WHEN I walked into his room, Thomas, staring at the screen with his back to me, said, “I thought they were nice, but they should have sent the CIA.”
I came up around the side of his map-and-computer-cluttered desk and crouched down, then reached over to where the power strip went into the wall outlet. I yanked it out. The soft whirring of the computer stopped instantly with a barely audible pop.
Thomas screamed, “Hey!”
Then I reached over another few inches, where the phone line went into the jack, and pulled that out as well. Thomas stared, dumbstruck, at the suddenly black monitors.
“Turn them on!” he shouted. “Turn them back on!”
I shouted back, louder, “What the fuck were you thinking? Can you tell me that? What in the goddamn hell were you thinking? Getting in touch with the CIA? Sending them e-mails? Are you crazy?”
Even as I said it, I knew it was wrong. But I couldn’t stop myself.
“Jesus, I can’t believe it. The FBI! The goddamn FBI at our door! You’re lucky they didn’t arrest you, Thomas. Or both of us! At the very least, I’m amazed they didn’t walk out of here with your computer. Thank God you didn’t actually threaten anyone. Do you have any idea what the world is like today? You start sending e-mails to government agencies, telling them some cataclysmic event is on the horizon? Have you any idea how many alarm bells that sets off?”
“Plug it back in, Ray!” He was out of the chair now, dropping to his knees, scrambling for the cord that led out of the power strip.
I grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him away. “No! This is it, Thomas! I’ve had it! Enough!”
But Thomas scrambled ahead, crablike, getting himself under the table. I grabbed hold of his legs and dragged him out.
“I hate you!” he shouted. There were tears streaming down his red, angry cheeks.
“You’re done with this!” I said. “Done! You’re getting out of this room and going outside! You’re going to start living like a normal person!”
“Leave me alone leave me alone leave me alone,” he whimpered. I’d dragged him to the middle of his room, both of us sprawled out on the floor. The bare hardwood had made it easy to move him, but several maps and printouts had bunched up under him in the process. He grabbed one of the crumpled papers caught under his thigh, opened it, and tried to flatten it out on the top of his leg.
“Look what you’ve done!” he said.
I grabbed the map from his hands, crumpled it into a ball, and tossed it across the room.
“No!” he said.
I knew this was wrong. Yelling at Thomas, pulling the plug on his computer, and, maybe worst of all, treating one of his precious maps like a used paper towel. I’d lost control of the situation, and I’d lost control of myself. Losing my father, coming back here, trying to figure out what to do with the house and Thomas, and now a couple of federal agents at the door—I’d snapped. But there was no excuse for coming down on Thomas this hard.
So maybe I shouldn’t have been surprised when Thomas snapped, too.
He came at me like he’d been shot out of a cannon. He lunged, reaching out and grabbing me around the neck. I toppled over onto my back and he landed on top of me, our legs tangling, his hands still clutching at my throat.
“You’re just like Dad!” he cried. His eyes were wide and manic. Choking, I grabbed his wrists but couldn’t break his grasp.
“Thomas!” I croaked. “Let…go!”
I reached up, grabbed his left ear with my right hand, and yanked.
Thomas yelped and released me. I rolled and squirmed out from under him. Pulling his ear seemed to have had the effect of stunning him. He looked at the chaos around us, then at me, and shook his head.
“No no no,” he said, and instead of turning any further anger on me, began to hit himself. He was driving the heels of his hands, alternating left and right, into his forehead. Hard.
“Thomas!” I said. “Stop it!”
I tried to get my arms around his, but they were like pistons. He was pounding his head hard enough that it sounded like wood hitting wood. I threw myself on him, pinning him to make him stop.
He made unintelligible grunting noises of frustration.
“It’s okay!” I said. “Thomas, stop!” I kept my weight on him, hoping that by restricting his movements I’d calm him.
“It’s okay,” I said again. “I’m sorry.”
Like a switch had been flipped, he stopped. His forehead was red and beginning to bruise. Between the battering he’d given himself and his red and swollen eyes, he looked as though he had just lost a bar fight.
He was crying.
I felt myself becoming overwhelmed. My throat felt thick, my breathing quickened.
Now I was crying, too.
“Thomas, I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m sorry. I’m going to get off you, okay?”
“Okay,” he said.
“I’m getting up. Promise me you won’t hit yourself anymore, okay?”
“I won’t.”
“Okay, that’s good. We’re good.” I eased him up into a sitting position, ran my hand on his back.