by James Hunt
Chapter 8
The night sky outside Matt’s bedroom window morphed into a muddled grey just before sunrise. It was that moment right before the day began, when everything was still and quiet. And like his son, who had finally stopped his mumbling and fallen asleep a few hours ago, Owen remained still as water in the chair he brought in from the dining room downstairs.
Dark grooves imprinted under Owen’s eyes, and he sat slouched in the chair, one hand on his chin, the other resting lazily on the chair’s armrest. He’d sat there all night, eyes red and dry from staring at his son, trying to make sense of what was happening and why it was happening to them.
Hadn’t they gone through enough? Wasn’t all of the shit they trudged through the past six months enough to grant them some semblance of peace?
Owen rubbed his face and leaned forward, his muscles and bones creaking from the restless few hours he managed to catch before he awoke to his wife screaming bloody murder.
A hand gently grazed Owen’s shoulder, and he reached up and rubbed Claire’s fingers. Everything she said had been bouncing around in his mind since he busted down that door. It was absurd. Unreal. And yet, here he found himself, beginning to believe that there was something wrong with this house. Something wrong with his son.
“You need to take him back to the doctors today,” Owen said, still rubbing Claire’s hand while his eyes remained fixated on Matt. “There must have been something they gave him that he was having a reaction to, or something from the snake bite that—”
“Owen, stop.” Claire emerged from behind him and crouched by his knees, her eyes wide and bright in the darkness. The way she looked reminded Owen of when they first started dating. She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever come across, but it went beyond the flesh and traveled behind those pair of dark brown eyes. There was certainty in them. And that certainty, that decisiveness was what pulled Owen into her. Those same attributes now scared him to death. “You saw what I saw.”
Owen drifted his eyes to Matthew. “I don’t know what I saw.”
“This is more than just snake bites and my dad’s Alzheimer’s,” Claire said. “You saw the water, the spiders, and then they just disappeared?” She shook her head, her hands digging into his legs. “The water spilled over the banister and into the living area, which should have soaked the furniture downstairs, but everything’s dry. We need to get out of this house.”
“And go where?” Owen asked, exasperated. “Back to Baltimore? Back to almost being homeless? I’m not putting our family through that again.”
“You want us to stay?”
Owen took Claire’s hands in a firm grasp. “I want us to not have to worry about where our next meal is going to come from. I want us to have a life that doesn’t revolve around clipping coupons and buying everything on sale.” He let go of her hands and stepped back, afraid of the words that had been boiling over in the back of his mind. Words that if spoken, he couldn’t take back.
Claire’s father was a good man. Owen knew that. But after Claire’s mother passed, the man gave up. He moved in with them and while he was collecting money on Social Security, he became another mouth to feed, another person to rack up the utilities bill, more weight for Owen to carry, which was fine until he lost the job at the factory. And then when Roger was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, those medical bills started piling up and drained their savings faster than he could replenish it.
“Owen, it’s not safe for our son to be here,” Claire said, her voice on the edge of crying again.
“And it’s not safe for him to be homeless,” Owen replied, his answer harsher than he intended. “Or hungry.”
Claire squeezed his forearm tighter. “Just talk to your boss and see if he can get us into another place. Or we can look into something else we can buy. I know that’s not something we wanted to do because we were trying to get out of debt faster, but we have to try something.”
Owen pulled his arm back. “They paid for our move, they paid for the house, they paid for all of Matt’s medical bills, and on top of that, they’re paying me fifteen thousand more a year than I made at the shipyard.” Owen flapped his arms at his sides. “And now you want me to go to my boss and ask him for us to move?”
“I understand everything that they’ve done, and believe me, I’m grateful,” Claire said. “But I’m not going to let my family stay here one more night.”
““There isn’t anywhere else to go!” Owen hissed through his teeth, his volume a harsh whisper. “This is it! This has to work.”
Claire’s eyes watered, and she shook her head. “You’re putting our family at risk.”
Frustration muddled Owen’s senses, and the fatigue of the past few days eroded the will to hold his tongue. “And keeping your dad around wasn’t?”
Claire immediately clammed up, and her body offered a light tremor of rage. The moment he saw her reaction, Owen slumped his shoulders in regret.
“Claire, I’m—”
“My father did not hurt Matt,” Claire said. She closed the gap between them, her eyes red, that certainty and decisiveness burning right through him. “And I will not keep my children here another night. Do you understand me? We are leaving, Owen. With or without you.”
Owen watched her exit, and he leaned back against the window. The muddled grey of morning was suddenly diffused by sunrise, and the first rays of light broke over the horizon. But despite the new day and the beautiful morning outside, Owen felt anything but hopeful or happy.
The drive to the factory was restless, and Owen regretted not saying goodbye to Claire before he left. It irked him when they weren’t on good terms, but it was going to take some time before she forgave him about the comment regarding her father.
The bulk of the factory was arriving when Owen parked the van and stepped out. He spotted Marty Wiggins and Jake Martin getting out of their truck, Marty talking loud enough for everyone to hear him in Baltimore.
“All I’m saying is that if Drew Brees can win one more Super Bowl, then I think he should be in the conversation for greatest quarterback of all time.” Marty shrugged in an overdramatic fashion, his eyes bulging from his sockets like his own words were on par with Ernest Hemingway and he didn’t understand why everyone wasn’t praising his voice. “He’s done more than everyone else, and with less.”
“You think he’s better than Archie Manning though?” Jake asked. “I mean the guy is—”
“Hey, can you tell me where Chuck’s office is?” Owen asked as both men turned toward him, Marty spilling some of his coffee on his hand from the quick jerk.
“Goddammit, Yankee-Doodle numnuts,” Marty said, shaking off the hot liquid. “Made me burn my damn hand.”
“Hey, Owen,” Jake said, his voice soft. “I heard about your boy. He all right?”
“He’s getting better,” Owen answered. “My wife is taking him back to the hospital today for a check-up.”
“Say,” Marty said, taking a sip from his coffee. “You want to get in on this Saints debate? You could be a neutral party.”
“I really don’t have—” And that’s when Owen spotted Chuck across the lot, heading toward one of the factory entrances. Without another word, he sprinted toward his boss, waving his arms.
“Owen,” Chuck said, lines of concern forming over his face. “How’s your boy doing?”
“The doctors said he should be fine in a couple of days, but I need to talk to you about something.”
Chuck gestured toward his office door. “I’ll put some coffee on.”
The office was simply decorated and designed. A metal desk and matching filing cabinet took center stage, and the walls were covered with different pictures of the factory’s history. One picture in particular hung prominently on the wall behind Chuck’s desk.
“First day we opened,” Chuck said, pointing to the black and white photo as he smiled. He tapped on a man in a plain white shirt and dark slacks that held a cigar. “That’s my great -grandfather. Hell of
a businessman, and could outwork anyone he hired.” Chuck took a seat and gestured for Owen to do the same. “He always joked that was the only way to stay the boss.”
“Mr. Toussaint, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate what you’ve done for me and my family. This job was a godsend for us.”
“Well, we’re happy to have you on board,” Chuck said, smiling as the whistle blew and the factory’s machines began to hum.
The commotion caught Owen’s attention, and he looked out the window to the floor as everyone started to fall into work. Everyone but him. “Mr. Toussaint, what I’m about to ask you is more than I should, but I’m doing it for the same reason I took the job here in the first place. It’s for my family.”
“Is everything all right?” Chuck asked.
Owen chose his words carefully. “It’s the house. I don’t think it’s going to work out.”
Chuck sat there for a moment, the concern slowly fading, and he leaned back in his chair, folding his hands over his stomach. “And what’s the problem?”
“I think it’s just too much space for us, honestly,” Owen answered, lying through his teeth. He wasn’t about to tell the man his wife thought the place was possessed or that his son was speaking with snakes. And just sitting there thinking about it, he felt silly even bringing it up. But that’s what happened when you stepped out of the strange and back into reality.
“I see,” Chuck said. “So, I give you a job, then move you down here, and your first complaint to me is that the house you’re living in for free is too big?” Chuck laughed.
“I know,” Owen said, closing his eyes and taking a breath. The sleepless night preventing his mind from piecing together his thoughts. “And, again, I’m very grateful. But the move has been tough on everyone. And with what’s happened with my father-in-law, and my son, I just think that my family is funneling a lot of that frustration into the house.”
And so Owen waited, his heart pounding wildly in his chest. It was the first time he’d felt anything but a welcoming presence from his boss, and this hardened version was someone he’d like to avoid in the future.
“There aren’t any other houses available right now,” Chuck said. “I’ll check with the real estate office this afternoon and see what we can move you into later.” He opened the bottom left drawer of his desk and flopped a few pieces of paper on top. “I’ll have a contractor come by tomorrow to look at the house, make sure there hasn’t been any damage since you’ve moved in.” He scribbled something down on the papers, then looked up. “It’s the best I can do for now.”
“That’d be great, Mr. Toussaint, thank you so much.” Owen retreated toward the door, dying to escape the room. “But just so you know, for the contractor, I think there’s something wrong with the pipes.”
“Pipes?” Chuck asked, frowning.
“Yeah,” Owen answered. “There have been a few plumbing issues since we’ve moved in. Leaking pipes, bad water. That sort of thing.”
“I’ll let the contractor know.” Chuck returned to the papers on his desk, and as Owen reached the door to leave, he stopped him. “And Owen.”
“Yes, sir?”
“I suggest you do your job well. The last foreman I had on the line was too chummy with his subordinates. I don’t want you giving off the impression that these people are your friends. Everyone is expendable here. And if you wish to make yourself valuable, I suggest that you get to work. Unless you want to find your family on the streets after you find yourself fired.”
Owen nodded, his tone flat, defeated. “Yes, sir.” A headache appeared in the center of his forehead, and he wanted nothing more than to disappear into his work, and then go home to find that his family was fine, and that the past few days had been nothing more than a fluke. But as his headache worsened, so did his doubts.
