My Mother Got Married

by Barbara Park

  “This box is yours. This box is yours. And this box is yours.”

  Before he could say anything, I rushed over to his bed and chest. “These are yours, too, Thomas. This is your bed and this is your little white chest. And all the stuff in the drawers is yours, too.”

  Thomas nodded happily.

  “But that’s all, okay, Thomas? Everything else in this room is mine.”

  I started to point. “The bed over there is mine, and that dresser is mine and all the stuff in the closet is mine, too. And the stuff on my desk and the posters on the wall. It’s all my stuff, Thomas. And I’m not trading it, or sharing it, or mixing it together with your stuff. It’s not even going to be both of ours. It’s just going to stay mine.”

  Thomas was getting it now. “Oh,” he muttered weakly. Then he gazed longingly over to my globe again. “I really liked that pretty blue world.”

  He wasn’t angry. In all the time I’d known him, I’d never really seen Thomas angry. When things weren’t going his way, he just seemed disappointed, and maybe kind of sad, I guess.

  I softened a little.

  “Okay, okay. I guess you can touch it once in a while,” I conceded. “But only if you really feel you have to. And no spinning it out of control. Those are the globe rules.”

  Thomas smiled appreciatively and bobbed his head up and down. “I promise,” he said gratefully.

  He started to sit down on my bed. Then he realized his mistake and went to his own bed.

  Lydia stuck her head in the door. She was carrying a small carton to her new room down the hall.

  “Hi. What’re you guys up to?”

  Thomas frowned thoughtfully. “We’re findin’ out what’s ours.”

  Lydia came in and plopped down on my bed. “Wow. You’re totally squished in here, aren’t you?” she observed. “Like a couple of sardines.”

  I know she didn’t mean to be rubbing it in—about having her own room and all—but I still wasn’t in the mood to talk about it.

  I left.

  I hurried downstairs and passed through the living room. My mother was flitting from one corner to another trying to figure out where to put Ben’s antique lamp. When she saw me, she raised her eyebrows.

  “Closet cleaned?”

  I nodded my head and kept on walking. I didn’t stop till I was outside. I climbed up the fence and boosted myself onto the roof. Carefully I made my way toward the chimney. Once I got there, I sat down with my back against the bricks. I didn’t want to spy. I just wanted to be alone.

  I can’t explain why, but being on the roof helps calm me down. I feel free up there or something. Like no one can get to me. And even if someone yells at me, it just floats away into space.

  After about ten minutes Ben came strolling out back. My mother must have sent him to check on me. It was sort of interesting to watch how he did it. First he walked all the way to the fence and pretended to be looking at the garden. Then, trying to act casual, he slowly raised his eyes toward the roof. I stared down at him. I didn’t smile or wave. I just sat and stared.

  Quietly Ben walked back inside.

  (five)

  D

  ON’T ASK me why, but every day Thomas seemed to like me more and more. My mother said I should have felt flattered that he followed me around so much, but I didn’t. It would be like wading through a swamp and coming out with a leech on your leg. You would never really feel proud that you’re the one it picked.

  Everywhere I went, Thomas went. Once he even tried to follow me into the bathroom.

  “No!” I told him sharply. “Not the bathroom. No.”

  I went in alone. When I came out, he was sitting by the door. He stood up and held his nose.

  By the end of the second week I thought I would go crazy. One afternoon, just to have some privacy, I shut myself in the laundry room. I was only in there five minutes before Thomas slid open the door. He asked me to spin him around in the dryer.

  Even my best friend Martin Oates and I couldn’t play in private. Martin moved into the neighborhood last year from North Carolina. Since then, the two of us have stuck together like glue. My mother says it’s getting hard to tell us apart. This is only funny if you know Martin is black.

  Martin is about the coolest kid I’ve ever known. You should hear his accent. It’s real slow and calm, like nobody in the world can rattle him. Also, he walks cooler than anything. Like he owns the street or something.

  Thomas liked Martin almost as much as he liked me. Right from the beginning he’d follow him around the house like a shadow. Finally we gave up playing at my house and mostly just hung around the Oateses’. Martin has three sisters, but if they walk in his room, Martin throws a shoe at them, so they pretty much leave us alone.

  Not Thomas, though. The few times we tried to play at my house, Thomas was a royal pain in the you-know-where. I’m serious. As soon as he’d find out Martin was coming over, he’d stand by the door to wait.

  “He’s coming! He’s coming!” he’d scream as soon as he’d spot him. “It’s that guy, Martin!”

  Right after the Russos moved in, Martin came over to play Monopoly. Boy, was Thomas a pain that day!

  “Hey! What’re you guys gonna do? Can I do it with you guys? Can I? Can I, huh?” he started before Martin was even in the door.

  I shook my head. “No. You can’t do it with us, Thomas.”

  “We’re playing Monopoly,” Martin explained. “It’s only for ages eight to adult. Look, it says so right here on the box.”

  “It’s a law,” I added just for good measure. “You could get arrested if you played.”

  Thomas laughed like he didn’t believe me. “Hey! I know what. I can do the dice.”

  “Nope. Sorry. Can’t,” I stated clearly.

  But even then, Thomas followed us into the room. He scrambled onto his bed and folded his hands on his lap. “I’ll just do this, then.”

  I wanted to scream. Why wouldn’t he get the message?

  Martin turned his back so Thomas couldn’t see. “Hit him with your shoe,” he advised quietly.

  I have to admit I felt like it. If we had been real brothers, I probably would have tackled him and dragged him out of the room. But Thomas didn’t feel like a real brother. He felt more like an uninvited guest. The kind of guest you’re not supposed to clobber or your mother will kill you.

  Finally Martin and I decided to try and ignore him. We figured if we didn’t pay any attention to him, maybe he’d get bored and go away.

  I don’t mean Monopoly is boring, because it’s not. Monopoly is my favorite game. For a while Martin and I played it almost every day. The best part is when the other guy is almost broke and he lands on your most expensive property and you get to jump up and scream, “Ha-ha! I’m rich! I’m rich!” The worst part is when you get into a giant brawl about trading properties and Martin throws the board out your bedroom window. So far that’s only happened to us once.

  After the money was handed out, Martin and I chose our playing pieces. As usual, I took the thimble and he took the shoe.

  Still sitting on the bed, Thomas craned his neck to see into the box. The next thing I knew, he was on the floor sorting through the rest of the playing pieces. After touching each one, he finally grabbed the little toy iron and the top hat and scurried back to his bed.

  I ignored him.

  We rolled the dice to see who would go first.

  “Two!” bellowed Thomas, who was really stretching his neck to the limit. “You got two, Charrulls!” He held up two fingers for our observation. “This many.”

  I ignored him.

  Martin rolled.

  “Hey! How many’s that, Martin?” squealed Thomas. “That’s a whole bunch, right? You got more than Charrulls. A lot more!”

  I ignored him.

  Martin started his shoe around the game board. Every time he touched down, Thomas counted out loud.

  “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight! Eight! Martin got eight!
”

  I ignored him.

  Martin had landed on Vermont Avenue. “I’ll buy it,” he said.

  “Buy it? Buy what? What’re you going to buy, Martin? Where’s your money? Are you going to use that play money, do you mean?”

  This time I couldn’t stop myself. I whipped around and stared at him. “I thought you were just going to sit there,” I snapped.

  Puzzled, Thomas looked down at himself. “I am, Charrulls. I am just sitting here. See?” Quickly he folded his hands again.

  “I know, Thomas. But you’re not being quiet. If you sit there you have to be quiet.”

  He frowned. “It doesn’t say so on the box.”

  “Yes, it does,” I said, picking up the lid. “It’s right here: All children under age eight have to be quiet.”

  Martin grabbed the box lid and added, “If they talk, you must call the police.”

  Martin and I both started laughing over that one. Thomas laughed too, but I’m still not sure he knew it was a joke. Five-year-olds will believe practically anything.

  For the next few minutes things got better. While Martin and I continued around the board buying real estate, Thomas just sat on his bed with his hands folded in his lap. Every once in a while I’d glance in his direction. It was a little bit pathetic, but not that much.

  I was just beginning to enjoy myself when the humming started. It was quiet at first. Hardly even noticeable. But it was definitely humming and it was definitely coming from Thomas.

  Ignore it, ignore it, I thought to myself. But after only a few seconds, Thomas increased the volume and added words.

  “Ironing my pants … ironing my pants … ironing my pants.”

  I turned around. He was pretending to iron his jeans with the little iron he had taken from the box. When he saw me looking, he put the little top hat on his head.

  “How do you do, sir?” he said, making his voice real deep and tipping the hat in my direction.

  Martin started to laugh. I wish he hadn’t, but he did. Suddenly Thomas thought we were all having a good time. Before I knew it, he had scooted off his bed and was into the play money.

  “Hey. I got an idea,” he chirped happily as he plopped down. “Let’s pretend that I’m the richest man in the world and that my name is Carl and that this is all my money and”—he paused to stuff some bills into his pocket—“and you guys are real poor and then you come to my house and you say, ‘Carl, could we have some money?’ and then I give you each two blue ones and a green one.”

  He stopped and handed Martin and me two fifties and a twenty.

  That did it. Without even thinking, I jumped to my feet and ran downstairs. Since it was Saturday, my mother was cleaning the kitchen. She was standing next to the opened refrigerator holding something with mold on it.

  “This isn’t fair,” I blurted. “It’s not working. He’s driving me crazy.”

  Mom made a face at the moldy thing and put it on the table. “Who?” she asked absentmindedly as she peered into the vegetable bin.

  “Who? Who do you think? Thomas the Leech, that’s who. Thomas the Bloodsucking Leech. Martin and I can’t even play a game. He said he’d just sit there and shut up. But he won’t. He counts and hums and sings and …”

  Mom pulled out something squishy and ran it over to the sink. I still didn’t have her attention.

  I stormed to the phone. “I’m calling the police.”

  For the first time, my mother stopped what she was doing and looked at me. She was rolling her eyes, but at least she was looking.

  “He likes you, Charles,” she said, offering the same stupid excuse she’d used a hundred times before. “He just wants to be—”

  I covered my ears. “No. I don’t care about what he wants. That’s all you ever say. About how much he likes me and how much he wants to be my brother. But I don’t care about that, okay? I’m having him arrested.”

  Slowly she sank into the chair behind her and covered her face with her hands. My mother does this sort of thing a lot. Sometimes I think she’s making faces at me under there.

  Finally she breathed a big sigh and stood back up. She put the moldy thing back inside the refrigerator.

  “Okay,” she said wearily. “I’ll see what I can do. Send him down. Tell him I’ll play a game of Candyland with him.”

  Relief spread across my face. The thrill of victory! I could hardly believe it! I’d won. At last she had listened to my side!

  I was up the stairs in a flash. Breathlessly I delivered the good news.

  “Thomas! My mom wants you. She wants you to bring your Candyland game downstairs and play with her.”

  He gave me a blank stare.

  “Now! Right now!”

  Without wasting another second I hurried to the closet, grabbed the game, and shoved it into his arms. “Go, Thomas! Hurry! She’s waiting!”

  Reluctantly Thomas got to his feet.

  “Why?” he asked meekly.

  I put my hand on his shoulder. “Never question adults,” I said solemnly. And leading him by the hand, I ushered Thomas out of my room.

  Martin and I began to laugh. We gave each other a high five, a low five, and a regular five.

  The game started again. I landed on the B&O Railroad and Waterworks. I bought both of them. Martin got sent to jail. My luck was changing.

  I had just landed on Boardwalk when I heard it. A creak on the stairs. Martin heard it too. We looked at each other. Then I closed my eyes as tight as they would go. No. Please, I prayed. Please don’t let it be …

  “Hi, guys.”

  I slumped to the floor.

  Thomas was in the doorway. He was waving.

  Standing behind him was my mother. A sheepish grin was pasted on her face. She motioned for me to come into the hall.

  I folded my arms. This had better be good.

  Casually she shrugged her shoulders. “He didn’t want to play,” she explained simply.

  That was it? That was her excuse?

  “What’s that got to do with anything?” I growled. “You’re the mother. Make him play.”

  Mom pulled me farther away from the door. Her expression grew more serious. “Listen, Charlie. You’ve got to understand this. It’s not the same with Thomas as it is with you. I don’t want to make him play if he doesn’t want to. I don’t want to be the bad guy. Not yet, anyway. Not over this.”

  She paused a second. “You and I have had years to build our love. We’re sure of each other. Even when I’m a little hard on you, you still know I love you. But Thomas and I are just starting out. It takes time to build up that kind of love. And I just have to handle things a little differently with him right now.”

  She smiled weakly and tried to ruffle my hair. I backed away.

  “Please try to understand,” she said.

  I didn’t have to try to understand. It was simple. Thomas mattered more than I did. What was so hard about that?

  I went back into my room. Thomas was stuffing more money in his pocket. He was already back to pretending.

  “… And pretend that I’m famous, and then you bring your little children over to see me, and then you say, ‘Carl, could we have some money to take our little children to Disneyland?’ ”

  “I’m not calling you Carl,” I snapped.

  Then I stooped over and dumped the Monopoly game back into the box.

  I motioned for Martin. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

  Thomas’s face dropped.

  “Where? Where’re you guys going?”

  No one answered.

  “Wait! Who am I gonna play with?”

  Martin and I were almost out the door when it hit me. I turned around.

  “I know who you can play with, Thomas. There’s a hand living in the bottom of the closet,” I told him. “A hand and part of a wrist under my pile of clothes. Why don’t you go in the closet and let it find you?”

  Thomas’s face lost its color. I’m not kidding. His eyes grew as big as sauc
ers.

  I didn’t stick around to find out what happened next. I just grabbed Martin and got out of there.

  I know it was mean, but I couldn’t help it—that’s how you act when you find out your feelings don’t matter to your own mother.

  Anyway, it’s not like I got away with it. Thanks to Thomas, when I got home that afternoon I got the biggest lecture of my life. Thomas had been so upset about the hand, he made my mother call Ben home from work to search the closet. The two of them had to go through it inch by inch with a flashlight.

  That night, Thomas made Ben put Mickey Mouse night lights in every electric plug in our room. Even then, he wouldn’t go to bed until I did.

  “There’s no hand. There’s no hand,” he kept muttering to himself as the two of us entered the room. “It was just a little joke. Right, Charrulls? There’s no hand in the closet.”

  Not at night, Thomas, I thought. At night it sleeps under your bed. I didn’t say it, though.

  Thomas made a giant leap for his bed and quickly ducked under the covers.

  “You’re mad at me, aren’t you, Charrulls?” he whispered after a few seconds. “You’re not talking to me.”

  I didn’t answer. I just stood at the window looking out at the roof.

  “Sorry,” he said.

  I’m not even sure he knew what he was apologizing for.

  But I wasn’t about to feel sorry for him. Why should I? It wasn’t just my day he had ruined. It was my entire life.

  “You’re a tattletale, Thomas,” I told him finally. “I don’t want a tattletale for a brother.”

  I opened the window and crawled out. “And don’t follow me out here. This is the only place I have left that’s mine.”

  Quickly I crawled to my favorite spot by the chimney. The night air was chilly, but it felt good to be out of the house. I breathed in deeply and leaned back far enough to see the stars.

  Time, I thought. Time was the magic word, right? At least according to most adults, time is all you ever need to make things better. “Give it some time,” they’ll say, “and everything will fall into place.”