by John Inman
Sam waved back. A minute later, with a dawning grin creeping across my face, I hesitantly returned Timmy’s wave. It was impossible not to. He looked so happy.
And the moment the first chuckle escaped my lips, the wind stopped.
Just like that.
The room fell suddenly silent. Timmy’s laughter died. His face instantly sobered. Even his flapping pj’s settled limp and still around his body.
It was the saddest thing I had ever seen.
“Don’t go,” Timmy whispered to the room around him. Then he turned his eyes to Sam and me. He hiccupped and wiped the tears and slobber of laughter off his face with the sleeve of his pajamas. Thumper whimpered from the bed.
“Don’t go, indeed,” Sam muttered, taking my hand, still staring at the boy.
Together we strode to Timmy and scooped him up off the chair. Just as he began to cry.
“Make him come back. That was fun,” Timmy sniffled, wrapping his arms around my neck and laying his head on my chest. Sam stroked the boy’s back under his pajama top and buried his face in Timmy’s chopped up hair. His other hand came up to caress the side of my face.
“Who, baby?” Sam asked softly. “Make who come back? Who were you having fun with?”
Timmy gave a long, shuddering sigh, and said, “Daddy.”
Chapter 8
TIMMY WAS screaming again. This time it was a normal four-year-old’s scream (they do it a lot, I was learning), and it was directed at the gaming monitor in the sunroom. He was taking my most recently released video game, Killer Jeeps, out for a spin. It was the simplest game I had designed, a driving game, perhaps the only game suited for a little kid because of the ease of the controls. The label said it was rated for teens because of a few bloodthirsty monsters scattered around here and there. But hey, since Timmy wasn’t squeamish about dealing with a real ghost, I figured he was perfectly capable of whomping ass with a digitally enhanced homicidal maniac or two.
Timmy had three pillows stuffed under his butt so he could see over the edge of my desk. Thumper was sitting at his side, craning her neck and staring at the screen. She growled every time one of the monsters showed up. Timmy’s happy screams were interspersed with an occasional hoot of laughter. He was having fun. He was liking the shit out of those monsters.
Sam and I were in the backyard just on the other side of the sunroom windows where we could both see Timmy and get to him at a moment’s notice if the need arose. We were speaking softly and discussing just what we were going to do about the fact that Timmy thought the ghost of his father was hanging around the house.
While I wielded the garden hose, spraying my beloved trees and flowers so they wouldn’t shrivel in the heat, Sam rattled on about the ghost and the fact that he thought Timmy was absolutely right in his suspicions. I didn’t. And I said so every time I opened my mouth. Even I was getting tired of hearing my own denials. Perhaps the largest obstacle to my believing Timmy’s dad was haunting the joint was the fact that I simply couldn’t bring myself to believe Paul was actually dead. It seemed to me if the man had died, someone would have mentioned it by now.
However, ghosts were not the only things on our minds. Sam and I were constantly reaching out to each other too. Touching. Caressing. Flirting. I was nuts about Sam, and God help me, I was pretty sure he was nuts about me too. Neither of us really saw that coming, that intense attraction, so we were still tap dancing around the reality of it a bit, not sure where it all would end or how far we would be willing to let it take us. All I knew was I enjoyed being with Sam, and he didn’t seem too annoyed about being around me either.
It had been a week since we first made love, and we were sleeping together now on a regular basis. We still played the chaste uncles around Timmy, but he wasn’t dumb enough not to get a whiff of what was going on now and then. I caught more than one snicker on Timmy’s face on those few occasions when I glanced at him out of the blue. I was seriously contemplating sitting the kid down and explaining to him that Sam and I were an item, so if he inadvertently caught us sneaking a smooch now and then, he should just ignore it. But I wasn’t sure if adults actually did that with four-year-olds. Not having any kids of my own, I was in unexplored territory here. So was Sam. Besides, I didn’t want to presume that Sam and I were an item unless I talked it over with Sam first. In spite of all the clandestine smooching going on, he might be of a differing opinion. And boy, wouldn’t that break my heart.
Still, I had to admit we had more pressing matters to worry about than our puny little love affair, no matter how hot that affair was.
During the past week, I had fielded two more phone calls from my sister, and so far, she still had no inkling Sam was in the house. I was beginning to feel sneaky.
Sam was still gaga over the whole haunted house thing. Couldn’t stop chattering about it. He probably loved spooky movies too.
“I can’t get over that wind blowing around him the other night. Did you see it, Jason? What the heck was it?”
I was still just as flabbergasted about it as Sam. If I had known Sally’s house had a resident ghost, I probably would never have bought the place. Maybe. “I don’t know,” I said. “I’ve never seen anything like it in my life. Timmy was the only object in that room the wind touched. Did you notice? Nothing else moved.”
Sam and I had been beating the subject to death ever since it happened. You would think we’d get tired of talking about it. But no, here we were, getting excited all over again and blathering on and on and on.
“And what about Thumper?” Sam asked for the twentieth time. “Did you see her begging? Who was she begging to and what was she begging for? A Milk-Bone from beyond the grave?”
The sun was beating down like a forest fire. We would have to go inside soon before I keeled over from heat prostration. “Stop talking about graves! I don’t care what you think or what Timmy says, Paul isn’t dead. He took a powder to get away from my bitch of a sister. That’s all. One of these days, he’ll show up at the door asking to see his son.”
Sam smiled a wise smile. There was a little bit of sad in that smile as well. “I think he already did. In fact, I think he blew him a kiss.” After a beat, he added, “He just wrapped it up in a tornado first.”
I smiled, remembering Timmy’s laughter that night. “The kid really loved it, didn’t he?”
“Yeah, well, he’s a kid. I personally would have been in cardiac arrest after the first puff of air blew up my rooster bloomers.” Sam stuck his face into one of my tree roses and inhaled the scent. “How’s your new phone working?” He seemed to be asking the blossoms.
“Great. Don’t stomp on it.”
Sam held his hands up in the air like he was stopping a bus. “Boy, make one little mistake and you hear about it the rest of your life. Grouch.”
I laughed.
I watched Sam sniffing at the flowers. There was a lazy smile on his face that was very attractive. His hair was damp at the back of his neck from his sweat. We had been working in the yard for over an hour.
Softly, I asked, “Do you really think Paul is dead?”
Sam straightened and trailed his eyes to mine. He pushed his hair away from his face with both hands and held it there while the air cooled his forehead.
“Yes,” he said. “I believe it in my heart, Jason.”
I blinked at the sadness on his face. “Then I’m sorry,” I said.
He nodded, freeing his hair, gazing deep into my eyes. “I know you are.”
Our moment was interrupted when Timmy squealed with delight in the sunroom. By the weird-ass music playing in the background on Killer Jeeps, which Timmy had cranked up as high as it would go apparently for the benefit of all our neighbors and maybe some of the ships at sea, I knew he was fighting the Sewer Demon. And good luck with that. Even I had trouble killing that fucker, and I designed the game.
“Sally should be calling,” I said. It was my turn to throw my hands up in front of my face as if warding off a blow when Sam
quickly glanced my way. “And don’t worry, I still won’t tell her you’re here.”
“Not yet anyway,” Sam said.
“Fine. Not yet.”
This brought another subject to mind. A subject I didn’t like at all, but one I couldn’t stop picking at like a scab. “And when do you plan on leaving?” I tried to be nonchalant about the asking, but I could still hear my heart nervously hammering away inside me.
Sam reached out and touched my arm. “Not yet,” he said gently. And all I could do was nod.
Not yet. It was going to be lonely around the place when both Timmy and Sam left, what with just me, Thumper, and my ghost rattling about the property trying not to run into each other.
Sam squinted up at the sun from beneath the shade of his hand. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and took one last whiff of the tree roses. He turned to me as I wound up the garden hose and hung it on the metal rack at the side of the house.
“You have to stop trying to ignore what’s going on, Jason.”
For one brief moment, I thought he meant… “Us? Are you talking about us?”
Sam smiled kindly at the worried expression on my face. “No, babe. But that conversation’s coming up too.”
I wasn’t sure I liked the sound of that. So I tried to ignore it. “You mean Timmy.”
“Yes. It’s time we talked to Timmy about what happened the other night. I think he might be willing to discuss it now. He doesn’t seem to be upset anymore. He’s had a whole week with no ghostly apparitions playing head games with him. Or us. I’d like to hear why he said some of the things he said that night. About his dad and all.”
I had to keep reminding myself that Sam had more at stake in all of this than I did. It was his brother who was missing. It was Sam’s brother that Timmy was convinced had visited him that night. While I didn’t believe it for a minute, I thought it only fair to allow Sam to follow his half-ass investigation into Paul’s disappearance wherever it might lead. It was important to him. And it was important to me too. But for Sam it was personal.
“Fine,” I said, folding Sam into my arms beside the tree roses, not caring if the neighbors or Timmy could see us. Not caring about anything but the feel of Sam in my arms. And the feel of Sam’s arms embracing me back.
“After dinner, then?” he asked, his voice already getting that husky timbre that signified sexual awakening. God, Sam was mesmerizing when he talked like that.
I nodded, trying to swallow my desire. “Sure. After dinner.”
In thanks, Sam brushed his lips over mine. My heart did a syncopated stutter inside my chest. I gently grasped a fistful of Sam’s hair and held him in place while I kissed him back. While still connected, our kiss became a smile. For both of us.
“You,” I said, drawing back, gazing deep into Sam’s eyes. Even I didn’t know what I wanted to say next. Or maybe I did.
But the moment was interrupted by the rattle of a windowpane. Still standing there in each other’s arms, we turned toward the house.
Timmy was making kissy faces and smooching and licking and slurping at the window glass like a bottom feeder in a glass aquarium. He dragged his pucker from one side of the window to the other, depositing smears of spit and leaving kissy lip prints everywhere he touched. He was laughing while he did it. Laughing at us as we stood there like saps, wrapped in each other’s arms.
The little brat. I had just washed those windows.
SAM MADE swedish meatballs for dinner, and suddenly, I had another reason to be nuts about the guy. He could cook.
Timmy was less impressed.
“What’s that?” He was pointing at his dinner plate like a skunk had crawled up on it and died.
“Monkey snot and rhino boogers,” Sam bragged, batting his eyes modestly. “My own recipe.”
Timmy still didn’t seem particularly intrigued. “Really?” With thumb and forefinger, he dragged out a noodle and held it up for inspection. “And what’s this?”
“Ganglia.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. Those rhino boogers are hard to get too. Rhinos don’t like to give ’em up. Of course, monkey snot and ganglia are everywhere.”
Timmy poked it with his fork. “Hmm. Mommy never fixes this.”
“Mommy’s lazy. Plus she’s probably a crappy cook.”
Timmy snorted. “Omm. You said crappy. That sounds nicer than what Mommy says.”
“What does Mommy say?”
“Shitty.”
“Lovely. So eat already,” Sam said. He was talking to me too.
So I did. Eventually, so did Timmy. Not another word was spoken about Sam’s unusual list of ingredients.
Pretty soon the kitchen was filled with the industrious clatter of silverware on china, and I have to say, the rhino boogers were delicious. As usual, the three of us were sitting at the kitchen table. It was easier than dragging everything into the dining room. Plus I thought I’d give the dining room table a couple more days to air out. You never know what sort of sexual pathogens might still be lingering there in the wood from the other night.
We eventually finished eating. Our dirty plates still sat in front of us. Timmy was sipping at what was left of his chocolate milk, and Sam and I had wine. Our bellies were full, and we were all too lazy to even think about moving just yet.
Still needing to be close to Timmy, Thumper was sound asleep on a dishtowel in the middle of the table, like a holiday centerpiece.
Sam didn’t waste any time. His foot was resting on my instep under the table, but his warm brown eyes were centered on Timmy. Finally, Timmy realized that fact, and he stared right back at his Uncle Sam.
“Full?” Sam asked.
Timmy grinned. “I ate a lot.”
“I know you did. So did Uncle Jason. Will you still love your Uncle Jason when he’s all fat and gooshy?”
Timmy giggled. “Yep. Will you?”
Sam had the good grace to blush. “We’ll see.”
“Thanks,” I groaned for both their sakes, although I’m pretty sure I was blushing too.
Sam stroked my instep with his bare toes by way of apology for the fat comment. Once again he focused his attention on Timmy, and Timmy, as fearless as always, focused right back.
Sam cleared his throat. Time to get to it, he seemed to be saying. And so he did.
“Do you remember the wind the other night?”
“Yeah.” Timmy perked right up. “Can we do it again?”
“Not right now. Do you remember who you said brought the wind?”
“Yeah. Do we have any more Popsicles?”
“Maybe. I’ll check in a minute. Who was it you told us made the wind. Do you remember?”
“Yes. It was Daddy.”
“Do you remember your daddy?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know that’s who it was?”
“Because he told me.”
“He talked to you?”
“Yeah. I think I want a cherry one this time.”
“Cherry Popsicle. You got it. When Daddy talks to you, can you see him?”
“Kinda.
“What do you mean ‘kinda’?
“He kinda comes and goes.” Timmy paused as if thinking about the best way to express what he wanted to say. “He looks kinda wavy. Like he’s under water. You’d like him, though. He’s pretty. He looks like you.”
Sam leaned in closer. “Thank you. You say he looks like me?”
Timmy nodded. “’Cept he’s taller.”
Sam’s eyes darted to me. “He was. Paul was taller.”
I decided to ask some questions of my own. “Timmy, when Daddy talked to you, what did he say? What did he talk about?”
Timmy considered that. “He talked about how big I was. He called me a little man.”
“You are a little man. What else did he say?”
“He said he wanted me to stay here with you and Sam.”
“He talked about me and Sam?”
Timmy nodded.
“What about your mommy? Didn’t your daddy ever talk about her? Doesn’t he want you to live with her? Be her boy?”
Timmy shrugged. His face darkened. He appeared uncomfortable. I wondered if he was about to clam up on us.
Apparently, so did Sam. He scraped his chair back and headed for the door. “I’m gonna get that Popsicle.”
“Yay!” Timmy cried, clapping his hands. Thumper wagged her tail at Timmy’s show of enthusiasm, but she didn’t bother waking up. Thumper was a multitasker.
While Sam was gone to get the Popsicle from the big freezer on the service porch, I quickly lowered my voice and asked, “Was Daddy alive when you saw him?”
Again, Timmy shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess.”
“Does he live here in the house with me? With us? Is he always here?”
Timmy nodded again, but it was a sad nod. Hesitant, as if something about the question, or his answer to it, confused him. “He said he can’t go outside. He really wants to go outside and play, but he can’t.”
“Why not?”
“The doors won’t work.”
“You mean he’s trapped in the house?”
“I guess. When’s Mommy coming home?”
“Why? You miss her?”
Timmy rolled his eyes, sarcastic as hell. “No.”
Sam laughed. He was back from the fridge. “Kid’s all heart,” he muttered, handing Timmy his cherry Popsicle.
Timmy didn’t take it. “Take the paper off first.”
“Oh, sorry.” Sam did as he was told.
Still Timmy wouldn’t take it. “There’s a piece of ice on it. I don’t like ice.”
Sam rolled his eyes. “Kid, the whole thing is ice. Take it or I’ll give it to the dog, if I can snap her out of her geriatric coma.”
Timmy took the Popsicle, eyeballing it askance until he had scraped off that one tiny piece of frost with his thumbnail. Then he popped it in his mouth. In ten seconds flat, his chin was red, his shirt was dribbled over, and he had a stream of melted cherry Popsicle running up his arm. There was so much red on the kid, he looked like he had been strafed with artillery fire.
Between slurps, Timmy said, “Daddy likes playing with me. He told me he could blow me right up the chimley if he wanted to.”