Mother Dearest(6)

You’regood, Mother, but not that good.“Oh,” she said, “Is that all? I used to change things around inthat a lot, but I haven’t touched it in years. That’s why I wasso curious about you looking at it the other day, you never reallyshowed and interest in it.” Maybe that was a good thing. Maybe that was a bad thing.“Yeah, that’s all. I was just curious. I must be remembering itwrong.” He painted on a fake smile of his own, trying not to ham itup too much, otherwise she would realize that he was faking and thathe suspected far more than that. She looked at him and gave a brief, fake smile of her own. She seemednot to suspect, and he really hope that she didn’t know. He hopedshe didn’t find out that he suspected she was hiding something. He wouldn’t be able to find the rest if she did. THE CHURCH lawn smelled of fresh cut grass and settled dew after themorning service when Tom and Trish stood and watched some kidswatching a frog hop around, the boys delighted and the girlsdisgusted. It was about as classic as it got, watching them. —I’ve never had a fight with Mother before, Trish. I’m notsure what to think. Trishlooked at him, her almond-brown eyes examined him for a moment,sizing him up and taking his mind apart. She did that a lot when theywere talking seriously, analyzing him, doing that mind-reading thingof hers. —Why did you fight?

He hesitated. —It was about me, wasn’t it? —Kinda…well, mostly. It had to do with something I said agesago. Her white dress danced in the breeze, her brown-leather hair slowlyshifted as the small wind caressed it, and her eyes were warm andopen, but still examining. He wasn’t sure how she did it, butsomehow he knew she knew what he was thinking. Maybe that’s whythey got along so well. —She called you a tramp and said you were stealing me…therewere some other words exchanged. —What did you tell her? —Hmm? —The thing you said ages ago: what was it? He looked at the children playing for a moment. The delight thatetched their faces as the watched the strange, squinting greencreature with scaly skin. The boys were fascinated with it; the gleeat finding a frog in such impeccable shape in their reach wasastounding and wonderful. The girls, though slightly repulsed by it,were also mesmerized and filled with wonder at watching the thing hopand move, even though their inborn femininity told them it was thatthey would best avoid, in their church clothes no less—but not aone dared move. They didn’t dare, they were too pleased, and wouldstall just to make the moment last. —It was a promise I made as a little kid. I said ‘we’llalways be together’. She asked, ‘always?’ and I said: ‘always’.She thinks I’m breaking my promise by marrying you. Trisha looked at him a moment and cocked her head to the side. —But you’re not abandoning her. You’re still going to be intown, and we’ll have her over a bunch, that way she isn’t lonelyany. Why does she think I’m…stealing you from her?

He sighed. —Because Mother isn’t ready for me to grow up yet. Shepaused. Then nodded. Her eyes shone with that happy light that camewhen she was telling a joke or a funny story—but this was neither ajoke nor a funny story. It was bitter reality, and it wasn’t alaughing matter. —I think that’s just the way parents are. It’s a wish oftheirs; they don’t want us to grow up. Ask them, it’s true. Butwe can’t exactly control it. He lookedat her. She tookhis hand. —And it’s not worth fighting over. It’s life, and it’s notsomething we need to waste a bunch of time fussing about. Enjoy itwhile it’s happening, it won’t last forever. He nodded, and glanced back at the kids, wondering if they even had aclue that they would have these kinds of moments, wondering what layahead, enjoying life with the one they loved. Tom knew that they would. THE STUDY was possessed by the strange hum of silence. He wasn’tsure how that made sense, but silence carried with it a sound of it’sown, or it produced one at least, in the back of the mind. The dulldrone in his head continued as he slowly sorted through the papers,stealing a quick peek over his shoulder to be sure that he wasn’tbeing watched.Silent tomes lined the bookshelves behind him, each one peering overat him, watching his every move. Their pages were filled with words,but not a one that would reveal what he was doing. If he was able tobe careful and stealthy then he could keep what he was doing a totalsecret.

Tom carefully pulled open another drawer; again, as the last one, itwas filled with folders and envelopes that had been closed for a verylong time, and mostly for a good reason. Some he thought was justsome junk that Mother was holding on to, others he knew she had areason for holding on to. He had yet to find what he was looking for,however. If she were going to hide those newspaper articles then she wouldhave to hide them in the study that would be the only logical placethat Mother would hide them. If she tried to hide them in her roomthen there was a good chance he would see them, so she wouldn’thide them there. Not unless she’s stashing them in the closet. He thought,grinning to himself. Mother was an organization addict, she had to have everything putaway in a very specific place, and kept only certain items in certainplaces. Maybe she was kind of OCD about it, but it worked to Tom’sadvantage in the end. If she were to hide something, it would be withthe other papers, it wouldn’t be with clothes. Foldersscattered as he pulled them out of the drawer, trying to keep them ina kind of order that would make it easy to put them back the way theywere. He looked into them as he brought them up, looking for thatsign of an old newspaper clipping. That was all he was after. There was a bump it the next room. He froze. A moment passed, the silence droned in the background as the tinyclock in his mind ticked away, counting each dear second. Tom resumed working through the folders. It was nothing, nothing atall. The sloppy edges of the folders rubbed against his fingers, as hepulled them out, surveying their contents. Some were thin and nearempty, while others were bellied and filled to capacity with possiblyhundreds of pages stuffed into them.

The envelopes ranged in size as well; from actually empty envelopesthat didn’t seem to serve any purpose, and envelopes that bulgedwith content. He didn’t understand in the least how she could have all of themand keep them organized in any fashion, but that was Mother, she knewwhat she was doing even if nobody else did. Which might be a good thing sometimes. He thought. Then pausedand shook his head, knowing the thought was unfounded. He wentall the way to the bottom of the drawer, where a cardboard box lay,and deep down in the depths. Thenagain, it might not be. Mother wasn’t the kind of person who hid those boxes deep down in adrawer, keeping them from other people, but here was the box right infront of him, plain as the desk in front of him. He reached down and pulled the box out with both hands, carefullypulling it up. The cardboard squealed against the metal slides of thedrawer as it started to slowly saw through the material. What are you hiding, Mother? He wondered as he set the box onthe desk in front of him, checking behind him to make sure thatnobody but the books were watching him. He was clear. The boxwas scuffed—well used, he could tell. The faded brown color of ittold him that it was an old box, as old as he was at least. Thescattered gray rub marks showed where it had been hidden and moved somany times. The sides were dusty, but surprisingly, the top was not.He found that strange. Gently, slowly, he pulled back the top of the lid, and the familiar,dusty rubbing sound that cardboard makes filled the room. He looked over his shoulder.

Nothing. The box flap came loose with a final pop that made him jump for noreason other than he was terrified of being caught. Mother had to beasleep by that time, there was no way that she could have heard thatin her sleep, especially with the Nyquil she was taking for hersickness. He was in the clear. He had to be. The smell from the box was the familiar dusty, sweet smell of oldpaper, decaying as it aged, sitting in a rotting cardboard boxunderneath a mountain load of papers. As soon as he opened the box he knew exactly what he was staring at,and it for a moment took him aback. On the top was a newspaper article that he had not seen before, thathad a picture of his father in it. The headline was the part that hadgrabbed his attention, however: “Suspected Murder of Virginia Man”.The article’s caption told him that Mother was the prime suspect inhis supposed murder that was meant to look like an accident. Tom wracked his mind, but came up with nothing. He didn’t rememberany of it. There was a pile of articles just like it, some from the photo albumthat he had seen before, and others that he had not seen. There wasone article about the death of a local woman, how it had ended up inthe box he had no idea, but he quickly found out from the captionthat she was a prostitute downtown somewhere. Her death wasmysterious as well, but there were no leads, and probably nobodycared. He didn’t find any more articles about the woman.Tom paused and looked at the box, realizing how deep it was, andwondered what must be inside it. He began to take out large piles ofit all, the ones that he had seen in the photo album came out first,and a few papers that were there that he supposed were for separationthat he would have to check when he reloaded the box.

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