Mr. Snuggles

by Tinker Babbs

Journal Entry #1:

My name is Jonah Barr, the second youngest in a family of six. I am eclipsed by an older sister, Babs, an older brother, Francis, a younger sister, Jean, and our parents, William-James and

Almena. I say “eclipsed” because they are my intellectual superiors, each with an I.Q. above 150. By comparison, I scored a mere 132 on the Stanford-Binet test—Mensa material, barely—and in our household, that makes me the “slow one.” Perhaps that’s why my parents tend to ignore me, their ambitions reserved for my more promising siblings.

Ironically, you three have named me, your brother Jonah, as the scribe for our grievances against them. Not because you trust me, but because you do not trust each other. Competitive to the bone, each of you assumes I will be the most objective. More importantly, you consider me the family wordsmith—one of my few distinctions—and a natural fit for the role. Hence, what follows is the record of our suffering, a document of wrongs, as we move toward stopping the daily battering that has become routine.

We came into this world years after Almena earned her Ph.D. in physics from the University of Chicago. Never wanting children, she relented only to satisfy William-James’ need to procreate. Even then, she maintained control, spacing our births exactly twelve months apart. The result: a consortium of like souls, all born under Sagittarius, all subject to cruel parents devoid of love. If nothing else, we have found solace in one another. It is far easier to endure together than to battle beasts alone. As Sagittarians, we will not hesitate to draw our bows.

For clarity, and for any third-party reading this, the Barr family lives in an upscale neighborhood in a small university town in Iowa. William-James teaches Integrated DNA Bioinformatics; Almena instructs graduate students in Operations Research Coding for Astrophysics. They excel as educators, wholly absorbed in their work. Meanwhile, we, their children, are the discarded byproducts of their once-lustful union. They claim we impede their ambitions, that we are worthless, and that, in hindsight, they would have been better off had we never been born.

As of this writing, it is just after Thanksgiving, and we are hiding in the basement again. Fear and loathing rear their heads, and we cower like frightened lemmings at the cliff’s edge. Upstairs, Almena and William-James are at war, shouting behind the bedroom door—thin, useless, not soundproof. Their words blur, but the rage is clear. Money? Another one of his too- friendly students? One of us? Likely one of us.

I find you three huddled in the basement corner, arms locked, heads bowed. Jean is crying. 

“He’s striking her again,” she whispers.

I kneel beside you. “No worse than he struck you two days ago,” I whisper back, motioning to her swollen cheek. I turn to Babs. “And did he cut you again?”

“Why would you ask that?” she murmurs.

“I found bloody gauze in the bathroom trash can. Same as last month.” “No. That’s not what it’s from.”

“What, then?”

“For a twelve-year-old, you’re an idiot,” Francis hisses. His voice barely registers over the yelling upstairs.

I stare, unsure of what you mean. A few seconds pass before I wrap my arms around you all, and you reciprocate. I need your arms as much as you need mine. Jean’s sobs slow to staccato whimpers, her runny nose dripping onto the cement floor.

Francis speaks first. “He terrorizes Babs, you know.” His eyes flick toward her. “Says he’ll ground her until she’s eighteen or—worse—put her in shackles if he ever catches her with another boy. Write that down, Jonah. Every vile threat. Every beating. It’s child abuse. No one gets away with child abuse anymore. It’s the 1970s, for Pete’s sake.”

I turn to Babs. “What does he mean by shackles? Chains?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she whispers, eyes fixed on the floor.

Jean answers for her. “Robby Parsons was in Babs’ room after school. They were doing a book report. William-James came home and found them together.” “He lost his mind,” Babs murmurs.

“Where was Almena?”

“At the store, I think,” Jean says. “Is this true?” I ask Babs.

Her face twists, grimacing. “Yes.” Her head swivels to Jean. “She knew. She knew I was with Robbie. She knew William-James would come home and find us. She set me up on purpose.”

Her voice tightens, anger boiling over. “She hates me. When he’s not around, she beats me with a belt. She told me yesterday that I was provoking him, but I’m not. I hate them both.”

She takes a breath, turning to me. “There’s no way out of this, Jonah. Listen to me. They’re evil. Pure evil. One moment they buy us gifts, the next they beat us. They thrive on control, but if we show independence, they crush us. They wish we were gone. They’d do anything to be rid of us. Anything.”

Her voice steadies. “Put all of this in the Journal. Word for word. The police will want to know. We need documentation. It justifies what happens next.”

“What happens next?” I ask.

“We kill them,” you three answer in unison.

*****

Journal Entry #16:

“So, who takes us in after we kill them?” Jean whispers as I record. “Maybe Uncle Herb in Normal, Illinois,” Babs offers.

“Hell, no. Worse than William-James,” I say.

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

We vote. Unanimous. I record that our aunt and uncle in Seattle will be our port in the storm,

placing us beyond Iowa’s jurisdiction and the inevitable notoriety of being “the kids who killed their parents.”

Next, we debate how and when. Jean wants to wait until Christmas.

“Why Christmas?” I ask.

“Because Almena promised me a Barbie ‘Sweet Sixteen’ if I lost five pounds. If we kill them too soon, I’ll never get it.”

Francis mulls this over. “That’s a fair point.”

I, too, have been waiting for Christmas—for a high-handlebar A.M.X. bike with a banana seat, contingent upon raising my geometry grade to an A. Babs has a gown picked out for the country club's New Year’s formal. Francis is banking on a General Scientific lab set.

“Fine. We wait,” I say. “But how do we do it?”

“Easy,” Francis grins. “Spike the eggnog. They love eggnog. Get wasted on it every year. They won’t see it coming.”

“But have you ever seen them sit together? Do anything simultaneously other than fight? How do we even get them in the same room?”

Babs’ idea takes hold: a Christmas pageant. A diversion. A first-of-its-kind extravaganza, tailored just for them. She will play the piano and sing a Nat King Cole carol. Francis will read from Matthew 1:18-2:23. Jean will dance a modern ballet to Jingle Bell Rock. And for the grandfinale—since I lack any real talent—I will dress as Santa, handing out presents, cookies, and arsenic-laced eggnog.

“Why me?” I ask.

“Because you’re the slow one,” Babs says. “They’ll never suspect you.”

“Oh, yeah? Maybe they don’t take a belt to me like they do you, but that’s only because they think I’m a joke. Yesterday, William-James called me a ‘pathetic loser piece of shit.’ That’s abuse, too.”

“Count your blessings,” Babs mutters. “It could be worse.”

I stop writing, ending my entry with her words.

*****

This is how the plan takes root. Like a Venus flytrap, we will lure them into a false sense of security. A wholesome, late-morning children’s show. A sweetly innocent pageant. And when they sip the poisoned eggnog, the trap will snap shut. If we’re lucky, the authorities will rule it as simultaneous heart attacks. If we’re really lucky, double suicide. Worst case? They catch us, and Iowa Juvenile Court sends us to Seattle anyway.

I glance at Francis, seeking approval for this mad scheme. He grins—contemptuous, unshaken. And that’s when I recall his history with William-James.

When Francis was two, he stuttered. A lot. William-James, exasperated, threatened to slap him if he didn’t stop. When threats failed, he followed through. One night, drunk, he punched Francis square in the mouth, knocking out baby teeth. After that, the little chatterbox never stuttered again. William-James laughed when he told the story. He bragged.

I never found it funny. And I’m not sure Francis ever recovered. I once asked if he remembered it.

“No,” he said.

But his face said otherwise.

And then there was Jean. Or, as Almena called her, Fat Jean.

According to Almena’s worldview, humanity falls into four categories:

1.      Thin-Smart

2.      Fat-Smart

3.      Thin-Dumb

4.      Fat-Dumb

Only Thin-Smart was acceptable in the Barr family. Jean, despite being smart, was not thin. A hypothyroid condition slowed her metabolism to a pig’s crawl. She had no control over it, but that didn’t stop Almena from trying to starve her into thinness. Years of this “homeopathic therapy” only stunted Jean’s growth. At ten, she looked seven. Weaker than the rest of us, she caught every virus that swept through town.

And then there was Babs. Beautiful, defiant Babs.

For years, she had been the lightning rod for Almena’s rage. I had watched her dragged down hallways by the hair, spun like a top across the floor for failing to fold laundry perfectly. But now, as she grew into womanhood, there were other reasons for Almena’s hatred.

Reasons I didn’t yet understand.

*****

Journal Entry #23:

December 23, 11:00 PM. William-James and Almena are asleep, unaware that we have convened in the basement for a final meeting. The chair calls us to order. All members present.

Under old business, Francis confirms he has secured arsenic from a neighbor’s toolshed—a colorless, tasteless powder that dissolves undetected. One-eighth of a teaspoon will kill an adult, but Francis suggests doubling the dose. Jean motions to approve. I second. The vote is unanimous.

One-fourth teaspoon per cup. Christmas Day. Babs will mix the drinks. I will serve them.

The chair asks if there’s any new business. Jean requests Almena’s pearl necklace and jewelry, hoping to avoid infighting later. Babs cedes the request but states for the record she wants only a mink stole. The chair turns to Francis and me. Do we want anything before leaving for Seattle?”

Francis: “No.”

Me: “Mr. Snuggles.” Our cat.

With no further discussion, we hold hands and pray.

“Are we sure there’s no other way?” I whisper, hesitant. “It doesn’t feel right. And I don’t think

God would want us to—”

Francis snaps. “God? What the hell? What are our other options?” “Well, couldn’t we call Protective Services? The police?”

“Shit, no,” he spits, lunging as if ready to strike. “Protective Services will throw us in some crap foster home while they go to counseling. And guess what? In the end, we’ll be sent right back to them. Because that’s how it always works.” He points at Jean and Babs. “Look at them. See the bruises? How much longer can Jean survive being starved? And Babs—what perverse thing will he do to her next? Shackles? Really?”

He exhales sharply, his rage temporarily sated. “Fine. Let’s assume Protective Services keeps us away from them forever. We’ll be split up, sent to strangers. We’ll be adults before we reunite. Do you want that, Jonah? To meet again twenty years from now on the goddamned Merv Griffin Show as long-lost siblings?”

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

“Quit stuttering,” he hisses. “Stuttering is weakness.”

Babs cuts in. “The only way we stay together is if we keep this out of Protective Services’ hands. I’ve done my research. Once we’re charged with their murders, the court takes over, not the state. We’ll be deemed too dangerous for foster care. They’ll want to wash their hands of us— ship us off to the nearest relatives.”

Silence.

Our fate is sealed.

I write it all down. When I finish, I hide the journal in the hallway closet.

*****

Spiral Notepad Entry #1:

Two days after Christmas.

I have been asked to write again, this time for the authorities. They want me to describe—in my own words—what happened on December 25. I will do my best, though I doubt anyone will believe me.

We began Christmas morning later than planned. Hungover from a neighbor’s party, William- James and Almena were reluctant to indulge our surprise Christmas pageant. But eventually, they stumbled downstairs, collapsing into their favorite wingback chairs—ones we had scooted close together for the performance.

Babs opened the show with The Christmas Song. Francis followed with a Bible reading. As he spoke, Babs slipped into the kitchen, stirring arsenic into heavily spiked eggnog. When Francis finished, Jean performed her dance. Then, it was my turn.

Decked in red pajamas, a pillow for a belly, and Scotch-taped cotton for a beard, I presented the drinks on a silver tray alongside Almena’s freshly baked cookies.

Just as Babs urged them to drink, Almena turned to Jean. “Darling, will you grab the gifts from the closet?”

My stomach tightened.

We tore into our presents, careful not to remove the tags—Almena’s strict rule in case she

needed to return anything. Then, she instructed us to sit at her feet. She smiled. Too sweetly.

“Eat, children,” she said, motioning toward the cookies.

We hesitated only a moment before obeying.

Then came the eggnog. We prodded them, maybe too eagerly. “No, no. You first,” Almena said. Her voice was smooth. Casual. Something inside me twisted.

I did not take a bite of my cookie. I set it back on the tray.

“Why aren’t you eating?” she asked.

“I’m not hungry,” I murmured. “I’ve lost my appetite.”

My siblings, finished with their cookies, resumed their coaxing. William-James lifted his cup to his lips, paused, then winked at me. Panic seized my throat.

“Don’t drink that!” I blurted.

He froze. “And why not, Jonah?”

“Because—”

Before I could speak, Jean’s body sagged forward. Her arms went limp, legs crisscrossed beneath her. “I don’t feel good,” she whispered, her face to the floor.

Francis collapsed next, like a marionette with severed strings. “What’s hap—hap—happening?” he stuttered, his body convulsing.

Then Babs.

She didn’t cry out. Didn’t panic. She understood immediately.

Her eyes flickered up to them—our parents—one last flash of defiance.

“Go to hell,” she whispered. Her breath hitched, and she went still.

Almena beamed. A smile. A real one.

“Well, children,” she said, her voice thick with satisfaction. “We found your journal yesterday. Destroyed it. We knew exactly what you were planning. We just beat you to it.”

She turned to me.

“It’s a shame you murdered your brother and sisters, Jonah. But I understand. It must have been hard living in their shadows. You always hated the competition, didn’t you?” She clucked her tongue. “Well, you were always the slow one.”

William-James stretched lazily in his chair, smiling. “And now, we’ll finally have time to focus on our academic work. Without you kids pestering us.”

Almena leaned in, her tone soothing.

“But don’t worry, Jonah. We’ll get you help. Good help. With the right psychiatric care, you’ll come home to us soon. Just take responsibility for what you did. Admit it. The sooner you do, the sooner you’ll get out.”

“And,” William-James added, smirking, “Mr. Snuggles will be waiting for you. Open paws.”

BIO: Tinker Babbs is a 2024 graduate of the UTEP MFA Program. Tinker's creative nonfiction and hybrid work has recently appeared in The Raven Review and The Write Launch, among others. Tinker's writing explores themes of moral ambiguity, marginalized histories, and the quiet resilience of outsiders.