Finally, Timothy is out of the corner. He slips on a shirt and buttons it shut to pad the bruises on his torso. He walks into the kitchen and pours himself a bowl of cereal. He takes milk from the fridge and pours it over the flakes. He sprinkles sugar, directly from the sugar bowl, over his breakfast. He gets a teaspoon from the utensil drawer. He sits at the kitchen table. He eats.
He's halfway done eating what he's prepared when he hears the door opening to his father's bedroom.His father's heavy footsteps in the hallway and, then, in the living room, make the floorboards squeak like baby birds in distress.
He's halfway done eating what he's prepared when he hears the door opening to his father's bedroom.His father's heavy footsteps in the hallway and, then, in the living room, make the floorboards squeak like baby birds in distress.
Timothy doesn't look up but knows the exact moment his father's menacing body darkens the kitchen-to-living-room doorway.
"Your creepy friend Gregory isn't here," Timothy says. He spoons another bit of cereal into his sore mouth and commences chewing with difficulty.
"What do you mean he isn't here?" Gyle wants to know.
Timothy doesn't have to see his father's expression to know Gyle is confused and unable to grasp what's happened. Timothy isn't even really sure what's happened.
"Where is he?" Gyle wants to know. His fleeting gaze takes in the whole room, as if Gregory hides there, somewhere, in plain view.
"Gone," Timothy says. "He slithered out the very same window through which he slithered in. He did, though, leave a message for you."
"I don't believe he's gone without telling me," Gyle says. "What have you done with him?"
"Me?" Timothy looks up to see the all-too-familiar glare with which his father provides him.
"Done to him?" Timothy would laugh, but he knows his father would be even more upset by the insinuated mockery. "Gregory reminds me of someone who can take care of himself. You, on the other hand…"
"What's that supposed to mean, smart boy?" In this case, by "smart" Gyle insinuates anything but.
Timothy scoops another spoonful of milky cereal.
"What say you answer my question, or I make you answer it?" Gyle suggests with pure malice.
"Better be careful," Timothy says.
"You're telling me to be careful, you little piece of dog turd?"
"Gregory tells you to be careful," Timothy says.
"What nonsense!" Obviously, Gyle can't believe his ears.
"Seems times have changed," Timothy says. "Seems I'm suddenly far more important than I was just a few hours ago, while you…" He leaves the insinuation hanging, knowing that he may well be cutting off his nose to spite his face by inviting another beating. Strangely, though, he doesn't feel nearly as frightened of this man, his father, as he always has been before.
"What exactly did Gregory say?" Gyle isn't requesting but demanding to know.Timothy, though, isn't sure he knows what Gregory said. However, delighting in the continued confusion and uncertainty on his father's face, the boy is prepared to pretend that Gregory was full of revelations for Timothy to which Gyle wasn't given one-on-one access.
"He said if you ever touch me again, you'll be deeply sorry," Timothy says. "He said you'll be held accountable, from here on out, not only by him but by others far more important than he is."
"Bull!" Gyle says, takes two steps forward, only to stop with a suddenness that seems to leave him teetering.
It's the first time Timothy can remember Gyle having started forward and not finishing the journey with accompanying doubled fist.
Timothy tries to read the expression on his father's face. It's one the boy hasn't seen before and doesn't, now, have a clue as to how to read.
"How did you do that?" Gyle points and sounds decidedly breathless.
"Do?" Timothy doesn't have a clue. That is, not until he follows where his father points and sees how the teaspoon in Timothy's hand has gone quite curly as a corkscrew and has dropped milk-soggy cereal to a wet splatter on the tabletop.
Copyright 2009 W. MALTESE
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