by Jeff Vrolyks
Chapter Thirty One
Just before turning in to bed, Phyllis asked her husband to check on Timothy, because she hadn’t seen him return from Eddie’s since earlier that evening. Phillip knocked on his door, then opened it. He wasn’t there. He met up with his wife in the restroom: she was brushing her teeth.
“He’s not there.”
“That’s what I thought,” Phyllis said. “He must be enjoying Eddie’s company in the barn. It’s midnight, he should be in bed. I’ll call him on his cell, tell him to come home.”
“I could just go on over and get him. Maybe Eddie will show me what he’s done to the place. I haven’t seen it yet since he moved in. Have you?”
“No. All right, sweetheart, go on ahead. Don’t forget to lock the door behind you.”
“What for? This is a safe neighborhood.” Phillip was Stoic as he said it, which saddened Phyllis. That damned disease. Phillip chuckled and said, “What… do you think I have Alzheimer’s or something?” She smiled at him and slapped his shoulder. “I won’t forget to lock the door. Be back shortly.”
The barn door was open, lights on inside. Phillip noticed the Buick wasn’t here. Odd. Maybe the two drove to McDonald’s or something.
He rapped on the open door and stepped inside, nearly collapsed in horror at what he saw: his grandson unconscious on the floor, the back of his head a bloody mess. He was by the ladder, must have fallen off of it.
“Son!” Phillip ran to him, stooped down and touched him, checked his pulse. He was alive, praise God.
“Phyllis!” Phillip shouted. “Phyllis!” He shouted again, louder this time, as loud as his aged vocal chords could. He didn’t have his phone on him. He reached in Timothy’s pockets and felt a phone, extracted it. He dialed 9-1-1, stated the emergency to the operator. Help was on the way. He then called the house phone.
“Yes, Timothy?” Phyllis said upon answering it.
“Hun, it’s me,” he said in a panic. Her panic matched his from tone alone. “Timothy’s been hurt, bad. I called for help. Come to the barn.”
“On my way.”
Together Phyllis and Phillip paced around their adopted son’s still body. Phillip wanted to roll him over to his back but she wouldn’t allow it. She insisted they not touch him, in case he had a broken neck. It was the most terrifying fifteen minutes of their lives, waiting for an ambulance to arrive.
“Where the heck is Eddie?” Phillip said inwardly.
“Buick’s gone,” she said.
“I know. I hope… I hope…” He couldn’t get himself to say it. His wife, having known Phillip for almost sixty years, knew what he was thinking to such a degree that he might as well have said it.
“Eddie didn’t do this,” she said adamantly. “He’s a good boy. He’d never hurt our Timothy. It was just an accident.”