Chapter One
Tom Sindler stood motionless, waiting. Looking out the window, Tom felt as though the rain were pelting his scalp, the wind tearing at his hair, the thunder and lightning playing about his ears.
But that wasn't it. The rain pelted the roof of the building, the loony bin, the asylum, the institution, the nuthouse: Shattuck Mental Hospital, Boston. The wind and thunder could only be heard through the building's walls and windows, or more precisely, through the window that Tom looked out. Beyond the parking area, trees moved about, branches swatting roughly at each other in the surrounding forest.
In the window itself, another Tom looked back at him, an accusing doppelganger.
Tom turned from the window and faced the twin bed and food stand. That was it for the room's furnishings. Nothing for patients to harm themselves. No telephone, sink, cupboard, or drapes. His shoes were neatly placed by the bed. Tom went to the bed, sat down, and hesitated. He thought of his wife Sylvia. She couldn't be dealing with this very well. When they talked on the phone, he could hear the disappointment in her voice.
But he was getting out, and things could be different. He could get a job, be a better man, make Sylvia happy. He didn't have to be afraid all the time.
Tom hunched over and began to lace up his shoes. He was still lacing the second shoe when the nurse entered with a pill and a cup of water. After Tom swallowed the pill, she offered him the small clipboard hanging at her waist and produced a pen from her pocket.
"Sign here," she said.
Tom signed without bothering to read the form.
The nurse handed Tom a small bottle.
"As the doctor went over with you, take one pill each day," she said.
"Sure," Tom answered.
Tom looked at the bottle and put it in his pocket. "Do you mind if I call my wife?" he asked.
"Of course," she answered. "You can use the phone in the hallway."
The nurse followed Tom out of the room and pointed to the phone sitting at the nurse's station.
Sylvia washed dishes in an industrial-sized double sink. Steam rose up around her.
"I'm too damn good-looking to be doing this shit," she said to the dishes.
Christ, Bone's Restaurant, of all places. Five years ago she'd never have imagined taking a job here. Tom had been so charming. He'd had a good job and seemed to have it all together. He'd promised a bright future.
But then it had all gone to shit.
With considerable effort, Sylvia heaved a huge pot out of one sink and dumped grayish, soap-tinged water into the other sink.
A phone rang.
Sylvia wiped her hands on her apron. "I got it," she yelled and went to where the phone hung on the wall. "Let the dishes wait," she mumbled.
The phone rang again. She picked it up and said, "Bone's."
"Hi, honey, it's me," said Tom.
"Tom?" Sylvia asked.
"Unless you have another honey," Tom said.
"I'm working, Tom."
"I know, but I've got good news. They discharged me."
"I thought you weren't getting out until Friday."
"You know how these things go," said Tom. "There's no rhyme or reason to any of it."
"Do you need a ride?" said Sylvia, annoyed.
"Yeah, baby, can you come get me? I've been dying to see you."
"Of course, Tom. I'm your wife, aren't I?"
Before Tom could answer, Sylvia hung up the phone.
Sylvia drove their Civic down Morton Street. She hated the damn car. They should have had at least an Acura by now. There was almost no one else on the road. She'd made Tom wait until the end of her shift before picking him up. Someone had to keep the money coming in.
Snow had begun mixing in with the rain so that icy little angels stuck on the glass even as the wipers tried to push them aside. She could barely make out the lines on the road, but she didn't care and drove too fast, recklessly.
Tom lit a cigarette and flicked the match out the window. Even with the window cracked, smoke wafted into her space. Sylvia crossed the center line when she maneuvered turns in the road.
"What did the doctor say?" Sylvia asked.
Tom just stared into space.
He was back in that building, his old place of employment. He thought he'd be a star there. He had risen up the company ladder with remarkable speed. His superiors were grooming him for success, and he was more than happy to be the "it" boy. Work was just a game, and Tom played it happily.
But there were fears gnawing about the edges. Mostly they came at night, when more and more Tom's dreams had become dark walls, closing in on him.
Tom stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for the lobby. The elevator didn't move at first, but then it jerked violently, startling him. Tom looked up at the ceiling. The lights flickered. The elevator jerked a few times, throwing Tom off balance. The lights went out, then on again, then off a longer time before coming back on. Tom grabbed the handrail for support. The sound of grating filled the elevator, machinery clanging and failing, and then the elevator halted. Tom lost his balance and struck his knees painfully on the floor.
Tom crawled across the elevator and pressed the button to open the doors, but nothing happened. He pressed again and again with the same result. Tom jabbed his thumb against the red alarm button. He sweated and gasped for breath.
A voice, full of static, came through the speaker. "May I help you?"
The voice sounded unreal, like a computer, and Tom hoped it was a real person on the other end.
"I'm stuck. I gotta get out of here."
Tom gasped for breath but couldn't get any in his lungs. "Help, please."
The elevator seemed impossibly small, a little tomb.
"I'm stuck. I can't... I can't breathe."
The voice came again, even more choked with static. "The maintenance personnel are not responding. You'll have to be patient while we attempt to contact them."
Tom wondered again whether there was even anyone there. Maybe no one would respond. He'd been working late. He might have been the last person in the office. If no one responded he could be there until morning. But that couldn't happen. He couldn't wait that long. The walls would crush him by then, pressing him with unbearable force until he was squeezed past the breaking point and all his insides were squeezed out of him.
"Did you hear me?" Sylvia asked.
Tom was back in the car. Safe.
"No. What?" he said.
Sylvia looked at him, her disgust evident.
"I said, what did the doctor say?"
Tom hesitated, not wanting to think about the doctor with his questions and his prying. "He said I'll be okay with medication." Tom took out his pills and showed them to Sylvia. "I have to take these pills, once a day."
"Is this an ongoing treatment, or does it end here?"
He knew what she was asking. Was he crazy? Was there any real fix for him?
Tom looked out the window. "I'm sorry if I'm such a burden to you."
Chapter Two
Tom and Sylvia parked in front of their house on Milton Avenue. Tom eyed the house wearily, the shabby chain-link fence surrounding the small colonial home seeming a measure of his worth, the broken gate swinging back and forth in the wind, the unread newspapers on the porch, the abandoned kid's cargo truck and toy shovel sitting in the yard-all seemed to accuse, all evidence of his failings. And Tom knew the back yard was even worse. He was sure it would look exactly as he imagined: the barbecue grill rusted beyond use, the clothesline stretching across the yard, perhaps even a white sheet draped over it, flapping ghostlike in the wind. A sheet had been there when he went away, when it was still warm enough to hang something out, but Tom wouldn't be surprised if it were still there. That wouldn't surprise him at all.
Tom exited his side of the car and heard Sylvia slam her door as she got out as well. Welcome home, Tom thought.
Tom looked after her as she walked away and slipped into the house ahead of him. He took the mail out of the box by the front door. Tom lit another cigarette. He wanted to put off reentering his home for a moment, at least. And it felt good to be out in the night air. It felt good to be out of the institution.
A woman came out of the house, and Tom almost didn't recognize her. But then he did: one of their neighbors. She must have been watching the kids.
"Hello," Tom said.
The woman only narrowed her eyes at Tom and looked down, mumbling something incoherent.
Inside, Tom went immediately for the fridge, his mouth having gone desert dry. He hoped it was still stocked with water bottles. Sylvia knew he had to have them.
She was in the kitchen when he entered, and Tom was thankful to see her spooning salad from a large bowl onto plates. He was hungry as well as parched. Tom opened the refrigerator and was thankful to see there were indeed four water bottles. He stared at them, thinking how familiar the fridge looked, exactly as he left it, as though he hadn't been gone at all.
"Go into the dining room, Tom," said Sylvia.
"Okay," he said, drinking water as he left the room. He wanted to take her in his arms but she seemed so distant, so unavailable to him.
Tom stopped short on entering the room. Of course, his children. Why hadn't he rushed to find them? Strange, he kept not thinking of them, but it wasn't deliberate. It couldn't be.
Daniel, eight, and Katie, six, stood side by side, staring at him without expression.
"Daddy's back," said Katie when it seemed no one would say anything.
"Hi, sweetie," said Tom.
"I've been practicing my counting, Daddy," said Katie.
"Let me hear," said Tom.
"One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine," reeled off Katie, and seemed stuck for a moment before finishing: "Ten."
"Now that's my girl," said Tom, and squatted down. Katie went to him and Tom hugged her, closing his eyes. He felt his son join their embrace.
"I missed you both so much," said Tom.
"Let's get to the table for dinner," said Sylvia, having appeared in the room. The kids separated from Tom.
"Daddy, are you here to stay?" asked Daniel.
"Come on," said Tom. "I haven't been gone that long."
Sylvia brought in two plates and set them in front of the kids' seats. When she moved to leave the room, Tom said, "Do you need any help?"
"I got it. Just sit," said Sylvia, and then added, "I'm used to doing everything."
When Sylvia returned, she put two plates of food in front of her and Tom's seats. Tom was stationed at the head of the table, but it felt uncomfortable, as though he no longer deserved to be there.
Sylvia disappeared again, and when a minute went by and she didn't return, Tom looked at the kids and said, "Okay, let's eat. I'm starving."
The kids began eating and Tom said "I love Chinese" before putting a forkful of rice and chicken into his mouth.
Sylvia returned holding a stack of letters. She sat at her place and instead of eating began to sort through the mail.
"This is good," said Tom. "Did you cook this?"
"Yeah, right," said Sylvia. "It's called 'takeout.' I assume you've heard of leftovers."
"It's a lot better than what I've been eating," said Tom.
"Yeah, well, let's not talk about that," said Sylvia without looking at him. Sylvia squinted at a letter she'd just taken from its envelope. "Oh, shit!" she said.
"What?" said Tom. Before he would have made a cutting remark about her using that language in front of the children, but he didn't now.
"Listen to this," Sylvia said, and began reading. "Dear Mr. and Mrs. Sindler, You've missed two months' rent, a total of $2,400. If you fail to respond to this letter or make arrangements to pay by January 15, you will be evicted. Your landlord, Scott Williams."
"He can't evict us," said Tom. "This is complete crap."
Sylvia glared at him.
"What's the matter?" asked Tom.
Sylvia dangled the letter in her hand. She spoke softly, but the irritation was palpable-restrained, but close to breaking through. "Don't you get it? The landlord is threatening to evict us if we don't make these payments. Hello! This is our frickin' home we're talking about." Sylvia looked away from Tom, as though he were far beneath her contempt. "He'll need to give us more time, that's all." Sylvia looked up at the children, who'd been eating quietly and observing Tom as though he were some strange and unpredictable guest. "Kids, go to your rooms while Mommy and Daddy sort things out, okay?"
"But I'm not done," said Katie, and Daniel watched carefully to see what their mother's reaction would be."
"Daniel, Katie, I'm not in the mood, okay? Go to your rooms now, or this will be the last meal you ever eat."
Daniel and Katie left without further comment, though Katie looked back over her shoulder as she walked.
"He didn't give us any options because we've made so many late payments," said Sylvia. "I'm so tired of this shit."
Tom ran his fingers through his hair. "Once I find a job it'll all be better. We'll be able to put this behind us."
"I won't hold my breath, Tom. I mean, you did a bang-up job at your last place of employment, right?"
Sylvia stood up and took her still untouched plate of food off the table.
"I've got no problem working any job that comes my way," said Tom.
"Yeah," said Sylvia, "then prove it. Do construction, garbage collecting. Do something for Christ's sake. My salary isn't cutting it."
Tom's spoon banged off the wall, and Sylvia looked as though she wondered how he were suddenly standing. "Relax, Tom."
"I'm going to get a job, okay? And then everything will be better."
Sylvia started to leave the room, but stopped in the doorway. Tom went behind her and stroked her arms, finding her rigid, unreceptive. "Come on, honey, just give me a little time."
Tom turned Sylvia toward him but in his fumbling to get inside her defenses her plate dropped to the floor, splattering food.
"Nice, Tom," Sylvia said, and he could almost hear the tears in her voice.
"To hell with it," said Tom, and pulled Sylvia into him, kissing her on the forehead.
"I'm just worried, Tom," Sylvia said, and the tears that had been threatening escaped her eyes. "What's going to happen to us?"
No comments:
Post a Comment