Tami Hoag - Deeper Than the Dead

He took the lighter he had stolen out of his mother’s purse, and put it and the half-dozen cigarettes into a zippered pocket on his backpack. He hadn’t tried to smoke before, but he thought maybe he would start.

Almost as an afterthought, he tossed the dried-out rattlesnake head in there too-just because it was his. Then he put on his blue jean jacket, hiked his backpack up over one shoulder, and headed downstairs.

The house was completely quiet. Usually, Dennis’s mother was up by now to make breakfast. Even on the weekends, his father liked breakfast early. His father was a busy man, and had a lot of important things to do, even on his days off.

But there was no sign of his mother.

Dennis had never heard her car come home, and he had been awake all night. Even when he had finally climbed back down from the roof to his bedroom, he hadn’t wanted to sleep. Not because he was afraid of bad dreams, but because he just didn’t feel anything. He didn’t feel pain. He didn’t feel sadness or anger. He didn’t feel tired.

He had crept through the house like a burglar to see what he could see. The downstairs looked like a bomb had gone off with broken stuff all over the floors of the dining room and kitchen. His mother was gone. His father too. Dennis was all alone.

He lay on his bed all the rest of the night, just staring at the ceiling. Now, in the light of day, the kitchen was a terrible mess. Dirty dishes had been thrown in the sink. A pot with macaroni and cheese in it had been knocked off the stove and spilled all over the floor. There must have been a thousand ants crawling on the gooey pile. There was red stuff smeared on one wall by the light switch. Blood , Dennis thought. He stared at it and felt nothing.

The dining room was no better. There were broken glasses on the floor, and a couple of broken plates.

For sure his mother had not come home. She would never have gone to bed and left the place like this. She kept everything clean and tidy because that was the way his father liked it.

Dennis got a bowl and fixed himself some cereal. He was halfway done when his father came walking in, looking like he hurt all over. He had a hangover. Dennis could tell by the color of his skin and the bags under his eyes.

His father didn’t get drunk very often, and when he did he didn’t try to hide it like Dennis’s mother did. He knew his mother drank almost every day on account of he knew where she hid her bottle. But it was her secret, and most of the time even his father couldn’t tell.

Dennis stopped chewing and just stared at his dad now, not sure what to expect from him. Would he be normal? Would he still be mad?

His father made a face like his mouth tasted bad, went to the coffeemaker, and stared at the empty pot.

He looked at Dennis. “Where’s your mother?”

Dennis shrugged.

His dad went to the window and looked out at the driveway. “Her car’s gone. I never heard her come home last night.”

I never heard you come home last night, either, Dennis thought, but he just shrugged again. He fully expected his dad to explode and belt him one for not answering, like he had the night before, but he didn’t.

“I think she left,” his father said, still staring out the window.

Dennis said nothing. He still couldn’t feel any emotions. In a weird way, it was like he was wrapped up in a cocoon. He could see the world around him, but it couldn’t touch him. He liked it that way.

His father turned and left the room. Dennis could hear his footfalls going up the stairs. When he couldn’t hear them anymore, he put his backpack on and left the house with no intention of ever coming back.

“Mimosas,” Franny told the waitress. “And keep them coming, honey.”

On Saturdays they met for breakfast at the Ivy Garden, a favorite place off the plaza where tables spilled out of garden-inspired rooms into the garden itself. A fantastic spreading oak tree grew like something from a fairy tale right in the center of the space, shading the tables in daytime and providing a canopy of twinkling lights at night.

“I need the alcohol,” Franny said, fussing with the bright yellow bandana he wore twisted at the open throat of his purple Ralph Lauren polo shirt (collar turned up, of course). The bandana matched the little polo pony embroidered on the chest. “I’m still shaking from last night. Are you all right? I knew that woman was a bitch, but MY GOD! She’s bat-shit crazy!”

A pair of older ladies at the next table looked over from their French toast. Franny rolled his eyes at them.

“I’m worried about Tommy,” Anne said.

“Can you imagine having that F-U-C-K-I-N-G C-U-N-T for a mother?”

“Kind of.”

“Your mother was a saint.”

“But my father is Dick.”

“Your father is a dick, but he’s not crazy,” Franny said. “I was stunned speechless last night, and that hasn’t happened since… ever. Thank God for Vince!”

Vince . His new best friend.

“Where is he?” he asked. “Did he take you home last night? Did you sleep with him?”

Anne blushed and ducked her head.

“Oh my God, you DID!” he exclaimed, delighted. “You vixen! I’m so proud of you!”

“Stop!” she hissed, swatting at him with her napkin. “Stop it!”

“Tell all!”

“I’m telling nothing. We are in a public place and I teach the fifth grade. And I wouldn’t tell you anyway, because I’m not that kind of girl.”

“Well, apparently you are.”

“It wasn’t like that.”

He put his elbows on the table and leaned forward, eyes bright. “So what was it like? Sweet and romantic or hot and wild with animal passion?”

“It was none of your business,” she said bluntly.

“This is very interesting,” he said. “You haven’t slept with a man since Jimmy Carter was president.”

“That is categorically untrue. It was the first Reagan administration-and that wasn’t that long ago.”

“So what now? Where is he? Did he spend the night?”

“He’s working, and this part of our conversation is over,” Anne declared as the waitress returned with their drinks.

“I’ll have the lemon blueberry ricotta pancakes,” Franny said, handing his menu over. “And so will my friend. She worked up a big appetite last night.”

Anne let that one go. If she didn’t rise to the bait, he would get bored.

He raised his glass in a toast. “Here’s to ya, Anne Marie. That’s all’s I’m sayin’.”

“Good. Then the rest of the meal will be pleasantly quiet,” Anne said, picking a cornbread minimuffin from the basket on the table.

She had no big revelations to make on the subject of Vince Leone at any rate. She had to sort through her feelings about what had transpired between them the night before. She didn’t regret it, she knew that. Strange as it sounded to her own ears, it felt right and good to share herself with a man she barely knew, who would probably be gone in a week. It was going to take a while to make sense of that.

“I’m worried about Tommy,” she said, going back to her original topic of concern. “I want to talk to him, but how am I supposed to accomplish that?”

“You can’t go to their house,” Franny said. “That creature will pull you into her cave, suck all the blood from your body, and pick her teeth with your bones.”

“I know. But am I just supposed to wait until Monday? He looked so hurt last night. It broke my heart. Who knows what his mother put in his head? She said I made him think his father might be a serial killer.”

“Did you?”

“No! Vince asked me to ask Tommy if his father was home the night Karly Vickers went missing. That was all I did.”