Post by juniper on Nov 8, 2010 23:29:04 GMT -8
“My name is Michelle, and I think my son is a henchman.” She sits back down to a chorus of “Hello, Michelle.”
Mothers have been given the power to know instantly when their offspring are up to something. This is why Michelle is bolt upright in her bed, clutching her heart, at 3:17am. She fumbles for the remote, anxious to see what has caused her racing heart, her racing thoughts. The TV flicks on, blue glow followed by flickering light as the 24 hour news channel comes on. Soothing images of fire and fury fill the screen as Michelle drifts back off to sleep.
“Hello? Ma‘am?” The doorbell rings and rings again before Michelle comes in from the back yard. Seeing police officers through her window, she hurries to the door, pulling it open to find two of them, unsmiling in blue, with Tommy between them.
“Tommy? What did you do?” She exclaims, kneeling to look at his rapidly blackening eye. He mumbles something, and she glances up at the policemen for clarification. “A fight, ma’am. He came off the winner.” She nods, slowly, and lets the trio in, getting ice and a cloth for the boy.
“A fight.” She says it flatly, and shakes her head. Raising her voice, “Donald, come in here, please.”
“No need for that, ma’am,” states the officer on the left. The officer on the right finishes the statement, “he didn’t start it, we just wanted to make sure he got home okay.” She nods again, and Donald comes in. It’s obvious that he, too, has recently been in a fight.
“Donald!” she exclaims, at the same time Tommy shouts, “Dad! What happened?”
“Hello, Mom?“ The doorbell rings and rings before Michelle comes in from the back yard. She smiles, and unlocks the door. A raised eyebrow on Tommy’s part is answered, “Can’t be too careful, you know. Super-villains run around, neighborhood vandals steal things. Besides, I wasn’t expecting you until lunch!”
It’s Tommy’s turn to grin and he does, handing her a bag of donuts, bringing out the flavored coffee she prefers and can’t generally afford. “I thought you could use a treat for breakfast, mom.” He says, so charming. Her worries of the night before fade under the morning light, especially since Tommy is brewing the coffee, now.
The morning is great; Tommy mows the yard for her, and fixes the closet door. They have sandwiches for lunch, tuna salad, and Tommy takes her shopping that afternoon. By that evening, as Tommy leaves for the week, her suspicions have been downgraded, and then firmly locked in her mind’s recycle bin.
She doesn’t think about it for weeks. Something on the news reminds her, catches her eye. Makes her think.
She wishes Donald were still around for her to talk to.
“My name is Michelle, and I think my son is gaining power, becoming ambitious.” The chorus is sympathetic this time, and so she continues. “I wake up at odd times in the night, and I just know, because mothers do, and I turn on the news. He’s wearing that stupid mask, but he moves the same. And I just know.” There are nods around her, sympathetic, understanding. She’s among friends, and, for the moment, safe.
The knock at her door doesn’t surprise her, nor does the silver haired man on her step. She stands back, inviting him in implicitly. He is polite, in a way that reminds her of Leave it to Beaver, his hat in his hands, acknowledging the décor with a nod of his head.
“Is this where Thomas Sodo lives?” he asks, careful of her space, careful to not sit until she invites him to. He is tired, she can see the bags under his eyes, purple circles that make him look older. She knows who he is, of course, one of the most respected, though least wealthy, businessmen in town. She invites him to sit, makes sure he’s comfortable, and gets him lemonade.
The whole thing feels like a weird flashback to the fifties.
“Thomas moved out nearly 5 years ago. Had to make his own life, his own path. He comes by often, helps me out, but usually on weekends. Why, is he in trouble?” All the time her heart is beating faster, and surely he must hear it, see it in her veins. She surreptitiously turns off the T.V, where news of what may be Tommy’s latest adventure is playing.
He shakes his head, “No, just wanted to talk to him about something. Will you let him know I stopped by, when you see him next?” She gives her promise, and a bag of cookies to take home, and sits in her chair and weeps.
“My name is Michelle, and my son is almost definitely a super-villain.” There is open weeping on her part, and the part of the women who are holding her hand. Around her, there is solidarity; there is something that is not quite hope. There is love. “And I still love him. I remember the boy I took to Kindergarten, and the kid who scored the winning goal in that last soccer game. I remember his braces and trips to the beach with his dad. But now I see the news, and I wonder if I ever really, really knew my son.” The tissues get broken out, and there is general weeping. She always feels better after those meetings.
The business man’s visit doesn’t get mentioned when Tommy is over next. Instead, he mows the lawn, fixes a leaky faucet, and she makes cookies. They laugh, and talk, and he takes her to the movies. They talk about his father.
She almost forgets her misgivings.
As he is leaving, he looks back at her, and smiles charmingly, “By the way, I got a new job. It pays much better, so I was thinking maybe I could start taking you to dinner once a week?”
She doesn’t know why this makes her shiver. Still, she nods, and agrees, and silently puts her uneasiness in the recycle bin of her mind, just like the nightmare, earlier. She turns off the news that night, and watched something mindless, something fluffy. Seinfeld just about hit the ticket. The marathon did a lot to calm her.
“Hi, my name is Michelle, and I just don’t know what to do anymore.”
Mothers have been given the power to know instantly when their offspring are up to something. This is why Michelle is bolt upright in her bed, clutching her heart, at 3:17am. She fumbles for the remote, anxious to see what has caused her racing heart, her racing thoughts. The TV flicks on, blue glow followed by flickering light as the 24 hour news channel comes on. Soothing images of fire and fury fill the screen as Michelle drifts back off to sleep.
“Hello? Ma‘am?” The doorbell rings and rings again before Michelle comes in from the back yard. Seeing police officers through her window, she hurries to the door, pulling it open to find two of them, unsmiling in blue, with Tommy between them.
“Tommy? What did you do?” She exclaims, kneeling to look at his rapidly blackening eye. He mumbles something, and she glances up at the policemen for clarification. “A fight, ma’am. He came off the winner.” She nods, slowly, and lets the trio in, getting ice and a cloth for the boy.
“A fight.” She says it flatly, and shakes her head. Raising her voice, “Donald, come in here, please.”
“No need for that, ma’am,” states the officer on the left. The officer on the right finishes the statement, “he didn’t start it, we just wanted to make sure he got home okay.” She nods again, and Donald comes in. It’s obvious that he, too, has recently been in a fight.
“Donald!” she exclaims, at the same time Tommy shouts, “Dad! What happened?”
“Hello, Mom?“ The doorbell rings and rings before Michelle comes in from the back yard. She smiles, and unlocks the door. A raised eyebrow on Tommy’s part is answered, “Can’t be too careful, you know. Super-villains run around, neighborhood vandals steal things. Besides, I wasn’t expecting you until lunch!”
It’s Tommy’s turn to grin and he does, handing her a bag of donuts, bringing out the flavored coffee she prefers and can’t generally afford. “I thought you could use a treat for breakfast, mom.” He says, so charming. Her worries of the night before fade under the morning light, especially since Tommy is brewing the coffee, now.
The morning is great; Tommy mows the yard for her, and fixes the closet door. They have sandwiches for lunch, tuna salad, and Tommy takes her shopping that afternoon. By that evening, as Tommy leaves for the week, her suspicions have been downgraded, and then firmly locked in her mind’s recycle bin.
She doesn’t think about it for weeks. Something on the news reminds her, catches her eye. Makes her think.
She wishes Donald were still around for her to talk to.
“My name is Michelle, and I think my son is gaining power, becoming ambitious.” The chorus is sympathetic this time, and so she continues. “I wake up at odd times in the night, and I just know, because mothers do, and I turn on the news. He’s wearing that stupid mask, but he moves the same. And I just know.” There are nods around her, sympathetic, understanding. She’s among friends, and, for the moment, safe.
The knock at her door doesn’t surprise her, nor does the silver haired man on her step. She stands back, inviting him in implicitly. He is polite, in a way that reminds her of Leave it to Beaver, his hat in his hands, acknowledging the décor with a nod of his head.
“Is this where Thomas Sodo lives?” he asks, careful of her space, careful to not sit until she invites him to. He is tired, she can see the bags under his eyes, purple circles that make him look older. She knows who he is, of course, one of the most respected, though least wealthy, businessmen in town. She invites him to sit, makes sure he’s comfortable, and gets him lemonade.
The whole thing feels like a weird flashback to the fifties.
“Thomas moved out nearly 5 years ago. Had to make his own life, his own path. He comes by often, helps me out, but usually on weekends. Why, is he in trouble?” All the time her heart is beating faster, and surely he must hear it, see it in her veins. She surreptitiously turns off the T.V, where news of what may be Tommy’s latest adventure is playing.
He shakes his head, “No, just wanted to talk to him about something. Will you let him know I stopped by, when you see him next?” She gives her promise, and a bag of cookies to take home, and sits in her chair and weeps.
“My name is Michelle, and my son is almost definitely a super-villain.” There is open weeping on her part, and the part of the women who are holding her hand. Around her, there is solidarity; there is something that is not quite hope. There is love. “And I still love him. I remember the boy I took to Kindergarten, and the kid who scored the winning goal in that last soccer game. I remember his braces and trips to the beach with his dad. But now I see the news, and I wonder if I ever really, really knew my son.” The tissues get broken out, and there is general weeping. She always feels better after those meetings.
The business man’s visit doesn’t get mentioned when Tommy is over next. Instead, he mows the lawn, fixes a leaky faucet, and she makes cookies. They laugh, and talk, and he takes her to the movies. They talk about his father.
She almost forgets her misgivings.
As he is leaving, he looks back at her, and smiles charmingly, “By the way, I got a new job. It pays much better, so I was thinking maybe I could start taking you to dinner once a week?”
She doesn’t know why this makes her shiver. Still, she nods, and agrees, and silently puts her uneasiness in the recycle bin of her mind, just like the nightmare, earlier. She turns off the news that night, and watched something mindless, something fluffy. Seinfeld just about hit the ticket. The marathon did a lot to calm her.
“Hi, my name is Michelle, and I just don’t know what to do anymore.”