Tom´s Story

by Claudio Hernández

  Did she know anything?

  The blood on his hands...

  22

  Back with Chumy.

  "Cuh... caaaat"

  Chumy hid behind the couch, and Tom dropped down on it, reaching for it in an unsuccessful attempt.

  "Buh... bad cat."

  His heavy body sank into the couch for a moment. Then, he tried to get up, though heavily and clumsily. In the background, the cat's shadow slid silently. Tom paced the living room with his eyes hidden behind prescription glasses.

  The shadow stopped.

  Tom began to sweat copiously, and his weary heart struck furiously at his chest. Still, he did not give up. He skirted the couch quietly, tiptoeing, as Tom would do behind Jerry. Chumy was crouched, surprised at the insistence of the walking hulk. Tom was close. He reached out and crouched.

  Chumy turned and looked him in the eye, motionless, aware of his superiority.

  Tom approached, more convinced that he would catch him now.

  He was closer and closer.

  Chumy's green eyes scrutinized the shadows.

  Then, Tom fell on him.

  23

  "Your hands were stained with blood" his mother said, looking into his eyes. Tom was silent. The psychiatrist, with his body leaning on the table, was watching him closely.

  "Come on. Remember a little" Donald encouraged him as he moved an arm and showed the palm of his hand facing upwards.

  "I don't know what... what you... wuh... want to know."

  "Everything!" Momma's voice had sounded hoarse and almost distant at the same time. She leaned back on the chair to settle. She frowned, defying the mind of her son.

  "Come on, Tom. Do you do that yourself or is it someone else?" The psychiatrist leaned back on his chair behind the table.

  "No... I don't know what... what you... are tuh... talking about" he forced himself to say, swallowing saliva. Sweat began to show first on his forehead, and then he felt a sticky discomfort in the back.

  "Tell us once and for all! Damn, Tom!" Stella screamed from the chair.

  "Don't worry, Mrs. Stella, don't force him anymore. His mind could block itself, and he would be trapped in a black hole from which it's hard to come out. Besides, he will not understand anything we can explain about dissociative and identity disorders..."

  "What?" Stella's voice cut sharply. Her eyes fell on Donald's figure.

  "You know the problems your son has, Mrs. Stella. I don't know why you are surprised at what I say."

  "Do you think my son transforms into someone when he does that?"

  "It's possible."

  "What! Bullshit."

  "This is serious, Mrs. Stella" the psychiatrist held up his hands as if to receive something. Stella looked at him with sparkling, angry eyes.

  Tom kept sweating.

  "My son, Tom" a stinging finger pointed at Tom, who was now sliding his huge ass into the chair, "Tom there, killed and nailed a cat on the neighbor's door last year. I saw him return home with blood on his hands, and I was missing a knife in the kitchen. Next day, the news of the cat nailed on the door was all around the neighborhood. Tom did it, not another person. And it was the only time he did it. Because I'm sure the other cats that have been found nailed on doors are the result of some thugs who imitated the idea" she pointed again at her son with the same bony finger, "and my son had nothing to do in all this matter, and he has not become a monster that nails cats on every door he sees. Tom, my son, has mental problems, yes, but that aberration is the work of other people who are more disturbed than my son."

  "Cuh... cat?" Tom asked, his face serious, his larynx burning, his temples throbbing.

  "Don't you remember?"

  "No."

  "Ahhh!!!" Stella was about to pull her hair right in front of them.

  "Mrs. Stella, calm down, please" the psychiatrist rose from his chair.

  "Cat?" Tom repeated as he took out a little snot and looked at it in case that was more interesting.

  "Let's go, Tom!" Stella's voice rose in a spiral.

  As they left the office, Stella slammed the door. As usual.

  This happened when Tom was sixteen years old.

  24

  "Chumy? Kitten, cute kitten. Meow, you damn bastard!" Samantha searched every corner of the house and the garden. The probability that Chumy was there was one percent. Null. It was highly probable that Chumy would be far, or maybe not so far away.

  So she would ask the neighbors. Were there girl neighbors? Yes, Stella. That was a good idea. She would ask about a nice, gray, Angora kitten with big green eyes. She would as Stella first and, if needed, she would continue with the neighbors who lived to more than a block from there.

  She would start with the house next door. Since they were on the corner of Culver Street with Balfour Avenue, she would ask at the house next door. She would ask Stella. She had thought of it before. Was Stella her name? Yes, I think so, she thought wryly. She skirted the garden on the side of the sidewalk and entered the interior of Stella's no-better garden. Was it just dirt?

  Stella's garden was more like a concentration camp, full of holes and dry grass and bags hooked on what looked like dry branches of God knows what.

  She was amazed by the neglect that reigned in that garden, if it could be called a garden. Samantha stepped slowly toward the door that was half-open, she could see it, far away. She noticed that the door was painted a gaudy yellow, which made it horrible. It did not fit very well. The house was practically made of wood, and it appeared to be rotten in three quarters. She noticed that the windows were closed, hidden behind similarly rotten wooden doors. The paint or varnish had simply disappeared, and it seemed to Samantha that someone had raged against the façade, throwing stones at it, by the deplorable form it presented.

  Even in the worst case where a house was abandoned, it could not be in a worse condition, she thought affirmatively as she approached the door, her heart in a fist.

  A moment later, she had approached the door with the intention of ringing the doorbell, but it abruptly opened before her drowned expression.

  Samantha gasped and put her hand to her chest as she stepped back.

  Tom Lee Rush, all smiling, suddenly emerged from the darkness.

  "Hello."

  Samantha noted that Tom had been a precociously developed boy, with acne on his face, which indicated that he had just passed the age of puberty and that now he would be entering coming of age because acne was still present on his face. His hair was as red as roasted corn. Eyes were staring at her from behind thick glasses, and his index finger was tucked into his nose.

  "You've... scared me" she said, frowning.

  "I... I did not... want to" Tom said, not stuttering too much.

  Samantha raised her eyebrows in surprise, quickly discovering that boy was not exactly normal.

  "Is your mother around?" Samantha took a step back more prudently. Her heart began to pound beneath her chest. She was just scared. His appearance, though innocent, made her feel some fear.

  "Momma not here" Tom said, licking his lips. This situation struck Samantha as one of the most uncomfortable she had ever experienced lately. Tom gave her a big smile, and drool began to spill down the corners of his mouth.

  Suddenly, Chumy ran out from behind Tom in a mewing figure, managing to escape from him. He skillfully dodged Tom's feet and crossed the so-called garden in a terrified run.

  ... If situation goes on like this, I will also run. What is this in front of me?

  "Oh! Look, that's my cat. I only came to ask if you had seen it" Samantha had turned her back, following frightful Chumy with her eyes, and when she turned to Tom, she saw with surprise how he pointed to the height of her breasts.

  "What do you haaaave thuh... there?" Tom's arm was outstretched with his index finger pointing at her breasts. "I like them."

  Samantha, surprised and blushing, could only open her mouth in an O, while Tom smiled openly and strangely.

  Samantha pu
t her hands up to her breasts, partially covering the nipples that were pointing through the shirt, blushing and astonished.

  "What are you doing here?" Stella's stiff, loud voice behind her, almost squeaky, startled Samantha again, who jumped back with her hands still on her breasts and her mouth in the same O as before. Her glassy eyes that morning were terribly open, mixed with horror and amazement.

  It’s your boobs, fuck. Tom likes your tits. How about that?

  "Oh, I'm sorry, ma'am..."

  "Stella" she interrupted. "You must be Samantha, the new neighbor."

  ...You have a good memory, old witch.

  "Yes. Exactly, I'm the new neighbor."

  "You still have not answered the first question" Stella said, carrying a paper bag in her arms. A bottle of Bourbon poked its long, flimsy neck through the bag.

  "I was looking for my cat."

  "Have you found it yet?" Stella's voice was dry and hoarse at times. It was like the barking of a furious dog.

  "Yes! I've already found it" Samantha glanced at Tom, who was still smiling.

  "What the fuck are you doing there? Go to your room!" She ordered Tom, sternly, jerking her head. Her unkempt, loose hair shone in the sun on a splendid day that was not at all kind to the black dress she had worn all damn days.

  Tom turned slowly, ducked his head, and began to shuffle his feet.

  "Has no one told you that my son is a mental retard?"

  Samantha shook her head in negation.

  "Well, now you know that" the old woman barked and went into the house, slamming the door behind her, which was heard in a complete block.

  Samantha's heart was still pounding, and for a moment she felt dizzy. But the truth is that she was surprised and frightened by her strange new neighbors.

  She came home running for her life and, when she came in, she asked her mother if she had seen Chumy.

  "Yes, he just walked in the door a moment ago. He looked nervous."

  ... Of course he looked nervous. I’m nervous, too.

  "And by the way, where did you go?" She asked in surprise.

  There was no answer.

  25

  Tom held a conversation through the small Facebook window with his cousin, Amelia, just after his visit to the psychiatrist. One of the few he attended. His fingers moved over the keyboard like a pianist’s. Here, he did not stutter, although he made many spelling mistakes. Amelia had not been in Tom's house for a few months since that time when Stella, totally drunk, kicked her in the stomach and tossed her home. She never got tired of drinking long drinks of whiskey and beers, lots of beers. Amelia was young and plump, but the fucking old woman was stronger when she was drunk, even though she barely held over her legs like sticks. Where did she get the strength? It was the million dollar question. Stella's foot plunged into Amelia's chubby belly, and she fell back on her spine, showing off her panties, since she had spread her legs and wore a skirt, everything must be said.

  "And don't come back to this fucking house!" Stella cried, the bottle clutched in her right fist.

  "Witch!" Amelia just managed to say that. Only that, as she rose from the floor and repeated the same word over and over again.

  "Fuck you" and Stella slammed the door shut, sounding dull and hammered at the same time.

  Amelia got to her feet, spat on the floor, fixed her hair, and adjusted her skirt before turning her back to the door. She simply left.

  She had not come back since.

  Now she was on the other side of the Internet connection, in front of the computer screen with her fingers on the keyboard.

  26

  For the rest of the day, Samantha was really efficient helping at home. She helped Mom order the kitchen and helped her bring the groceries. They were the first purchases they made at Road House, Louis proudly commented when he saw them coming through the door, carrying paper bags.

  The day passed quickly and evaporated in the night that fell imminent, although it took time to appear. It was past nine o'clock, and there was still an iota of light in the sky. It was weak, but it existed, and Louis watched the sunset with an unusual gleam in his eyes. That night, they had real dinner. Real food, after three arduous and long days on the road. Louis remarked proudly that it was the first real dinner in their new home.

  Samantha smiled, but she said nothing about their new neighbor. Nobody would really care about the neighbor next door, who was a moron. There was nothing wrong about it. Nothing at all. Besides, Samantha would not ever know, perhaps, that she was being watched as she exposed her dark nipples while someone took out snot in the other end of the garden.

  Maybe she would never know that.

  But nothing can be affirmed in this life.

  There are things that, however difficult they seem, do happen.

  ...You know that a mental retard lives next door. Why is that important? Words bounced in her head like electrons inside a cathode tube. There was something dangerous about it. She could feel pity. However, he had pointed at her tits while watching her with different eyes...

  By the time they finished, Louis had tried unsuccessfully to turn the television on. That was unusual. The previous tenants had taken the antenna, but Louis was the type of men who have everything. He had brought his own antenna. He turned off the TV and promised that next day he would set the antenna. Hell, he would. Nevertheless, he never got to install it.

  Eillen kissed Tony's forehead, who was sound asleep an hour after dinner, and Chumy, from Tony's feet, watched with green eyes and eager interest all that was around him.

  Louis was brushing his teeth in the bathroom. Somehow, he had managed to set up his room, Tony's room, and Samantha's room, of course, but Mom had not put the curtains.

  Eillen had set the kitchen, bathroom, and part of the dining room, with Samantha's invaluable help, who was sweating copiously under her T-shirt. At the end of the day, they had all taken a shower, and their slightly relaxed bodies screamed for a bed.

  It had been a hot and busy day.

  ... What are those bumps that you have there, fucked. It's the tits!

  Samantha was watched with curiosity and enthusiasm by someone with bubbles of snot in the nostrils who was discovering something new and pleasant.

  It is that simple.

  27

  "I bleim myself for the kat" Tom wrote with his particular style, with many misspellings.

  "What cat? What happened to the cat?" the little Facebook pop up window showed the reply.

  "Momma said ther was blood on my hansd"

  "Wow" and the screen showed an emoticon of a perfect O-shaped mouth. "Blood in your hands. Do you remember what you did? Why were your hands stained with blood? Is that true?"

  "I dont rember"

  "You know? I think your mother wants to drive you crazy. Tell me something about your conversation, please."

  "My momma said I killd a kat"

  "Damn!!" Amelia wrote from the other side of the screen.

  "She say she was misin a nife"

  "A knife? What else did she tell you?"

  "That she found a kat neild on the door"

  "DAMN!"

  The dots indicating that the other was writing stopped dancing on the application's popup tab, and there was a long, intense void.

  "Your mother is crazy or worse. She's an alcoholic who only knows how to hurt you and see things that don't exist." The dots were now dancing on the computer screen, and the next message was displayed. “What did the psychiatrist say?"

  "I dont nou"

  This conversation was after the last session that Tom attended, and that was a long time ago. Since then, they were connected one day, and the next they were not, and the next they were, and so on. Except when Justin got between them two. Then, the messages exchange was over. Despite all this time Amelia had seen things in Tom that were not normal in him, she looked away.

  28

  "Before suh... siiiiiixty there is seee... seventy."

  Tom's eyes dar
ted softly around Samantha's curves. It was easy to discover that her body was a sweet caramel that had not been tasted yet. Even a mentally retarded person could guess that it was something veiled and beautiful that would give you an erection when you saw those things hanging.

  He was leaning on the glass of his window. His eyes wide open and a stinging bundle beneath his cotton underpants, Tom could see the awakening of his sexual interest. It was a shuddering and jealously kept sensation.

  How could he tell his mother that?

  She would kill him. She would surely kill him. And Tom also knew what death meant. He knew what pain was. Tom was retarded, but not stupid. He was a childish mind in a huge and heavy body. He was somebody, anyway.

  He was shit all over the street.

  But it was something.

  Samantha walked around the bed, her white cotton panties embracing her two fingers below her navel, and went to the window with the intention of opening it.

  Tom straightened up in his lair. The erection was unbearable. Now Samantha was in the foreground, and Tom still wondered about those two interesting lumps.

  Samantha opened the window to let some air flow; it was a choking night. She did not realize there was another window in front of hers, a few feet away, in open space. Tom was there, hidden behind this one.

  The air, warm but not overwhelming, caressed her bare breasts and her sweaty neck. Tom lifted his head. It was like a huge ball, and his eyes widened. She had closed her eyes and had dropped her head back slightly, in a new breathing exercise.

  Tom discovered his face behind the window. It was full of pimples. He saw the two lumps rise slightly as she raised her arms and fiddled with her dark hair.

  Tom's penis was a red-hot, painfully erect sword, rabidly arousing. He put his hand to his penis and squeezed it with all his strength to mitigate or somehow counter the pain in his balls.

  ... You're discovering something new, Tom. That’s all.

  He felt slightly better.

  But Samantha was still there, her bare breasts pointing at the night stars that played in the sky.

  Without realizing it, Tom hit the window pane and ducked quickly. The noise was dull and dry. It died out in the night full of noises of young lovers talking hotly in the park (just for that night) and the meows of abandoned cats from the rooftops.