by John Inman
The .357 bullet, coated with Sally’s blood and brain matter, had passed through Timmy’s mattress and kept right on going, gouging a hole through the opposite wall and flying on out into the night. Later, the police would search for it for hours, but it was never found. For all I know, it is still flying, still seeking other prey. Still hungry.
That was the night a dead father saved his living son’s life. A tidbit we failed to mention to the investigating police. They would never have believed us anyway.
Timmy remembered none of what happened that night. As I suspected at the time, it wasn’t Timmy speaking to us through the baby monitor. It was Paul. It was Paul all along. Working to save us. Working to save us all.
Sam and I sat perched on either side of the new mattress, tucking Timmy in. Timmy was wearing his rocket-ship pajamas and twiddling Thumper’s ear as he lay there looking up at us through sleepy eyes. He was tired. We all were. It had been a long day.
“That man in the black dress said I would live with you now,” Timmy said to me. “Will Sam live here too?”
“He was a judge, Timmy. And yes, you’ll live here with Sam and me from now on. We’ll be your mommy and daddy. Just like a regular family. I hope that’s okay.”
“Which one of you is gonna be Mommy?”
“He is,” Sam and I said in unison, hooking a thumb at each other.
Timmy giggled. “Will my real daddy be able to stay here too?”
Sam smiled, running his fingers over Timmy’s close-cropped hair. It was finally starting to grow out a little. “Your real daddy can stay here as long as he wants. I like knowing he’s around. Don’t you?”
Timmy nodded. “He’s funny sometimes.”
“I know he is,” Sam said.
“I like his windstorms.”
“Me too.”
“Will Mommy come to visit?” Timmy asked.
There it was. The question I had been dreading. Through the sheet, I cupped Timmy’s tiny foot in my hand as I leaned down and kissed his forehead. “I guess that’s up to Mommy, kiddo. Would you like her to come and visit?”
Timmy looked over at Sam, then back to me. “I guess it’s up to Daddy. If she comes to visit, she’ll have to stay in the walls with him. She’s dead, you know. She died the other day.”
I nodded. “I know, baby. I’m sorry.”
“Do you think Daddy’ll let her visit if I ask him real nice?”
“I think he might.”
“Then I’ll do that later.” Timmy pointed to the chair in the corner. “Sometimes when I’m sleeping, he sits over there and watches me. If he comes tonight, I’ll ask him.”
“Good,” I said. “You do that. Let us know what he says.”
“I will, Mommy,” Timmy said, and the three of us burst into laughter.
No mention was made of Jack by anyone, and that was fine with me. Let him talk big and swagger in prison for a few decades while he’s gimping around on his ruined leg. At least, he was out of our hair.
Sam poked Timmy on the nose with a big gentle fist. “Go to sleep now.”
Sam and I took turns kissing Timmy goodnight. When we were finished, he said, “Kiss the dog.” So we kissed Thumper too. Unimpressed, Thumper yawned like a hippopotamus, which Timmy thought was hilarious.
We left the bedroom door ajar, and arm in arm, Sam and I ambled to our room down the hall, where I closed the door behind us. There, alone at last, I pulled him into a kiss.
I tugged his shirt over his head, and he did the same for me.
But Sam’s mind was apparently elsewhere. “The basement is no longer a crime scene. We have to fix that wall sometime soon. And fill up the hole on the other side. And repair the stairs.”
“I’ll call a carpenter tomorrow,” I said. “I have more important things to do tonight.”
“Like what?”
“Like you.”
Sam folded me into his arms. It seemed I had finally grabbed his attention. “I like the sound of that.” He drew back almost immediately, his face solemn, his eyes gentle. “I’m sorry about Sally, Jason. I don’t understand any of it, do you? Her and Jack. Why they did what they chose to do.”
“No. I don’t think I ever will. But in a way, I think she atoned for her sins by finishing it the way she did. I still can’t decide if it was an act of strength or cowardice, but I would prefer to think of it as strength. As an act of contrition. The only way she could say she was sorry. To Paul, to Timmy, to all of us.”
“Then think of it that way, Jason. Do whatever you can to get yourself past it. Don’t let yourself get bogged down in grief. People are relying on you now. Timmy. Me. And speaking of me, thank you for still loving me. You know, after everything that’s happened. Everything I dragged you into. The truths I forced you to face.”
“Those truths would have come out sooner or later,” I said. “And Sam, I would have still loved you no matter how this all ended. None of it was your fault. You only did what was right. What had to be done.”
“I know, but—”
“Let’s just concentrate on each other now. On each other and on Timmy. We have our work cut out for us. Raising that little brat to adulthood isn’t going to be easy. I expect it will take a terrible toll on our sanity.”
Sam laughed. “I’m sure we’ll do just fine.”
“And unless you’ve forgotten, you have a job interview with the city of San Diego tomorrow. My little electrician is going to start raking in the big bucks.”
“Here’s hoping,” he said, drawing me closer and sliding his lips over mine. “But like you said earlier, I have other things on my mind at the moment. Let me make love to you, Jason. I don’t want to think about anything tonight but you. I want to feel you trembling beneath me.”
He didn’t have to ask me twice.
We fell on the bed, and just as things were getting interesting, we heard the rustle of bedclothes coming through the baby monitor. The squeak of a bedspring. The scrape of chair legs on a hardwood floor.
Sam and I, naked and wrapped in each other’s arms, stopped what we were doing and listened. We heard the merry tinkle of Timmy’s laughter. Thumper gave a teeny yip.
Then Timmy’s words came through the monitor, as clear as daylight, as crisp as night, and as hopeful as a summer dawn.
“Hello, Daddy,” he said. “Sit over here. I want to ask you a question.”
About the Author
JOHN INMAN has been writing fiction since he was old enough to hold a pencil. He and his partner live in beautiful San Diego, California. Together, they share a passion for theater, books, hiking and biking along the trails and canyons of San Diego or, if the mood strikes, simply kicking back with a beer and a movie. John’s advice for anyone who wishes to be a writer? “Set time aside to write every day and do it. Don’t be afraid to share what you’ve written. Feedback is important. When a rejection slip comes in, just tear it up and try again. Keep mailing stuff out. Keep writing and rewriting and then rewrite one more time. Every minute of the struggle is worth it in the end, so don’t give up. Ever. Remember that publishers are a lot like lovers. Sometimes you have to look a long time to find the one that’s right for you.”
You can contact John at [email protected], on Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/john.inman.79, or on his website: http://www.johninmanauthor.com/.
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