of the sheets up over the edge of the bed and made
a hole so I could listen out.
He started to talk to me then, and for a minute I was afraid since
his voice sounded a little creepy, like squashing bugs; but he wasn't
saying mean things so after a while I stopped being scared.
"I know how you feel, Billy," he said from down under the bed.
"I'm on your side." Then we talked for a while about things I like to
do, and what I don't like and things.
After that night, he climbed out of his door and lay down there
talking to me every time I got put to bed. You could say he became
my best friend, like Pete Cochran used to be. I could talk to him about anything
at all. And he really understood how bad Daddy is
to me, and he felt sorry for me about it. "I don't like your Daddy,"
he told me once.
I could imagine him down there lying on his back with his hands
behind his head, staring up at the bottom of my bed like it was blue
sky with clouds blowing across it. I sort of got the picture of him like
Tom Sawyer, with blue jeans on and a straw in his mouth and
freckles and a big smile. Even though he told me he didn't look like
that and that he couldn't let me see him, the picture I got of him
lying down there with freckles and grinning was so strong that I
sneaked Daddy's flashlight under the covers with me one night and
leaned down over the side of the bed and shone it on him. I had
some trouble with the switch, though, and by the time I got it on he
was pulling the trapdoor closed behind him. All I saw was his hand
on the door rope and the top of his head; he didn't have any hair
and was kind of wrinkly-looking. And I got the feeling he wasn't
smiling. Then the switch went off and Daddy heard me moving
around and came and took the flashlight away.
The man under the bed wouldn't come out for a week after that,
and I realized just how lonely it was in the dark without him. I slept
most of the time with the covers over my head; I was scared to be in
the dark without him, even if he didn't look like Tom Sawyer.
But he did come back a couple of nights ago, just when I needed
him most.
Daddy hit me that night, harder than he ever had before. He
had his girl friend home with him and he was drinking whiskey and
I asked if I could watch the TV a little longer, and he hit me. Then
he put me in my room and turned off the lights and said that if I
made any noise he'd beat me some more. I lay under the covers,
and I was crying, and then I heard the trapdoor squeak open,
slowly, and I heard the man dragging himself out. He sounded
tired, but when he started talking to me I could tell he wasn't mad
at me anymore. He almost sounded happy. He said he was sorry
Daddy hit me and that he wanted to help; he said he might even let
me find the trapdoor. He stayed up with me almost all night, until I
fell asleep. The next morning after he left I crawled under the bed
and, sure enough, I could feel the edges where the door must be;
I'd never been able to find them before, no matter how hard I
tried. And last night he said Daddy would never hit me again.
"Things are going to be all right, Billy boy," he said, and that made
me feel warm all over, because I knew he was my friend.
Tonight Daddy's coming home late, and I got into bed by myself
just like the man under the bed told me to. He told me to turn out the light and
wait for Daddy to come home. He's been under the
bed for more than an hour, telling me funny stories that make me
laugh, about other kids' daddys and about the things that happened
to them. Some of the things are real funny, like what happens
in the cartoons I watch in the morning after Daddy goes to
work. Even though I know what the man looks like, I still can't help
thinking of him lying down there under my bed like Tom Sawyer,
with his legs crossed and laughing, telling those funny stories.
It's late now, and I just heard Daddy come in. He's alone, but he
sounds like he's been drinking whiskey again. He's bumping into
things and cursing.
I can hear Daddy looking for me, since he thinks I'll still be up;
he'll probably think of looking in my bedroom any minute. The
man under the bed says to be quiet; he says he may even take
Daddy through the trapdoor with him to where he lives. Wouldn't
that make a funny story, he says, and he laughs. I laugh with him.
He says he won't even let the light bother him this time, that he'll
come right out from under the bed.
Daddy's outside my door now; I can hear him fumbling with the
handle, trying to open it. He finally does, and now his hand is
searching for the light switch. He finds it and turns it on, and he
looks very surprised to see the two of us in bed, waiting for him.
Hi Daddy.