kinglearisstupid | Beezus on serial killers

It is Elizabeth's idea to look after Beatrice for the afternoon while Emily and David give their lecture at Georgetown University.

"Don't look so shocked, my dear," Elizabeth tells her daughter, slightly stung by the look of alarm crossing Emily's face. "I have done this before, you know. Taken care of small children. You made it out alive, didn't you?"

Ten or twenty years earlier, a snide mention of nannies and au pairs would've slipped out of Emily, but now, Emily simply glances at her husband briefly before saying, "Trust me, Mother. It's not Beezus I'm worried about."

Beatrice is sitting on the floor of the lounge when Elizabeth arrives for babysitting duty, connecting the scabs on her legs with a green marker.

"Beezus, say hi to Grandma," Emily calls absently as she runs upstairs to get dressed for the lecture.

"Hi, Grandma." Beatrice stops drawing on herself and studies Elizabeth for a long moment. Then she says, accusingly, "You had a party last time and you didn't invite me."

Emily warned her about this, how upset Beatrice had been at being denied the opportunity to meet the Prime Minister of Qatar at a charity event hosted by the U.N.

"I wanted to invite you, but it was past your bedtime," Elizabeth tells her, using the explanation David has conveniently contrived.

Beatrice assesses this as she draws a green line from her knee down to her shin. "Okay," she says at last. "I didn't want to go anyway. Carolyn and I snuggled on the couch and we watched Dancing With the Stars. We voted for Adam Lambert."

Beatrice seems to be expecting a comment from Elizabeth, who is stumped for a proper response, despite having spent the majority of her life coming up with an answer to every single question she anticipates being asked.

"Carolyn really did call the number to do the voting," Beatrice continues. "Daddy always says he will call the number but he just pretends to and I know this because he doesn't press the green button after he puts in all the numbers."

Emily was such a quiet child, docile and easygoing. That was the way Elizabeth herself was taught: children should be seen and not heard. In Emily's case, children could be heard as long as they knew the proper greetings and appropriate topics of conversation. It wasn't until the teenage years that Emily became difficult. Belligerent. Resentful.

Beatrice, on the other hand, talks incessantly, opinionated and eager to share her interpretation of the world.

There's a disgruntled bark and a "Down, boy!" and then, "Honey, if we don't get a move on it, we're going to be late."

"It's a 4pm seminar, Rossi. They'll either be falling asleep or just waking up."

"They are teachers today," Beatrice says. "They're going to teach people about serial killers."

Elizabeth has never interfered with the way Emily raises her child, but Beatrice's casual comment startles her, which of course Beatrice notices.

"Do you know what serial killers are, Grandma?"

"I believe I do have a general idea."

Beatrice stares at her dubiously.

"Serial killers," she says slowly, "are murderers who kill people with cereal."

It takes a moment before the words click and Elizabeth finds herself grateful for her expertise in the art of keeping a straight face. "Is that so?"

"Uh-huh. My mommy and daddy are going to teach college students about being careful not to get killed by cereal."

"I had no idea cereal could be so dangerous."

"Cereal is not usually dangerous if normal people are eating it, but there are these crazy, evil people whose brains don't work properly and they will kill other people with cereal."

Elizabeth shakes her head in disbelief. "That's horrendous. I can't believe that would happen."

Beatrice holds up three fingers on her left hand and makes a circle with her thumb and index finger with her right. "There are 30 cereal killers active in the United States right now. Grandma, you really need to be careful, because they all look different and they have different ways of killing."

Elizabeth doesn't recall Emily ever talking so much about killing when she was five, but to be honest she doesn't remember much about her daughter at that age.

"For example, they could know that you have a nut allergy and make you eat cereal with nuts in it. That would kill you. Or they can dig a big hole and put you in it and then bury you with cereal until you couldn't breathe, only that doesn't work with Cheerios.

"Or they could put poison in the cereal and trick you into eating it and then you'll eat the poison without knowing it. That's what Mommy did to get Mudgie to take his heartworm medicine."

Her daughter and son-in-law materialize in the doorway before Beatrice has the chance to continue with her explanation on ways to murder with cereal. "Sweetie," David says, as Emily gives his tie some last-minute straightening, "Mommy and I are going now. We'll be back, real soon, okay? Be good for Grandma."

"Don't kiss me," Beatrice orders. "I have chicken pops." She shows off her leg to her father. "I made a giraffe with my spots."

"That's a very nice giraffe," Dave praises. "I hope it's not permanent marker."

"It's not," Emily reassures him, and turns to eye Beatrice sharply. "But that doesn't mean you can draw on the walls!"

"I won't." Beatrice sighs.

"Or the furniture."

"I won't."

"Or your grandmother."

Beatrice considers this and asks, "What if she says it's okay?"

"No drawing on other people, Beezus. We talked about this, remember?"

"Maybe Grandma wants a tattoo?"

"I really would rather not," Elizabeth says.

Beatrice sighs again, this time more long-sufferingly than the last. "Fine."

Once the car has pulled out of the driveway, Elizabeth's granddaughter turns to her and holds out her arm. "I can't draw on you, but you can draw on me. Can you draw me a penguin on a snowmobile?"