“What would I do to provoke him? I barely touched him,” she said.
“You’re going to have a shiner.”
“It isn’t funny, Tim. He was like some wild animal. He’s stronger than he looks.”
“You’ll have to be more careful.”
“Careful?” Her voice rang through the heating duct like a struck gong, loud enough to be heard through the open door as well. “I have to be more careful?”
“Holly, the walls have ears.”
“I don’t care if he can hear me, maybe he should be listening to me. Maybe you should listen. Something has to be done.”
His father dropped his voice, changed the tone, so Jack Peter had to creep closer to the register.
“It was just the one time, Hol. Just the once. I’ll talk to him. We’ll work on him not hitting, but I don’t want to have him all doped up. Don’t want to increase his meds.”
“Couldn’t you at least talk to the doctor?”
He stubbornly refused to answer her. They would be sitting there, silent, staring away from each other, through the window, at the newspapers, eyes following the rising coffee steam. Jack Peter had seen it before, again and again.
After some time, his father spoke calmly. “You shouldn’t have startled him. Something must have set him off for him to react so … violently.”
“He said there was a monster under his bed.” She lifted her face toward the ceiling. “More like a monster in his bed.”
“You shouldn’t have touched him.”
“My own son.”
“Our son,” he said. “He was just afraid and you set him off. Match to a fuse.”
Jack Peter heard one of them rise from the table and cross the room, but he could no longer make out what his mother was saying, though he could hear the anger roll through her muffled voice.
“No,” his father answered. “I think that would be impossible. A terrible idea. Look, I’ll work harder with him.”
Stealing away as quickly and quietly as possible, Jack Peter left his spot and stationed himself at the top of the staircase, careful not to give himself away. He caught the tail end of his mother’s answer.
“… if something happened to us, then we’d have to make those kind of arrangements.”
“Please, Holly,” his father said. “I won’t send him away. He’d be miserable in one of those homes.”
Send him away. Away, away, where would they send him?
“You don’t know that,” his mother said. “Maybe he could be happier, maybe they would find a way to better control—”
“I won’t do it,” his father shouted.
“—his behavior. Get him outside. Conquer his fears.”
His father said, “But he’s our son. I can’t believe you’d even suggest such a thing.”
“I can’t have him hitting me, Tim. Hurting me, or hurting himself. I don’t want to send him away, but I’m at my wit’s end.”
“I’ll talk to him,” his father said softly. “I’ll take him to see Wilson, make the necessary adjustments.”
A prolonged silence filled the void, rising like the sea from the bottom till it engulfed the whole house. Wrapping his arms behind his head, Jack Peter waited for it to end, but he dared not leave his listening post. He would not go away, he would not go outside, he would make them stop, and they would see and they would keep everything as it was. He would show them. He would make them see.
At last his father pushed away from the table. He would be walking to her for a hug. “And I’ll check under the bed,” he joked. “For monsters.”
Freed, Jack Peter bounded down the stairs and into the kitchen, beaming for her, but she would not turn to face him. At the sink, doing dishes, she was not ready. Dressed in her jogging clothes, she looked ready to run away. His father flashed a greeting, waved his hand for the boy to join him and be still. A bowl of oatmeal with a crater lake of maple syrup in the middle had been put at his place at the table.
“Tim,” she said at last. “I’ll be back from my run soon, and then you can make your rounds. Make sure to fetch Nicholas on your way home. He’s coming over to play with Jack this afternoon.”
Jack Peter picked up his spoon and drew a line across the thick surface. The syrup ran and spread like blood. Work to be done, he told himself. Not away, not away, but here. Inside.
ii.