My name is Jonah Barr, and I am the second youngest in our family of six. I am eclipsed by an older sister, Babbs, an older brother, Francis, a younger sister Jean and, of course, our parents, William-James and Almena. I use the word ‘eclipsed’ because, by all rightful accounts, they are my intellectual superiors, having been tested with I.Q.s above 150. I, by comparison, scored only 132 on the Stanford-Binet test, barely Mensa, and am considered by my family as the “slow one.” I mention these scores because my parents believe a high Intellectual Quotient is essential in pursuing the stringent academic goals they have established for us. In the Barr family achieving academic excellence is a requirement for survival. Nevertheless, being more intellectually challenged, my parents have tended to ignore me because of my shortcomings, contrary to their higher expectations for my brother and sisters. 

Ironically, my siblings have appointed me as the scribe for the grievances about our parents. They have done so because, in my opinion, they have competitive personality disorders; thus, vying for this coveted position, they consider me less of a threat and believe I will be more objective in my recordings. Slow children are rarely a threat and tend to be painfully objective. Hence, what you are reading is what I have been asked to document as we move forward on how best to deal with our grievances and halt the daily battering that has become commonplace.

As you will soon discover, the first three of us were brought into this world years after Almena obtained her Ph.D. in physics from the University of Chicago. Reluctantly, Almena gave birth to us in her late thirties; William-James was approaching age fifty during this same time. With old age festering and to gain a semblance of control over William-James’ last gasp to procreate, our births were spaced precisely at twelve-month intervals, followed by two miscarriages and a twelve-month gap after the second miscarriage when Jean burst upon the scene. Babbs, the oldest, just turned fourteen last week; Francis is thirteen; I am twelve; and Jean is nine. Our birthdays occur within weeks of each other.

And it is my belief that our age proximities have brought us closer emotionally. We consider ourselves a consortium of like souls collectively subjected to the cruelty of parents who have no compassion for children or understanding of what it is like being raised by wolves. Because of this, that is, enemies of a common enemy, we take great solace in one another. It is far easier to bare feelings together than to fight beasts alone, although, as of late, we have decided to explore options on how best to wage that fight and free ourselves from their evil whims.

The Barr family lives in a quaint university town in an upscale neighborhood in Iowa where William-James teaches Integrated D.N.A. Bioinformatics; Almena teaches Operations Research Coding to graduate Astrophysics students. They are surprisingly good at the craft of teaching and have wholly immersed themselves in their occupations. But, on the other hand, their children are treated as sideline byproducts of their lustful endeavors and are dealt with swiftly and succinctly when the pre-mentioned whims strike their fancy. In short, we live in a realm of terror and malice.

As of this writing, it is post-Thanksgiving, and my siblings (I prefer to call them “my Luvvies”) are hiding in the basement again. Fear and loathing have reared their heads, and my Luvvies are panicked as much as frightened lemurs leaping off a cliff. Almena and William-James are battling upstairs behind a closed but woefully not-soundproof door, unbuffered within their second-floor bedroom. They are screaming profanities. About what I cannot say as I am sure it has to do with lack of money, or about one of William-James’ too-friendly female students, or one of us. More than likely, it is about one of us. Regardless, we can hear every other muffled yelp. No doubt William-James has Almena in another chokehold. It has also become the moment when I break out a pad and pen as we gather, free of prying eyes and ears, and record our sentiments. 

As I enter the basement, I discover my Luvvies huddled in a corner, arms around shoulders, heads cowered. Jean is crying. “He’s striking her again,” she whispers. 

I kneel beside them, poised to record their words. “No worse than William-James struck you two days ago,” I whisper back, motioning to her bruised, swollen cheek. I turn to Babbs. “And did he cut you again?”

“Why would you ask that?” she murmurs.

“Because I found bloody gauze in the bathroom trash can. Same as last month.”

“No. That’s not what it’s from. It’s something else.”

“What?”

“You’re an idiot,” Francis hisses, his voice barely distinguishable from the shouting upstairs.

I stare at both of them, unsure of what they’re implying. A few seconds pass before I put down my pad and pen and wrap my arms around them, and they reciprocate. I need their arms as much as they need mine. And slowly, we listen to Jean’s muffled sobs fade into staccato whimpers; her runny nose cascades snot onto the cement floor. My brother speaks up after a minute. “He touches Babbs, you know,” he says, casting his eyes toward her. “Put that in the Journal. We need to record every perverse thing they do to us. Every vile word they utter. Every beating. I’m telling you, it’s child abuse, what they’re doing to us. No one gets away with that anymore. It’s the 1970s, for Pete’s sake.”

I turn to Babbs. “What’s he mean by William-James touches you? How does he touch you?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she whispers, her eyes darting toward the floor.

Jean speaks up. “I saw it all, but he didn’t know I was a witness. When Babbs stepped out of the shower, William-James was there, waiting. He insisted on drying her off. Then he put his hand between,” she hesitates, “between—” She stops herself, unable to finish. Her eyes widen as she recalls the image.

“Where was Almena when this was happening?”

“At the store. I think.”

“Is this true?” I ask Babbs.

Babbs’ face turns sour. She grimaces. “Yes. And it’s not the first time.” Her head swivels to face Jean. “Almena already knows, so it doesn’t matter if she’s home or not. She looks the other way, and when he’s not around, she beats me with a belt. She blames me. She told me that I was encouraging his behavior. That I’m a whore. But I’m not, and I hate it.” She shakes her head and takes a deep breath. “There’s no way out of this. I hate them both.” She turns to me. “Put all of this down in the Journal. Word for word. It’s important. The police will want to know. If we document everything, it serves our cause. Scribe every detail. It helps justify whatever happens next.”

“What happens next?” I ask, bewildered.

“We kill them,” they answer in unison.

I was the last to know.

* * * * *

After that night, we agreed to meet secretly whenever our parents were asleep and plot their deaths. With renewed zeal, I meticulously recorded in the Journal as though I was fashioning minutes to a formal public meeting for posterity’s eyes. Then, for formality’s sake, I’d read the previous ‘minutes’ to seek corrections or addendums to entries I might have missed. Lastly, we would vote on a final draft, and if approved unanimously, everyone would sign the record, now housed in a thick 3-ring binder. Typically, Babbs, our chairperson, would lead the group. Once recognized by the chair, we would be allowed to speak, but only after raising a hand and requesting permission. No, we did not follow Robert’s Rules of Order, but we did organize our thoughts as orderly and professionally as humanly possible.

Weeks later, no one had again mentioned murder to solve our problems. The closest we came to such a discussion was when Francis checked out a law book from the university library covering juvenile crimes with contents ranging from torts to misdemeanors to murder. In Iowa, the consensus of the courts is that a minor under the age of sixteen can be neither held capable nor culpable of premeditated parricide and, therefore, cannot be tried as an adult, let alone sentenced to death. The handful of cases where minors had collectively killed a parent was referred to the juvenile courts, and the minors were eventually released from juvie prison by the age of eighteen. With two exceptions as precedent, children with justifiable reasons (e.g., abuse) for murdering a parent were acquitted and released to a family relative.

“So, who would take us in after we kill them?” Jean whispers.

“Maybe Uncle Herb in Normal, Illinois,” Babbs volunteers.   

“Hell No. He hates William-James,” I throw out.

“And he’s crazy as a loon,” Francis adds. “Besides, he’s a homosexual. The court would never turn us over to a single gay man. Our best bet is with Uncle Leo and Aunt Margaret.”

We take a vote. It is unanimous. I record this entry in the Journal, how our aunt and uncle living in Seattle will make our future home a safe harbor. Plus, we will be extradited to Washington, away from the long arms of Iowa and the notoriety as the kids who killed their parents. 

How and When become the next topics on the agenda. Jean wants to wait until Christmas Day. “Why Christmas?” I ask. Her answer predicates on Almena’s promise to buy her a Barbie ‘Sweet Sixteen’ collectible; if we do the deed beforehand, she’ll never get a Barbie doll in lockup. Francis mulls her suggestion and decides it is an excellent point. I, too, have been waiting for Christmas and the arrival of a high-handlebar A.M.X. bike with a banana seat. Babbs has a gown picked out for the country club New Year’s formal, and Francis is hoping for a General Scientific lab set. 

“OK. So we wait until Christmas Day to get our presents. Then how exactly do we go about doing it?” I pursue.

“Easy. Spike their eggnog.” Francis contributes. “They love eggnog. They get wasted on it every Christmas. They won’t see it coming.”

“But have you ever been able to corner them both? To get them to sit side-by-side or do anything simultaneously other than argue? How the fuck do we do that?”

It is Babbs’ idea that finally captures our imagination. She suggests we put on a Christmas pageant, a diversion before the kill, and that each of us contribute one of our unique talents to the performance. Forced to sit shoulder-to-shoulder, our parents will become a private audience to a first-of-its-kind extravaganza. Babbs will play the piano and sing a Nat King Cole carol. Francis will read a Christmas verse from Mathew 1:18-2:23. Jean will dance a modern ballet to Jingle Bell Rock, and for a finale and since I have no particular talent, I will dress up as Santa and pass out presents, cookies and eggnog laced with arsenic. 

“Arsenic? Why me?” I ask.

“Because you’re the slow one. No one would ever suspect you of being the executioner. Besides, you’re the only one they don’t regularly beat. The rest of us, the law would label as revenge killers.”

“Oh, yeah? Maybe they don’t take a belt to me like they do to you, but it’s only because they think I’m unworthy. They think I’m a joke. Why, just yesterday William-James called me a pathetic loser piece of shit. That’s abuse if I’ve ever heard it. So maybe it’s not a belt beating me up, but it is abuse just the same.”

“Count your blessings,” Babbs retorts. “It could be a lot worse.”

And this is how our plan hatched. Like a Venus fly trap, we would lure William-James and Almena to a late-morning children’s show, a sweetly innocent Christmas pageant, and then when they partook of the forbidden fruit, the trap would clamp shut, and they’d both keel over from the effects of poison. If we were lucky, the authorities might rule their homicides as simultaneous spontaneous heart attacks or, if we were extremely fortunate, as double suicides. Worse case, the authorities accuse us of poisoning our parents, and we get sent to Seattle via Iowa Juvie court.

I remember turning to look at my brother for his approval of this far-flung scheme, and his face beamed with a most contemptuous grin. And that’s when I recalled William-James’ story of how Francis stuttered nonstop as a two-year-old and how he repeatedly threatened him with a swift slap to the face if the stuttering continued. A month later and drunk, William-James punched Francis in the mouth, knocking out baby teeth. And with that, the little chatterbox stopped stuttering once and for all, William-James bragged to university friends. Naturally, his pals got an uneasy laugh from the incident, but even as a youngster, I never found anything amusing in the oft-told tale. And to be honest, I’m not sure Francis ever recovered from that punch. I asked him once if he remembered any of it, and he said “No,” but judging from the look on his face, hatred stewed deep inside his troubled head.

And then there were the multiple disturbing incidents involving Jean, or as Almena called her, “Fat Jean.” According to Almena’s playbook, humans fall into four classifications: thin-smart, fat-smart, thin-dumb, and fat-dumb. Almena had no use for three of those classifications. Being intelligent and thin was the only classification worthy of the Barr family. Unfortunately, Jean suffered from a hypothyroid condition, which slowed her metabolism to a pig’s crawl. The result was that Jean had always struggled as a chubby and lethargic child. Even with medication, there was little that Jean could do to combat this condition on her own but try as she must, Almena did her best to starve my sister into ‘thinness.’ Unfortunately, after years of this homeopathic therapy, all the caloric loss did was stunt my sister’s height. As a result, Jean looked more like a six-year-old than a nine-year-old. Worse, unable to combat illnesses because of a weakened immune system, Jean seemed to suffer from every virus circulating throughout our town and was constantly bedridden.

Finally, there was my beautiful older sister, Babbs. For years she had been the bane of Almena’s rage. Countless times, I had witnessed Babbs dragged down the hallway by her hair and spun on the floor like a top, all because clothes had not been neatly folded and tucked away in dresser drawers. Now, as a young woman, there were other reasons for Almena’s animosity, some of which I did not understand.

The legal profession coined the term parricide to describe crimes when children murder their parents. Murdering one’s parents is as old as Helen of Troy, with storied tales of Oedipus and Alastor familiar bedroom tales in Greek mythology. In the U.S. alone, over 200 parricides are committed annually. Once I discovered this, I no longer felt alone. Others felt as we do.

* * * * *

It is Christmas Eve and 11 at night, and William-James and Almena are sleeping. Unbeknownst to our parents, our chairperson asked us to gather for this last secretive collective in the basement. The meeting has been called to order, and all members are present. Under old business, Francis acknowledges that he has successfully procured arsenic from a neighbor’s toolshed. The substance is a colorless, tasteless powder that can be stirred into eggnog without being detected. One-eighth of a teaspoon will kill an adult, but Francis suggests we double the amount for good measure. Jean moves on the suggestion, I second the motion, and we take a vote. It is unanimous.

One-fourth teaspoon of arsenic will be placed into each adult cup of eggnog on Christmas Day. Babbs will prepare the concoction, and I will serve it. Chairperson Babbs asks if any new business is to be recorded in the Journal. Jean asks about Almena’s pearl necklace and other jewelry mementos, and if she could claim those possessions so there would be no infighting later. Babbs cedes the request and states for the record that she wants nothing of Almena’s worldly belongings except for a mink stole. The chairperson directs the same question at Francis and me, if we want anything of personal value to take to Seattle. Francis states, “No,” and I state that I would like to take Mr. Snuggles, our cat. With the meeting concluded, we hold hands for a prayer and beseech God to help us with our task.

“Are you sure there’s nothing else we can do besides murdering them?” I reluctantly ask, whispering, attempting to second-guess our plans.

“Like what?” Francis fires back, furious and no longer calm.

“Well, couldn’t we call Iowa Protective Services or the police? Murder should be our last option.”

“Hell, no,” Francis broadcasts, lurching at me as though he’s ready to strike a blow. “Protective Services will house us in a crap-hole foster home while William-James and Almena sit pretty attending counseling, and, in the end, we’d be forced to reunite with them. That’s always the way it works. They stick the kids back with the parents; we all know that’s a big waste of time. William-James and Almena will never change. They’re too crazy to change or find religion. Atheist physicists never find religion or feel compelled to seek forgiveness. And sooner or later, we’ll end up right back in this basement, talking about these same horrible things they do.” 

He pauses and points to our sisters. 

“Look at them. See the bruises? How much longer can Jean hold out being starved? And how about poor Babbs? What perverse act will William-James commit next? Rape?” He pauses to breathe while leaning back as though his anger has now soothed his need to attack me. He has somehow regained composure. “OK. Let’s assume Protective Services never allows our parents to see us again. In that case, we’ll be split up and shipped off to live with people we don’t know. We’ll be old adults before we’re reunited. We’ll become strangers. Is that what you want, Jonah? To be reunited as strangers on the goddamned Merv Griffin Show in twenty years?”

I stammer. “I guess you’re right. I guess, I guess—”

“Quit stuttering,” he whispers. “Stuttering is a sign of weakness.”

“Look,” Babbs interjects, “the only way to remain as a family and get sent together to Seattle is to keep it out of Protective Services’ hands. I’ve done my research, too. Once we’re blamed for their deaths, the criminal court system steps in, and Protective Services never gets involved. The courts will view us as too dangerous for a foster home. So, they’ll shed us as fast as possible, wipe their hands clean, and ship us out to the closest relative.”

No one says anything. Our fate appears sealed.

* * * * *

It is now two days after Christmas. The Journal has been confiscated. Nevertheless, I have been asked to write again, this time on a standard red spiral notepad. I have been encouraged to express my feelings and describe what transpired on December 25th, and I will do so to the best of my ability. I will attempt to put the events of that day on paper but may have some difficulty, given the trauma of the past forty-eight hours and my reluctance that anyone will believe me.

We began that Christmas morning later than expected because William-James and Almena were hungover from a neighbor’s party the night before. Even by 10:30 a.m., they weren’t thrilled by our surprise announcement of a children’s pageant but tried as they did, they stumbled down the staircase to their favorite wingback chairs that we had scooted next to one another, playacting their willingness to enjoy our presentation. 

Babbs opened the show with The Christmas Song, followed by Francis’s passage reading of Bible verses. While he read, Babbs moved to the kitchen and prepared eggnog with heavy doses of brandy to better mask any potential taste of arsenic. When Francis finished and Jean completed her dance routine, the eggnog was ready to be served. I had already been decked out in red pajamas, stuffed with a tummy pillow and Scotch-taped cotton balls for a beard to resemble Santa, and stood by, ready to serve the drinks on a tray interlaced with freshly baked cookies. As I presented the tray, Almena asked Jean to open the hallway closet and bring out the presents they had stashed behind clothes, even as Babbs encouraged them to drink up. Within a minute, we had torn off the wrapping paper of our elaborately decorated gifts. Almena asked us not to remove the tags or destroy the boxes in the event she needed to return anything, so we were careful to follow her explicit instructions, although my new A.M.X. bicycle only came with a red ribbon. 

Almena then asked us to sit in a small semi-circle at her feet. She smiled sourly and urged us to eat the confections she had baked the day before as a surprise. Meanwhile, my Luvvies prodded her and William-James to try their eggnog (perhaps too enthusiastically). “No, you first,” Almena said calmly. So, everyone grabbed a cookie and hurriedly swallowed the morsels, one after the other.

“Why aren’t you eating your cookie?” Almena asked me.

“I’m not really hungry,” I said nervously. “I think I’ve lost my appetite.” In the interim and finished with their cookies, Babbs, Francis, and Jean spoke up again, pushing the eggnog. William-James deliberately placed his cup to his lips, hesitated, and winked at me. 

“Don’t drink that,” I shouted, stopping him short of taking a sip.

“And why not, Jonah?” he asked.

“Because—”

Before I could utter another word, Jean tipped forward and fell prostrate with her legs criss crossed underneath. “I don’t feel so good,” she murmured face down, straining to be heard. Within seconds Francis and Babbs also collapsed, limp as ragdolls. “What’s hap-hap-happening to us?” Francis stuttered, shaking in convulsions. 

Sadly, I think Babbs understood. She glared up at Almena and then at William-James. “You both can go to hell,” she whispered, her breathing erratic.

Almena seemed quite pleased with herself and beamed a most iridescent smile. “Well, children, we found your Journal. We knew exactly what you were up to. We just beat you to the punch.” She turned to me. “It’s a shame you murdered your brother and sisters with those cookies you baked and laced with arsenic, Jonah. I’m going to assume it was a desperate plea for attention. You always hated the rivalry with your siblings, didn’t you? I mean, you are the slow one, and they are so brilliant by comparison.”

“And now, you’ll garner our full attention, son, twenty-four, seven,” William-James announced.

“Oh, and if I were you, sweetie, I wouldn’t fight the juvenile penal system. The sooner you admit you did it, the sooner they’ll let you out. And we’ll get you the best psychiatrists, and the court will release you back to us in no time. It’ll be just the three of us from now on. Won’t that be fun?”

“Oh, let’s not forget Mr. Snuggles,” William-James added. “He’ll be here waiting for you with open paws.”