Deeper Than the Dead

65

Tommy spent the day walking on eggshells. It was something he was very good at because he had a lot of practice doing it. He had always known how to read his mother’s moods—or anyone’s for that matter. He never understood people who couldn’t.

His father had left the house very early to help with the search for the missing lady. Tommy had asked to go along, but his dad had explained they didn’t allow kids to be there.

That didn’t make sense to Tommy, since kids could look for things just as well as adults—and probably better. They were closer to the ground and they paid more attention to what was around them. And besides that, he had already seen a dead body before, so it wasn’t like he would be afraid if he saw one again.

But it didn’t matter, because his dad left him once again to deal with his mother, who got out of bed mad, slamming doors and drawers, muttering to herself. That was the worst thing: when she talked to herself under her breath, so angry, her eyes hard and cold.

She went through the house “cleaning,” as she called it. Throwing things left and right, out of drawers, onto the floor—magazines, newspapers, mail. She went through the kitchen throwing out food, throwing things out of the refrigerator into the sink.

Later, when she had calmed down, she would go through the house again, following the trail of destruction, making sure there would be no signs left of what she had done. By the time his father got home, the house would be perfectly neat and clean, like nothing had ever happened.

Tommy stayed in his room for most of her tirade, but knew that eventually she would come in there as well, and if he hadn’t done a perfect job of keeping his room neat, he would have a BIG problem. His mother would tear the sheets from his bed, throw his toys in the garbage, tear up papers he had brought home from school to save because he had gotten stars on them from Miss Navarre, or she had written a note on them saying how well he had done.

He knew how his mother would particularly be after those because she was still angry at Miss Navarre. More than ever after Detective Mendez and the FBI man had been there.

Tommy made a special effort to hide the things he valued most, pressing papers between the mattress and box spring of his bed.

He wished he dared to just leave, but he didn’t. Instead he slipped from his room and followed two rooms behind his mother, going through the mess to make certain she hadn’t thrown out anything of value. He sometimes found things like watches and jewelry, money, checks, all kinds of things that his mother would never throw away if she hadn’t been in one of her moods.

Today was no exception. Tommy sorted out the good things and put them back where they belonged. Books, magazines, and drink coasters in the family room. Figurines and photographs in the living room. In his parents’ room—where he had to be extra careful not to be caught—he saved his father’s ring from college and a tangle of jewelry his mother had thrown in the wastebasket.

When she finished her tirade, she was in the study, sitting on her knees sobbing amid a pile of papers, letters, newspaper clippings. And like always when she started crying, Tommy went in and sat with her, and held her hand. He told her that he felt bad for her, and he was sorry for her, and he hoped she would feel better soon.

It wasn’t a job a kid should have, but that was just his life.

He wished he could have just gone to the park on a Saturday like everyone else.