by Brandon Witt
“She’s got plenty of space. I think she needed a distraction from her grief. The kids are great at distracting people.”
“Yeah, they are,” Bobby agreed, pulling back to catch Tommy’s eye. “They’ve saved me from choking you a few times.”
“That’s why I keep ’em around,” Tommy teased, pulling Bobby farther away from the kitchen.
Bobby grinned. “Where exactly are you taking me?”
“Linen closet? Bathroom? I wanna test their skills at keeping your mother’s attention.”
TWO DAYS after the visit with Judy, Cheryl showed up on their doorstep. The weather was still miserably cold, and lethal-looking icicles hung from the gutters. Tommy was careful about shoveling the steps and keeping the front walkway salted, but no one in the neighborhood bothered with the sidewalks. When he found Cheryl with a bruise on her forehead, sprawled out on the wet welcome mat, he assumed she’d taken a tumble or two on her way there.
He had the twins with him. They were wearing hand-me-downs from all the other kids and a few from the neighbors. They looked like walking patchwork quilts, but they were warm. Tommy had a bag of groceries in one arm and his other hand held tightly to the leash strapped to the twins. Screw anyone who thought those things were inhuman. Letting one of them get hit by a car because they got away from him on the street would be a lot worse.
“Hey, Tommy,” Cheryl said, not in greeting so much as in complaint. “Did you change the locks or something?”
Tommy suppressed a groan as he helped Max and Zoe up the steps. Cheryl didn’t comment about how big her two kids were getting or how fast they were growing, but it didn’t surprise him. She was around so rarely they didn’t even go to her or call her “mama.” “I had to change ’em the last time you lost your keys,” he told her as he dug in his pocket for his set so he could unlock the door.
Cheryl blinked at the key in her hand and said, “Oh. Guess I found the old one.”
Tommy glanced down. “That’s a car key, Cher. Wouldn’t have worked anyway.”
“Huh. Where the hell did I get that?”
She asked the question as if she really thought he could answer it for her. Tommy assumed it belonged to some poor slob who got himself a blowjob and a bonus mugging at a rest stop outside of town somewhere, but he didn’t say it out loud. He figured the twins knew enough about their mother, they didn’t need any more information about her character.
Tommy got the door open and blocked Cheryl while Zoe and Max toddled inside. He didn’t help Cheryl up off the floor, but he did ask, “Where’s Pop?”
“How the hell am I supposed to know?”
Several answers ran through Tommy’s head at once. You’re married to the bum… and Shit tends to attract flies… were among them, but he didn’t say anything.
“Lemme in,” she demanded. “It’s colder than a witch’s tit out here.”
Tommy moved inside, and Cheryl crawled in after him. Not even two years old and her babies were steadier on their feet than her.
“Thought Cal might be here.”
“Haven’t seen him since you two flew the coop at Christmas.”
What a fucked-up two weeks that had been. Life with their father and Cheryl was always messy and loud, but it seemed even worse when everyone was happy and doing well and getting on with things until they showed up. Tommy had nearly come to blows with his father two nights before Christmas when he came home from work and found them stuffing the presents from under the tree into a big garbage bag. He knew they were both useless on many—maybe all—levels, but stealing from their own kids at Christmas seemed even lower than usual.
The next day Cal and Cheryl were gone. The presents were still there, and Tommy found something on the kitchen counter that rocked him to his core. A twenty-dollar bill sat beside a note addressed to Tommy written in his father’s shaky scrawl.
It said: It’s not much, but maybe it’ll help. Tell the kids I love them and Merry Christmas.
That had been so out of character for their old man, it had sent a chill through Tommy. It was something he might have done a decade or two earlier, back when he was still in the ballpark of shitty father and not on the outskirts of total degenerate.
Cheryl was staggering into the kitchen, and Tommy followed her. “When’s the last time you seen him?” he asked. He had an uneasy feeling now.
She dug around in the cupboards and pulled out a pack of ramen noodles. “I’m not sure.” She looked like she couldn’t remember what the next step was in preparing the food, so Tommy figured it was remarkable she’d even noticed Cal hadn’t been around. “Few days, maybe?” She started to open the plastic pouch and Tommy wondered if she was going to eat them dry right out of the package. Then she asked, “You got any candy or anything?”
BY FEBRUARY, the snow had started falling again. This time, it covered a thick sheet of ice over the roads and sidewalks. Traffic was a mess and business at the pub was slow. As usual, Gene still let Tommy work, but after a few nights in a row with very little to do, it was starting to feel like charity. He decided to take off early and head for home. Cheryl had been around more often than not, and they still hadn’t heard from their father. Tommy figured the more time he spent at home keeping an eye on things, the better.
The phone on the wall was ringing off the hook while Tommy bundled up with the scarf and gloves Judy had knitted him for Christmas. Gene was less than a foot away, pointedly ignoring it. “You want me to get that?” Tommy asked after the fifth ring. Gene rolled his eyes and looked irritated. “It’s probably just Danny. He’s called six times tonight lookin’ for his wife.”
That was a fairly usual routine and it never ended well. The last time Danny called that night, Gene had nearly ripped the phone off the wall. Having someone else blame him for a loved one’s alcohol problem probably got old quick.
Tommy felt bad for him, but he laughed when Gene walked over to the phone and lifted it from the hook before slamming it down again, hanging up on whoever had been calling.
After he’d walked a few blocks down the road, Tommy pulled out his phone. Bobby had a shift that night, and he wanted to check in. The damn thing was out of minutes, and he had no idea how long it had been like that. Tommy considered stopping at the gas station to get a phone card, but he was cold and tired. The card could wait.
Less than a mile from home, Tommy could smell smoke in the air, and he thought about how nice it would be to sit down in front of a warm hearth and thaw out. He decided he’d sneak into the kitchen and turn the oven on as soon as he got through the door.
Sirens in the distance were the first thing to catch his attention. That wasn’t smoke from a chimney. It was getting thicker with every step. As he rounded the corner at the end of their street, Tommy could see the fire engines, EMT units, and cop cars. The dark night was flashing with color as the emergency vehicles’ lights danced against the orange glow of a large fire.
Tommy broke into a run then, slowing just long enough to duck under the yellow tape sectioning off the block. His chest was tight as he dug his feet in with every slippery step. It couldn’t be their house. It was a neighbor. It was a bad dream. It was anything else.
Tommy had learned at a painfully young age to expect a few things out of life. He expected to be used and treated badly. He expected that his family would always teeter on the razor’s edge between survival and oblivion. He expected that things would never go his way for long. And he’d learned only three things mattered: keep the kids safe, keep them fed, and keep a roof over their heads.
His legs gave out from under him when he got to their house. Flames were lashing out of every window on the top floor, crawling up the walls and over the gutters, eating the shingles. Billows of thick black smoke were swirling and pushing out of every crack. It looked to Tommy like the devil himself had finally claimed them. Hell had risen up out of the ground and taken back what belonged to it.
As he watched a stretcher covered in a white sheet being whe
eled in front of him, Tommy felt like he’d suddenly lost his mind. He knew he was screaming. He could feel tears running down in hot tracks against his skin, now warm from the heat radiating off their home. He could hear glass breaking, but he wasn’t sure if it was the windows falling from their charred frames or if it was the sound of his own life exploding in an inferno of heat and terror in the dead of winter.
He hadn’t realized he was moving again until he felt two firemen pulling him back. He was trying to get inside, trying to find someone—anyone—who was still alive in there. If they weren’t, he wanted to be left alone. He wanted to disappear into a pile of hot ash and scorched rubble with them.
“Tom!”
He recognized the voice, but in the chaos of his mind, Tommy didn’t even look. His eyes were still set on the house as it started to fall in on itself. The fire hoses were on, spraying down the flames as one of the firefighters walked out. He was shaking his head as he pulled off his helmet and respirator. Tommy felt the sharp sting of a slap on his face, and his name was shouted again. It was Bobby.
Tommy felt numb, used up, and broken. “Who is that, Bobby?” he asked, pointing at the body under the sheet.
“It’s Cheryl, Tom. It’s Cheryl.” Bobby’s voice seemed softer now and his arm was around Tommy’s shoulder. “The kids are okay, Tom. I tried to get ahold of you when I got here.”
It took a long moment for Bobby’s words to sink in. The kids are okay. The kids are okay. They ran on a loop in Tommy’s ear, and he wasn’t sure if Bobby was saying them over and over or if he was trying to tell himself.
He was so dizzy with relief he had to close his eyes and focus hard to speak. “Where are they?”
Tommy didn’t like how long it took Bobby to answer. He opened his eyes and asked again, “Where are the kids, Bobby?”
“We got a van down here about ten minutes ago.”
Tommy waited. He knew there had to be more to it when Bobby didn’t meet his eyes.
“They’re waiting down at the station for an emergency placement.”
Tommy was wrong. Thinking the kids might have all gone out in a blaze of hellfire wasn’t the worst thing that could happen to him. That would have been simple. He would’ve died too. Problem solved; game over. But no. He should’ve known nothing in his life would ever be that easy. Instead of the darkly comforting thought of ending himself right there on the spot, Tommy had another pile of shit to deal with. His kids were in the wind. They had no home. Their father was MIA and their stepmother was dead.
Tommy didn’t like to tempt fate, but he was pretty sure he’d finally hit rock bottom.
Bobby was still talking, but Tommy couldn’t hear a word he said. He wanted to hit something, make it bleed and ache like he was. He pushed Bobby back from him with a quick shove and Bobby yelled, “Goddamn it, Tom, will you listen to me?”
Tommy was stepping back farther and shaking his head. “I can’t,” he said. “I can’t right now, Bobby. I just can’t.”
When Bobby looked like he might follow, Tommy put his hand up in warning. “You gotta stay away from me right now.”
TOMMY WANDERED the streets in devastated silence. He didn’t know where to go since most places were closed for the night. He considered going down to the police station to see if he could get any info, make sure the kids knew he was working on it and he’d figure something out. But he knew that would be a lie. They’d been in some tight spots in their lives, but this one was the mother lode of insurmountable odds, and Tommy didn’t know where to begin.
After an hour of drifting, he found himself down at the station anyway. He tried to pull himself together as he walked up the front steps. The lights inside felt jarring and too bright as people in cuffs were guided past him down different hallways. Cops were everywhere, and Tommy felt that ingrained instinct to run and get as far as he could from them. He forced himself to step up to the front desk.
An older man with a soft round belly stressing the buttons of his uniform sat in front of Tommy. The look on his face told Tommy he’d probably loved his job once and now he hated everything about it.
“Can I help you?” he asked without looking up from his computer screen.
Tommy wondered absently if desk cops got away with Internet porn at work.
“Yeah, uh, Thomas O’Shea. Some kids were brought in an hour or so ago needing emergency placement. I was wondering if you could give me any information about them.”
The officer glanced at him then and went back to his computer. He tapped a few buttons and clicked his mouse a few times and asked, “Are you family?”
Tommy was learning to hate that question. No one asked that when there was good news. “Yeah, I’m their brother.”
Tommy took his ID out of his wallet and slid it on the counter in front of the officer.
“Same last name?”
“Yes, sir. There’s seven of them. Oldest one is Colleen O’Shea.”
The cop hit a few more keys and said, “They were placed tonight for emergency housing. It can take up to seventy-two hours for them to get into a permanent placement.” He paused and wrote a few things down on a piece of paper and then went on. “This is their case number. Monday morning you can go down to the Department of Family and Children Services and try to get more information.”
Tommy wanted to scream at him. They weren’t a case number, they were his kids. He balled up the piece of paper and shoved it in his pocket.
“Thanks for all your help.” Tommy didn’t try to hide the sarcasm in his voice.
THE SKY was pearly gray by the time Tommy made it farther into downtown. He didn’t know how long he’d been walking, but he could barely feel his feet anymore. At some point in the night, he’d ducked into a convenience store to warm up and bought himself a pack of cigarettes. They were already half gone. It was the first time in his life he’d spent money on them, and he felt like an idiot for it.
Even though he didn’t have any conscious plan in his head, didn’t have anywhere in particular to go, he found himself following his father’s usual track. He knew most of the alleys and flophouses his old man hid out in, or, more accurately, passed out in. By the time the sun was coming up, Tommy was standing under an overpass, warming his hands by the fire in a metal barrel and asking for his father by name.
When they all said they hadn’t seen Cal in weeks, Tommy stayed there anyway. He’d reached the end of the line. There was nowhere else to look, nowhere else he could go. He stared into the sparks and dying embers in the can and saw his house there in the glowing pile of paper and wood.
He knew he could go to Bobby. He could curl up in Bobby’s bed and let Bobby try to comfort him. Let Bobby try to help him. He figured, before this was all over, it could come down to relying on Bobby in a way he’d never let himself before. Though, even with Bobby’s help and Judy backing them up, he wasn’t sure what kind of hoops they’d have to jump through to even get a visit with the kids, let alone get custody. Tommy figured he owed Bobby some serious apologies for the way he’d left, too, but at the moment, he couldn’t face any of it.
He left the warmth of the makeshift camp at the underpass and let his feet carry him back toward town. His strides ate up the few miles between there and the pub, and Tommy landed on Smarty’s doorstep right as they were opening up for the morning.
“Tommy?”
He could hear Gene’s voice, but it was far away, fuzzy. Tommy remembered where he was—propped up on a stool at the pub. He’d been there all day, buying drinks on a tab he’d have to cover later. He’d never been really, truly drunk before. He was starting to understand the appeal.
“Tommy,” Gene tried again. Tommy finally blinked his eyes open and looked at his boss. “Bart told me you’ve been here since we opened.”
He didn’t hear any judgment behind the words. As bleary-eyed as Tommy was, he caught the concern etched over Gene’s face.
“Time is it?” he asked, the words barely slurring as he stretched and reac
hed for his glass mug. He drained the dregs of the last beer he’d had before he passed out.
Gene stood behind the bar, wiping an empty pint glass. “After two,” he said, placing it on the shelf.
Tommy glanced around. All the chairs were already tipped up, the floors swept, tables wiped down. It was well after closing.
“Shawna covered your shift. You might wanna thank her later.”
Tommy ran his hand over his face as if he could wipe away his shame and his heartache as he got to his feet. He staggered slightly and had to catch himself on the bar.
“Christ,” he muttered, feeling foolish. “Forgot I had to work tonight.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Gene took his apron off and set it down behind the bar. “I’ve got ya covered all week. Just until things are settled.”
He paused, and it looked to Tommy like he wanted to ask a few questions but didn’t want to pry either. Apparently, he decided to pry.
“I heard the damage was bad,” Gene started slowly, clearing his throat before going on. “I’m real sorry about Cheryl. I know she wasn’t exactly….” How could anyone finish that sentence? “You got a place to stay?”
Tommy didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t want to think about where he was going to stay or how he got where he was. He didn’t want to think about a funeral for a drug-addicted prostitute or a ruined house or where he might dig up his father. Or if the old man was dead in a gutter somewhere. He didn’t want to think about his brothers and sisters in foster care, scattered all over hell and back in emergency placements. He didn’t want to think about the group home Mike would probably end up in or worry about what kind of perverts had his kids.
And he especially didn’t want to think about Bobby and the long list of things he needed to ask forgiveness for. He was sobering up, and all he wanted to think about was getting his hands on a bottle so he could blot it all out again. It was the only thing he might have any goddamn control over, and—more than the booze and the void it offered—that was what he wanted the most. He wanted something he could control, something he could bend to his will, something he didn’t have to fight with.