Dweller - Jeff Strand [55]
“I’m going to be blunt: this isn’t working out.”
“Why? What do you mean?”
“You’re not getting along with the others in the mailroom.”
“What? I haven’t had any problems with anybody!” Toby insisted.
“They say that you make them uncomfortable.”
“That doesn’t make any sense!”
Toby’s new boss, John Rydelor, frowned and looked nervously toward the door of his office, which was ajar. “Please lower your voice. You were hired on a six-week probationary period, and like I said in the interview, I believe that the only way to achieve success in business is through teamwork. The other members of the mailroom team have issues with you, and I’m going to respect their wishes.”
“Owen, you son of a bitch, how could you leave me? See what I did? I swept out your cave. It’s the first time your cave has been swept in fifteen years! Come on, Owen, I really need to talk to somebody!”
He’d resisted the idea of taking in the roll of film, which had remained hidden in his bottom drawer, to be developed. But if he couldn’t have his monster, he could at least have pictures from their first encounters. He’d just tell the employee at the photo booth that it was a guy in a mask.
It didn’t matter. The film was too old and couldn’t be developed.
“Hello?”
“Toby, it’s Mom.”
“Is everything okay? What’s wrong?”
“Your father’s had a stroke.”
They celebrated Thanksgiving in the hospital, three weeks early. It was always Dad’s favorite holiday. Toby wasn’t sure if Dad could smell the turkey or the mashed potatoes, but Toby liked to think that, at least in his mind, his father enjoyed the meal right along with them.
Toby wrote a wonderful speech for the memorial service, heartfelt yet amusing, but succumbed to uncontrollable tears after a few sentences and left the podium.
“Do you have typing skills?”
“I don’t, but I can learn.”
“We’re not really a ‘learn on the job’ environment.”
1976
“Happy birthday to me…”
“You don’t want to come back? Fine! There’s nothing to come back to!” Toby smashed the hammer into the side of the cave. He struck it again, harder this time, and shards of rock sprayed into the air.
He bashed at the stone wall again and again, bellowing with frustration. He refused to stop. Even when his arms ached so badly that they felt like the hammer had been smashing them instead of the wall, he kept at it.
He didn’t quit until the hammer slipped out of his hands and he was physically unable to pick it back up.
Then he started kicking.
“Hello?”
“Toby?”
“Aunt Jean…?”
It didn’t surprise him how thin she was. Aunt Jean had told him on the phone that she didn’t have much of an appetite since Dad died. He’d told her that she needed to eat, and she promised him that she’d try, and she’d say something like, “Your aunt is making me a milk shake right now,” and then the next week she’d admit that she just wasn’t very hungry.
He’d offered to move to California, to stay with her, but she’d laughed away the idea. He had his own life. She loved hearing him talk about it every Sunday. A great job, a serious girlfriend, lots of friends who got into wacky misadventures…she couldn’t let him put everything on hold for her. She’d be fine. She just wasn’t very hungry these days.
It wasn’t her physical appearance that upset him when he walked into the hospital room. It was the bandages around her wrists.
“Do you want to be alone with her?” Aunt Jean asked.
“Yeah.”
Aunt Jean nodded and left the room.
Toby sat down on the edge of the bed and patted her hand. “Why did you do it, Mom?”
“I really don’t know.” He could barely hear her.
“That’s the kind of answer I’d give you when I was a kid. You wouldn’t let me get away with it, either.”
She gave him a weak smile. “I guess I just felt like your father was the only thing keeping me…sane.”
“What do you mean?”
“I was sitting there in the bathroom, on the edge of the tub, and I was crying. I didn’t feel bad about it. That’s what you do when your husband dies—you cry.”