Deeper Than the Dead

56

Dennis got up early and dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved rugby shirt. He went into his closet and dug through the dirty clothes to find his cigar box. From the box he took the pocketknife he had stolen from his dad’s dresser and shoved it deep into the front pocket of his jeans.

The knife was his most prized possession. He liked to pretend his father had given it to him for his birthday. He wished that was true, but his father never even remembered his birthday.

He took the lighter he had stolen out of his mother’s purse, and put it and the half-dozen cigarettes into a zippered pocket on his backpack. He hadn’t tried to smoke before, but he thought maybe he would start.

Almost as an afterthought, he tossed the dried-out rattlesnake head in there too—just because it was his. Then he put on his blue jean jacket, hiked his backpack up over one shoulder, and headed downstairs.

The house was completely quiet. Usually, Dennis’s mother was up by now to make breakfast. Even on the weekends, his father liked breakfast early. His father was a busy man, and had a lot of important things to do, even on his days off.

But there was no sign of his mother.

Dennis had never heard her car come home, and he had been awake all night. Even when he had finally climbed back down from the roof to his bedroom, he hadn’t wanted to sleep. Not because he was afraid of bad dreams, but because he just didn’t feel anything. He didn’t feel pain. He didn’t feel sadness or anger. He didn’t feel tired.

He had crept through the house like a burglar to see what he could see. The downstairs looked like a bomb had gone off with broken stuff all over the floors of the dining room and kitchen. His mother was gone. His father too. Dennis was all alone.

He lay on his bed all the rest of the night, just staring at the ceiling. Now, in the light of day, the kitchen was a terrible mess. Dirty dishes had been thrown in the sink. A pot with macaroni and cheese in it had been knocked off the stove and spilled all over the floor. There must have been a thousand ants crawling on the gooey pile. There was red stuff smeared on one wall by the light switch. Blood, Dennis thought. He stared at it and felt nothing.

The dining room was no better. There were broken glasses on the floor, and a couple of broken plates.

For sure his mother had not come home. She would never have gone to bed and left the place like this. She kept everything clean and tidy because that was the way his father liked it.

Dennis got a bowl and fixed himself some cereal. He was halfway done when his father came walking in, looking like he hurt all over. He had a hangover. Dennis could tell by the color of his skin and the bags under his eyes.

His father didn’t get drunk very often, and when he did he didn’t try to hide it like Dennis’s mother did. He knew his mother drank almost every day on account of he knew where she hid her bottle. But it was her secret, and most of the time even his father couldn’t tell.

Dennis stopped chewing and just stared at his dad now, not sure what to expect from him. Would he be normal? Would he still be mad?

His father made a face like his mouth tasted bad, went to the coffeemaker, and stared at the empty pot.

He looked at Dennis. “Where’s your mother?”

Dennis shrugged.

His dad went to the window and looked out at the driveway. “Her car’s gone. I never heard her come home last night.”

I never heard you come home last night, either, Dennis thought, but he just shrugged again. He fully expected his dad to explode and belt him one for not answering, like he had the night before, but he didn’t.

“I think she left,” his father said, still staring out the window.

Dennis said nothing. He still couldn’t feel any emotions. In a weird way, it was like he was wrapped up in a cocoon. He could see the world around him, but it couldn’t touch him. He liked it that way.

His father turned and left the room. Dennis could hear his footfalls going up the stairs. When he couldn’t hear them anymore, he put his backpack on and left the house with no intention of ever coming back.