by Merry Jones
His last word was almost a whisper. His breath tickled her face, smelling of bologna, and of something else. Something
familiar.
“Out. Now.” She pointed at the door. Tried to stop hearing his words repeat in her mind. She was not like him. Misfit. Oddball. Freak. He was the oddball and freak, sneaking into her room when she wasn’t home, coming into the bathroom while she was in the shower, liking bugs better than people. Who does that?
“I only came in for my sock.”
“Out!” She kept pointing until he left. Then she went to her dresser. Again, she smelled a trace of something, something sweet. Their mother’s Chanel? More likely, it was just the smell of clean clothes, laundry detergent. Her underwear drawer was a mess. Tommy was such a jerk. She slammed the drawer shut and flopped onto her bed. Had he really been looking for a sock? Doubtful. So what had he really been doing?
Nora bolted back to the dresser. She emptied the drawer out, searching for dead bugs or some other token of Tommy’s appalling creepiness. But no. Her underwear drawer was insect-free.
She straightened the underwear, then scanned the room to see what else he’d meddled with. Her window was undisturbed, the lacey drapes limp in the breezeless heat. Her closet was just as she’d left it in the morning—jeans and T-shirts piled on the floor where she’d tossed them, deciding what to wear.
Maybe he hadn’t messed with anything else. Still, he’d been in her room.
Nora’s arm ached where Tommy had punched her. Probably she’d get a bruise, but she’d held her tears, wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of making her cry. Crampy and tired, she grabbed her book bag, climbed onto her bed, arranged her pillows, and leaned back, taking out her math homework. With an unexpected pang, she pictured Natalie sitting by her phone, doing the problems alone.
Saturday, August 11, 2018, 7 p.m.
S
aturday evenings, Dave and Nora usually got a sitter and went out with other couples—Dave’s clients, partners, tennis buddies, or pals from law school. If they didn’t have plans with any of them, then they’d do something with friends or Dave’s brother, Don, and Don’s wife, Sheila.
This night, they were headed to dinner in China Town. Don drove along Kelly Drive, Dave beside him in the front seat, talking sports or work or cars or some other mind-numbing topic. Nora didn’t pay attention. She shared the backseat of Don’s newly-leased Prius with Sheila, who kept folding and refolding her hands.
“You okay?” Nora smiled. “You seem…”
Sheila lowered her voice. “We’re thinking about a second child. Dan says Henry needs a sibling. But I’m not sure.”
Henry was two years old and the sole focus of his mother’s attention. The owner of every toy and piece of toddler equipment available, he was a master of tantrums and manipulation.
“You talking baby?” Don must have heard them whispering.
“Don’t eavesdrop,” Sheila said. “I’m asking Nora’s opinion.”
Don stopped at a red light and shook his head.
“You guys want another kid?” Dave asked.
“Tell her, Dave,” Don said. “Kids need siblings. How would you have survived without me?”
“I’d have had fewer bruises and one less broken arm.”
“And no one to wrestle or mess around with. Or to stay up and order pizzas to that horrible teacher—what was her name again?”
“Mrs. Sullivan.”
“Right. To her house at two a.m.? Or to sneak vodka from the liquor closet—”
“Or take the blame for all the things you did.”
“What?” Don turned to face him, eyes wide and feigning innocence. “Time out. You’re not still mad about the Philly’s game. Because it was the other way around. That was all you.”
“Hell if it was. It was your idea to ditch school, but I was the one who took all the heat. And what about Dad’s missing golf clubs?”
“Not fair. That wasn’t entirely my fault.”
The light had turned green. The car behind them honked, and Don drove on. “Without me, who’d have covered for you when you snuck out at night to smoke pot or drink beer or hook up with some girl?”
Sheila and Nora exchanged looks.
Dave grinned, stretching his arm around Don’s shoulders. “We had some fun, didn’t we, little bro?”
“Still do.”
“Good times.”
“And bad.”
“Thick and thin.” Dave pinched Don’s cheek.
“Fine,” Sheila said. “I get that you guys have a never-ending brother-love-fest. But you aren’t typical siblings.”
“Really?” Dave twisted to face her. “Look at Ellie and Sophie. They’re inseparable. Right, Nora? The girls sleep in the same room by choice. They’re best pals.”
Nora nodded, edging closer to the window. Her own sibling popped to mind. Tommy was grinning, baring his braces clogged with food bits, holding jars of dead bugs. “Our kids are close,” she smiled, “but still, each family’s different. No way to predict how Henry and the new one would get along.”
“True enough, Nora,” Don said. “But however they get along, it’s worth it. Poor you. As an only child, you really can’t imagine what a big deal it is having a brother or sister.”
Dave’s gaze flicked to her. She met his eyes, wordlessly thanking him for saying nothing. He accepted that Nora didn’t talk about Tommy and had never even mentioned him to Sheila and Don.
“Right.” Nora held her smile but set her jaw.
Dave reached back for her hand and squeezed.
Sheila went on, talking about studies she’d read about the psychologies of single children versus those with siblings. But Nora couldn’t listen anymore. She focused on the pressure of Dave’s hand, his smooth golden wedding band and sturdy warm fingers. She tried to get rid of Tommy, but it was no good. Now that she’d pictured him, Tommy wouldn’t go away. His memory crowded between her and Sheila in the back seat, big as life in the khaki pants and blue checkered shirt that their mother had bought by the dozen because he’d refused any other fabric or color even though kids at school taunted him. Hey, Tommy. Don’t you ever change clothes? Do you sleep in those? They’d jeered him right to his face, called him weirdo, freak, creep. Mocked him with jabs as solid as punches, and with solid punches too.
“Well, I’m sure you two lovebirds will make the right decision.” Dave winked at Nora as he tried to change the subject. “Meantime, how about them Phillies?”
Don said, “I got tickets next home game. You in?”
Tommy crossed his legs, getting comfortable. Go away, Nora begged him. Weirdo, freak, creep. But he settled in, filling the back seat with his long skinny limbs and musty smell. Nora looked out the window, and the conversation faded into a dull buzz. They drove past houses, parks, the river. But Nora didn’t see any of that. All she saw was Tommy.
Tommy. He was like a recurring bad dream, a wart that kept growing back. He reappeared even though Nora never spoke about, even tried not to think about him. Sometimes he showed up with bruises, split lips, and torn books. Other times, he’d have a note from school because kids in gym class had stolen his sneakers or hidden his clothes or cornered and taunted him in the locker room, cafeteria, staircase, or study hall. Tommy hadn’t been simply unpopular. He’d been a pariah. An outcast who’d taken his anger out on his younger sister. Nora had lived in terror, not just of Tommy, but of the likelihood that as his sister, she’d likewise be shunned, judged, teased and tormented. As far back as she could remember, whenever other kids were around, she’d pretended not even to know him.
Family comes first. Your brother is your blood.
And Marla and Philip? They’d been no help. They’d doted on Tommy, encouraged his eccentric hobbies, and claimed that he was a genius, a unique gift to the world. By contrast, Nora had felt uninteresting and overlooked. Marla’s parenting had taken the form of hasty clichés. Pick your battles. Don’t
rock the boat. You can’t catch flies with vinegar. Other than the oblique guidance gleaned from remarks like these, Nora had pretty much been left to raise herself, had made drastic decisions with
irreversible consequences.
So, no. Nora didn’t talk about him. Had never mentioned him even to Dave, until he had seen Tommy in family pictures on her mother’s spinet.
“Who’s this?” On his first visit to her parents’ house, he’d picked a framed school portrait of a little boy from the piano.
“Oh, that’s Tommy.” Marla had taken Dave’s arm and gazed over his shoulder at the photo. “Nora must have told you about him. He’s her brother.”
Dave had frowned, no doubt confused.
“He passed away.” Marla had sighed as she picked up another photo. “Here he is with his father and Nora at a science fair. He was twelve.”
Nora winced, remembering. She clutched her seatbelt, heard the rhythm of Don and Dave’s banter, and forced a smile at Sheila.
The picture had been snapped moments before a boy—his name escaped her—had run by and rammed right into Tommy, knocking over his entire exhibit. The boy had apologized, said it was an accident, but Tommy, accustomed to being victimized, had been convinced he’d done it on purpose and lost it. He’d barreled into the boy, swinging. Their father, Philip, had put his hands up, flustered and stuttering, his face cardiac red, as he’d pleaded with Tommy to back off. A small crowd had gathered, the science teachers clucking and flapping. Nora had backed away, mortified, until finally, someone had separated the boys and helped restore the exhibit. By then, the boy’s arm had been twisted, Tommy’s face had been scratched and his shirtsleeve torn.
In the picture, though, Tommy’s blue plaid shirt was neat and intact, and he stood proud and unscratched with his cowlick at attention beside his display of impaled bugs on poster board.
“Hold on.” Dave had wanted clarification. “This is your brother?”
Nora had felt his gaze asking, what the hell? Why didn’t you tell me you had a brother? What happened to him? All those questions and more had flashed in his eyes, so she’d avoided them and moved away from the piano.
But Dave, being Dave, hadn’t let the subject go. He’d asked her mother about Tommy, prying out details of his life and tragic, untimely death.
And Marla had been happy to provide them. “It was years ago. Not as much was known then about depression.” Marla had set the picture down, her hands thin, freckled, lined with blue, swollen veins. “Certainly, Philip and I didn’t know much. And as a young boy, he wasn’t depressed at all. He was gifted. Probably a genius. He talked at ten months—used whole sentences by his first birthday. He taught himself to read. Did addition and subtraction at three years old. Oh yes. He was way beyond his grade level in school, so Philip and I helped him pursue his interests independently—”
“Mom, how’s dinner coming?” Nora’s whole body had tensed. “Can I do anything?”
“No need, dear.” Marla had waved a hand, dismissing Nora’s question. “Anyway, there was a downside to Tommy’s brilliance. Because he was so far beyond other children, he had no one to befriend. Other children probably bored him. I believe that over time, his lack of companionship became problematic. As intelligent as he was, he was… how should I put it? Socially awkward? Introverted. He never said it, but in hindsight, it’s clear that he was lonely. I suppose that’s what led to depression.”
Marla had kept talking, telling Dave that Nora had been Tommy’s best, possibly his only friend, even though she was several years younger. That when Nora wasn’t around, Tommy locked himself away with various entomology projects or photography.
As Marla spoke, Nora had pasted a placid smile on her face and refilled her scotch. She’d suggested that Dave didn’t really need to hear about Tommy’s projects and that they talk about other things. Like the weather.
But Dave had persisted, asking outright, blatantly and without apology, “So what happened? How did he die?”
Nora had clutched her glass, chewed her lip.
Her mother had taken a seat in her brocade wingback chair. How small she’d looked, how frail. A hollowed out gray-haired doll with a thread-thin voice. “Well, he didn’t intend—It was a terrible accident.”
Nora had gulped more scotch, bracing herself. “Please. Let’s not go through it.”
Dave had apologized, saying he shouldn’t have asked, that Marla needn’t go on.
But Marla wouldn’t stop. “You should be told. After all, Tommy was Nora’s blood.”
Nora had stared into the fireplace, trying not to listen but hearing every word, seeing Tommy climb the steps to the attic and shut the door.
“It was his sophomore year. Of high school.” Marla paused and fiddled with the thin gold ring on her liver-spotted hands. “It was late at night and we were all asleep, so we didn’t hear him walking around the house.”
Except that Nora had. She’d lain in bed, wondering what Tommy was doing. She’d gotten up and found him on his way to the attic. She’d never told anyone, though. Hadn’t seen the point.
Dave had started to say something, maybe that Marla shouldn’t continue.
But Marla interrupted him, “My husband found him in the morning.”
“There’s no need to go on. Please. Tommy killed himself.” Nora had blinked, but the image hadn’t faded.
“Nora. You know very well that the detectives said it wasn’t necessarily suicide. It could have been an accident.”
“Mom—” Nora had pleaded.
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Nora. Tommy was just a regular teenager discovering himself. He was experimenting, testing various methods of—”
“For God’s sake, Mom.” Nora had tried to end the discussion. “He hanged himself.”
“But maybe by accident. It turns out that choking can create particularly intense and stimulating… sensations. He probably didn’t intend to die.”
Nora had shaken her head and kept quiet.
Dave had expressed his condolences and apologized for
resurrecting painful memories.
Marla had assured him that she’d come to terms with the loss long ago.
What’s done is done. Don’t cry over spilt milk.
Later, when they were alone, Nora had made it clear that the subject of Tommy was off limits. That she couldn’t talk about him. And after that night with her mother, she hadn’t, even though she knew that silence wouldn’t free her of him, that Tommy would continue to appear unpredictably in her thoughts and dreams.
She never mentioned the dreams to Dave. One in particular recurred fairly often, in varying forms. Tommy would follow her doggedly until finally, she’d turn and shove him away. With a pained look, Tommy would fall to the ground, where he’d shatter into hundreds of crawling pieces.
Saturday, August 11, 2018, 11:30 p.m.
W
hen they were home in bed, Dave reached for her, and finally, Nora relaxed. The talk of siblings had dominated dinner, with Don and Sheila debating the merits of having a second child. As if invited, Tommy had pulled up a chair and sat among them, the candlelight flickering on his braces.
Nora sipped wine, kept smiling politely until, as she helped herself to General Tso’s, Dave mentioned his mistress.
And she dropped her chopsticks.
They clattered onto her plate, and everyone looked at her.
“Jesus, Nora. It was a joke.” Dave blinked. “I was kidding. Because I’m working so much that it’s almost like I have one.”
“One” meaning a mistress. She fumbled with her chopsticks. How should she have responded? With a laugh? The others had chuckled, their mouths stuffed with rice and tofu and garlic sauce. What had been funny about the idea of Dave cheating?
But the evening was finally over—thank God—and she was home in bed, wrapped in Dave’s arms. At least in this most basic way, she could reconnect with him. She let herself forget a
bout siblings, and the nonsense about Dave cheating. Just lay with him and let go. After more than ten years, she knew his body and would find comfort in the pattern, the steps to their familiar sexual dance.
Except that Dave wasn’t doing that dance. His rhythm had changed from a waltz to a samba. What was his mouth doing? His kisses felt staccato, his lips breezing over her quickly, lightly. When had his fingers become so aggressive? So accurate? Oh God. She squealed, almost in pain, then moaned in unexpected, unprecedented pleasure. After he sent her reeling, spinning, actually yelping in blinding orgasm, Nora lay back on the pillow. What had happened to her husband? Where had he acquired those new lovemaking techniques?
Ask him, she urged herself. Before he falls asleep, while your bodies are still entangled, ask him. The longer you wait, the harder it will be. It’s better to know than to wonder.
Fine. She’d ask him as soon as her heartbeat steadied. As soon as she could find her voice. Nora took a breath and swallowed: one, two, three. “Dave?”
“Hmmm?” His voice was groggy, almost asleep.
She needed to know and couldn’t wait. In the morning, the kids would be all over the both of them, and then he’d be off to tennis again. Unless “tennis” was actually some babe. Which it wasn’t, of course, but she needed to hear him say it. This was her only chance until who-knew-when.
“I need to ask you something.”
No response.
“Dave?” She shook his shoulder. “Dave?”
“Hmmm.” His eyes didn’t open. His arm sprawled heavily over her hip. His breathing was slow and rumbling.
Not two minutes after they’d finished making love, Dave was sound asleep.
How was that even possible? How could he—poof—be asleep? His mind just switched off, untroubled. She watched the quiver of his exhaling lips.
Moonlight beamed through the window blinds, washing everything with stripes of grayish blue: the room, the bed, the sheets, Dave’s face, the muscles of his shoulder, the length of his arm. Nora’s hip. Even her thoughts, her urgency, her dread.
