Strangewood (18 page)

That was all perception, of course. Inside, Thomas had
always been Thomas. The same boy who had been dragged from base to base as a
child as his father was transferred to a new post every few years. A military
brat, he'd lost himself in books and movies and found nearly all of his best
friends that way. When his son Nathan had created an imaginary friend, it
hadn't seemed at all odd to Thomas. Crabapple was the creation of a fertile
mind, and Thomas could relate.

A part of him would always be that little boy whose best
friends were encountered in libraries, in comic books snapped up at the
drugstore for a quarter, and on the battered black-and-white Motorola they
carted from one end of the world to the other.

TJ Randall. Thomas Randall. Tommy, his mother had called
him, and she was the only one he never corrected. Inside, he still felt all the
insecurity, all the anxiety, and all the wonder that he'd felt twenty years
earlier.

Emily had touched him there, been part of that innocent love
that still existed deep inside. But only Nathan had ever lived there. From the
moment he took his first breath, from the moment Thomas first held his son in
his arms, Nathan had taken over that place in Thomas's heart completely.

In essence, Nathan was his heart; he was everything that
made Thomas fundamentally himself.

Now, with Nathan lying in that bed, and the future so somber
and obscure, Thomas felt as though he had lost his way. It was all falling
apart, everything he'd ever known or believed in or trusted about life. Things
were happening that he had no capacity to understand. His mind was playing
tricks on him, of course. That was the only possible solution.

But it was so real.

As real as the friends he'd woven out of fictional fabric
had been to him as a small boy, these episodes, hallucinations, whatever they
were, they were even more real. They weren't the flighty imaginings of a child
that a parent could never grasp. No, this bit of madness had the texture of
life, such as a man could recognize and understand.

He needed help. He knew that. But it was late, and the only
help he could think of was the only person who might be able to understand,
just a little.

The useless windshield wipers threw rain off the glass in
sheets, but it wasn't nearly enough. He bumped up over the curb turning into
Emily's driveway, and nearly hit the rear of her car as he slammed on the
brakes. Thomas popped the door open, pocketed his keys, and slammed the door. He
squinted through the rain at the front of the house. There were a few lights
still on inside.

For a moment, he didn't move, only stood in the soaking
rain, his clothes and hair quickly becoming saturated. He felt a moment of
longing as he looked at the house and wondered if he hadn't left a piece of
himself here when he'd moved out.

He jogged to the front steps, water sheeting off his sodden
jacket. The rain was loud enough that he couldn't tell if the doorbell had rung
when he punched it with a finger, and so he began to knock almost immediately.

Desperately.

Thomas heard the deadbolt being thrown back and the door
opened. Emily stood in only her robe, disheveled, her makeup smeared, and
Thomas realized he had roused her from bed. The way her hair was mussed and
fell in swirling disorder over her shoulders, he felt a wave of nostalgia rush
over him so powerful that he could barely contain the urge to embrace her.

"Thomas, my God!" she said frantically, pulling
him in from the rain. "What is it? What's happened to Nathan?"

The room flashed around him: Asian prints he'd bought for
her in Los Angeles, an enormous potted plant she'd bought a week before they
split, a coatrack he'd had since college and had never thought to take with
him, the plush rose patterned sofa in which he'd lain, holding Nathan against
his chest, watching old Abbott and Costello movies as he rocked the baby to
sleep.

"No," he said, the one word coming out of him like
a mournful groan. He couldn't blame her for her reaction. He knew what he must
look like, what the surrender and grief on his face must have made her think.

"I'm sorry, Emily," he said, trying to focus. "It's
not . . . I mean, Nathan's all right."

Even as he saw the hope rise in her eyes, Thomas said,
"There's been no change."

Emily pursed her lips, tiny lines forming around the edges,
and her eyes grew hard. She stood up, cinched her robe tightly, and stared at
the water dripping from his clothes to the carpet. Thomas started to speak, to
try to explain, but he was distracted by sudden movement in his peripheral
vision.

"Huh?" He spun quickly, wondering what it would be
now. Some other hallucination, or a flesh-and-blood stalker at the window.

But the man with a scruff of reddish-blond hair wasn't at
the window. He wasn't a stalker. From what Thomas knew, he was an English
professor named Joe Hayes, and he was currently bedding Thomas's ex.

"Damn it, what the hell are you doing here?" Emily
demanded. "You're supposed to be with Nathan."

Thomas did his best to regain his dignity. He stood up
straight and twisted his neck a bit to sort of reset his entire body. With
great deliberation, he ran his hands through his soaking hair, straightening it
as best he could. Before he turned back to Emily, he took a quick glance at
Joe.

"I can see why you were in such a hurry to start
spending some nights at home," Thomas said.

Even as he said the words, he felt his stomach begin to
churn. It wasn't only uncharitable and childish, it was incorrect. Her going
home had been Gershmann's idea, and they had decided together that she would
have the first night off. It didn't matter. Sometimes words were nothing more
— or less — than weapons. Given his occupation, he understood that
better than most.

"Thomas . . ." Emily began.

Joe cut her off. "There's no need for that," the
professor said, and stepped forward to offer Thomas his hand. "Joe
Hayes."

Thomas stared at the hand a moment, dumbstruck. He noted
Emily's similar expression. Hayes wasn't playing the game. Thomas studied him
carefully and found himself feeling more like an idiot than a righteous arbiter
of morality.

"Thomas Randall," he said, almost before he
realized he had reached out and grasped the other man's hand.

Hayes didn't smile. Thomas liked him for that. No bullshit
here.

"I'm sorry you two had to meet like this," Emily
said. "But it's late, Thomas. I never could have . . ."

"Forget it," Thomas said, waving her apology away.
"You're right."

He felt Hayes' eyes on him, but could not look at the man
again. Not then. Thomas was surrounded by the laughing ghosts of that house. Certainly,
there were the ghosts of pain and sadness there, as well, but the ones he saw
now were those of good times. His mind held a map of the house, of each step in
the hall, the layouts of pieces of furniture, how many steps up to the attic. He
recalled the way the towel bar in the master bath had always rattled, and
exactly how far to turn the faucet in the tub to get the perfect temperature
for Nathan's bath.

Thomas sat heavily in the rattan rocker he'd bought Emily at
Pier One, just after they'd moved in. He ran his hands through his hair again,
then over his face, and finally, he actually managed a slight, wistful smile.

"I'm sorry," he said again, and then he looked up
at Emily and saw the concern that had replaced her anger. She was beautiful, of
course. She always would be. But more than anything, he just needed to talk to
someone who really knew him.

"I think I'm losing it, Em," Thomas confessed. "I
think this whole thing is going to drive me right over the edge."

Emily turned to glance at her new lover. Thomas averted his
eyes, looking instead at the dried floral arrangement on the other side of the
room. It sat on an antique sideboard, flanked by an ancient but sturdy rocker
and the enormous plant he'd taken note of when he entered. On the wall above
the sideboard was an ornate antique mirror. In it, Thomas could see the entire
room reflected back at him. Or almost. He could see himself in the rattan
rocker, with Hayes on the other end of the image. Between them stood Emily.

The house was hers.

"Joe, would you mind putting water on for tea?"
Emily asked gently.

From her tone, Thomas could tell she was uncertain of the
answer she might receive. He had known her long enough to gauge even her
smallest inflections. When he was paying attention. And that had been the
problem, hadn't it? He hadn't paid attention often enough.

Hayes inhaled deeply and nodded so slightly that Thomas
wondered if the man were aware of it. His eyes were an odd, flat color, and
they gave him the impression of wisdom. He was only five years younger than
Thomas himself, but looking at him now, Thomas felt as though the distance was
so much greater. The weight of his fear and his anxiety had made him feel so
old. Hayes was still at an age where he carried himself with the carefree
attitude of the young and the foolish.

Thomas had taken his measure. Hayes did not seem like a
fool. Not at all.

"Why don't you two talk?" Joe said after a
heartbeat's hesitation. "I'll be in the kitchen with tea when you're
ready."

Emily smiled. Thomas blinked.

He'd been off somewhere. Not himself. Recognition of what
had just happened was slow in coming, but now that it was here, he could hardly
believe it. He didn't want Emily's lover making him tea. He didn't want Joe
Hayes in his house, no matter what he thought of the man.

"No, I . . .” he began, and Emily frowned, turning
toward him. Thomas paused, then closed his mouth.

It wasn't his house anymore.

"That would be appreciated," he said to both of
them, his ex-wife and the man who now shared with her what had once been the
Randalls' marriage bed.

Joe turned and pushed through the two-way swinging kitchen
door. Thomas watched the way the hinges worked with great appreciation. He'd
spent a lot of money to have that door put in. And the dark green detailing on
the door, which Emily had done herself. Back when she'd had the time to spend
on such things.

When the door had stopped its pendulous motion, Emily came
near to him. She sat on the arm of the sofa and clasped her hands on her knees,
bent over to meet his gaze the same way she would do with Nathan when she
wanted to get his attention.

"Thomas," she said tenderly. "What's going
on?"

So he told her. He told her all of it.

By the time the tea kettle began to whistle, Joe Hayes had
skimmed every bit of the paper, including the things he'd already read that
morning. He'd checked the stats of his favorite teams, when he normally only
looked at the scores from the previous day. He'd rummaged around and found a
package of oatmeal cookies that were nibbling at the fringes of stale, but he
ate them anyway. It was a distraction, and any distraction was good when it
came to this whole situation.

It was absurd. Surreal, actually. That was more the term
he'd been searching for. He couldn't blame Thomas Randall for being a little
whacko at the moment, what with all that was happening to Nathan. He also could
not blame the man for his discomfort. Hell, he probably still thought of this
place as
his
house and Emily as
his
wife. At least a part of him
would have. It was only natural.

The whole thing made Joe intensely uncomfortable as well,
and as he read a review in the Arts section about a foreign film he knew he
would never see, he allowed himself to wonder what in God's name he was still
doing there. In the past, he'd avoided involvement with women who were
divorced, or single mothers. Avoided older women, too, at least since college. He'd
always believed that at his age, he needed to start fresh with someone.

No baggage. That's what he'd been looking for. He was just
getting started, after all. He'd been on the fast track pretty much his whole
life, ahead of the curve both academically and later, professionally. He'd had
his tragedies like everyone else — his older brother had broken his neck
taking a bad dive at summer camp when they were boys, and Joe was the first one
to realize he was dead. His mother, even now, was struggling through a valiant
war against breast cancer, a war the doctors said she had every hope of
winning. In his way, Joe had baggage too.

But he had always thought he would end up with someone in
the same position, someone just getting started. He'd graduated college at
twenty, received his Master's at twenty two, and even now, as an associate
professor of English at Marymount College, he was working toward his Ph.D. He
was only twenty-six. He'd never had a new car, never owned his own home, never
even had a pet all to himself. He had always thought he would share all those
things with someone who was also experiencing them for the first time.

That was before Emily. That was before he'd fallen in love.

When he'd met her, he had known she had baggage. She had not
hidden anything from him. Ex-husband, a son, a career going strong. Debts. Doubts.
Attachments he could never hope to touch.

But that was before any of this. Before Nathan was
hospitalized, before this crazy “stalker” business, before Thomas had started
to act like a lunatic. As he sat there, in a hard oak chair, barely perceiving
the words of Ann Landers, Joe Hayes thought very seriously about lighting out
for greener pastures. He could do it, too. Just take off. No one would blame
him. Not even Emily, though he was certain she'd be hurt. He hadn't signed up
for all of this pain and anguish, never mind the awkwardness of it all.

For Christ's sake, he was only twenty-six years old. This
soap opera wasn't meant for someone his age. And now Thomas was getting a bit
frayed about the edges, maybe more than a bit. That could get even uglier.