Tommy always blamed his bruises on a door, or some other inanimate object, but Peter knew better, even if he couldn’t prove it. Calling in the authorities would have been futile. He’d been teaching long enough to know that kids protected lousy parents all the time.
Peter had actually entertained the thought of going out to the house and taking his chances with Nate. He’d been a pretty fair boxer in college. But even if he did manage to get in a lucky punch or two, it would only make things worse for Tommy. Besides, there was a law against teachers knocking parents about, no matter what kind of jerks they might be.
And then there were the good parents, like Helen and Bob Myers, who cared about their kids, and in the end, it didn’t seem to make a damn bit of difference. Their babies got murdered and were buried in dark, cold graves, along with their hopes and dreams.
Tommy had to be grieving right along with Helen and Bob. Unless…Peter massaged the bridge of his nose. He was tired. It had been a long day.
He closed his eyes, and was soon asleep in the chair, the television show playing to other audiences.
Fifteen
It was nearly dawn when Tommy jerked awake at the sound of his father’s truck rumbling into the yard. The motor cut to silence, and Tommy tensed as the door opened. The cold night air poured into the room where he lay on his cot in the kitchen, unmoving, feigning sleep. He was still in his clothes, the mud having dried on them, leaving grit on his skin.
The door closed behind Nate, and in the lengthening silence Tommy could sense his father standing at the foot of his bed, could feel those small, mean eyes boring into him. The sour smell of sweat and booze wafted to him. Hearing the old man’s breathing, he concentrated hard on not letting himself blink. Leave me alone. Please just go to bed and sleep it off.
Without warning, Tommy felt himself being yanked up off the bed, sent careening across the room where he crashed into the wall. A picture fell, shattering glass.
Tommy was down on his hands and knees, crawling close to the baseboard, more shocked by the suddenness of the attack, than physically hurt. As his eyes met his father’s, he knew that wouldn’t be the case for long. The old man was in a crouch position, looking like some mad sumo wrestler going in for the kill. Tommy looked frantically around the room for something to defend himself with, but saw nothing. Nor was there any avenue of escape. His father was a wall between him and the door.
“You stole liquor off me, didn’t you, boy?” he said, his voice dangerously soft. Before Tommy could answer, Nate’s hand shot out, backhanding him, snapping Tommy’s head to one side. Fire bloomed in his cheek, tears stung his eyes.
“I’ll teach you to steal from me, you little punk. You’re no damn good, just like your whore of a mother.”
Something inside Tommy broke then and he leapt to his feet, fired a straight right to Nate’s nose. Connected. Nate looked as surprised as Tommy felt. Moreso as he wiped a hand under his nose and it came away smeared with his blood. For a moment, he simply stared at it in bewilderment and disbelief. Then, Tommy’s own blood ran cold as those cruel eyes lifted to meet his. Only fury there now.
Before Tommy could even think about blocking the punch, (or maybe he’d just been too scared to move,) Nate hit him a hammer blow to the side of the head that made his ears ring, and sent the room spinning wildly, like a nightmare carnival ride.
Just as suddenly, the room began to fade from Tommy’s vision, growing smaller and smaller, like a pinpoint of light on the television screen just after you flick the off button on the remote.
I can’t pass out. He’ll kill me. I’ll die here in his godforsaken dump.
And then it came over him that he didn’t really care. Do it, you bastard! he thought, the side of his
Peter had actually entertained the thought of going out to the house and taking his chances with Nate. He’d been a pretty fair boxer in college. But even if he did manage to get in a lucky punch or two, it would only make things worse for Tommy. Besides, there was a law against teachers knocking parents about, no matter what kind of jerks they might be.
And then there were the good parents, like Helen and Bob Myers, who cared about their kids, and in the end, it didn’t seem to make a damn bit of difference. Their babies got murdered and were buried in dark, cold graves, along with their hopes and dreams.
Tommy had to be grieving right along with Helen and Bob. Unless…Peter massaged the bridge of his nose. He was tired. It had been a long day.
He closed his eyes, and was soon asleep in the chair, the television show playing to other audiences.
Fifteen
It was nearly dawn when Tommy jerked awake at the sound of his father’s truck rumbling into the yard. The motor cut to silence, and Tommy tensed as the door opened. The cold night air poured into the room where he lay on his cot in the kitchen, unmoving, feigning sleep. He was still in his clothes, the mud having dried on them, leaving grit on his skin.
The door closed behind Nate, and in the lengthening silence Tommy could sense his father standing at the foot of his bed, could feel those small, mean eyes boring into him. The sour smell of sweat and booze wafted to him. Hearing the old man’s breathing, he concentrated hard on not letting himself blink. Leave me alone. Please just go to bed and sleep it off.
Without warning, Tommy felt himself being yanked up off the bed, sent careening across the room where he crashed into the wall. A picture fell, shattering glass.
Tommy was down on his hands and knees, crawling close to the baseboard, more shocked by the suddenness of the attack, than physically hurt. As his eyes met his father’s, he knew that wouldn’t be the case for long. The old man was in a crouch position, looking like some mad sumo wrestler going in for the kill. Tommy looked frantically around the room for something to defend himself with, but saw nothing. Nor was there any avenue of escape. His father was a wall between him and the door.
“You stole liquor off me, didn’t you, boy?” he said, his voice dangerously soft. Before Tommy could answer, Nate’s hand shot out, backhanding him, snapping Tommy’s head to one side. Fire bloomed in his cheek, tears stung his eyes.
“I’ll teach you to steal from me, you little punk. You’re no damn good, just like your whore of a mother.”
Something inside Tommy broke then and he leapt to his feet, fired a straight right to Nate’s nose. Connected. Nate looked as surprised as Tommy felt. Moreso as he wiped a hand under his nose and it came away smeared with his blood. For a moment, he simply stared at it in bewilderment and disbelief. Then, Tommy’s own blood ran cold as those cruel eyes lifted to meet his. Only fury there now.
Before Tommy could even think about blocking the punch, (or maybe he’d just been too scared to move,) Nate hit him a hammer blow to the side of the head that made his ears ring, and sent the room spinning wildly, like a nightmare carnival ride.
Just as suddenly, the room began to fade from Tommy’s vision, growing smaller and smaller, like a pinpoint of light on the television screen just after you flick the off button on the remote.
I can’t pass out. He’ll kill me. I’ll die here in his godforsaken dump.
And then it came over him that he didn’t really care. Do it, you bastard! he thought, the side of his
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