Chapter 6

Poor Tom! You do feel sorry for him don't you? Well he doesn't need your help. I'll assure you that he was feeling quite sorry himself. As a matter of fact, it was a long time before he could turn his attention outward to his mother and consider what her plight must have been. He had heard from neighbors who had watched the scene that the house was totally engulfed in flames. His mother had been cornered in her room at the farthest end of the house. The firemen could not enter at first because of the heavy flames and Corinth, fearing for her delicate bones, had utterly refused to climb out the window. Instead she had taken refuge in her bathtub; an oasis in the middle of this inferno. And that's where (when the flames had subsided enough for anyone to enter) they had found her.


Tom cringed as he pictured her languishing there like a modern day Marat. At this point it was a thought he could hardly bear and whenever it thrust itself upon him he did his best to dismiss it. His mother had not been a loveable person yet he had loved her. She had been no "amie du peuple", no not even an "amie" of her own son Tom but there was something in living with a person 30 years....even an unpleasant person.....Also, Tom knew better than anyone else that the cutting of the umbilical cord was a mere myth meant to assauge the psyche with feelings of independence and self-determination. In reality one is never really dissvered from a mother or fully reliant on self and so he missed her.

He had certainly never enjoyed the verbal beatings or the physical ones laid by her cane across his back when she had too much whiskey but at least they represented the permanent presence of someone else in his life. He had company then, be it good or bad and that was positive. Now that she was gone the fathomless years unfolded before him in an endless procession. How was he to fill them? Where was he to go? What was he to do and most importantly who would cook his meals? He was frightened, overwhelmed as he had never been before and so he availed himself of the only lethe he knew, his only means of forgetting the unpleasant unreality- sleep. Ah yes...to sleep, perchance to dream. That my friends is the only cure for the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.

Chapter 5

It was a sad mistake really; a simple careless error. Then again it's often the smallest blunder whos irrevocability blights and burdens us for a lifetime. Tom was about to discover this unfortunate fact in much the same manner that the Titanic, many moons ago, had discovered what lay beneath the tip of that stolid iceberg. It was a discovery that would leave him shipwrecked, cold, floundering desperately in the uncertain waters of life.

But Tom was impervious to that fact just yet. He came running down the sunny sidewalk as fast as his little legs could carry him, his plastic bag of tea bobbing about on his thigh. He was pleased, relieved and proud to have made it back home in such good time. A small smile spread across his face as he considered his small achievement but just as suddenly it vanished. Something was going on... What was that nasty haze hanging over the neighborhood? Smog? Maybe...Something more? He felt uneasy and this dirty fog seemed to be an ill omen. It hung low spreading it's baneful shadow over the whole neighborhood like bad luck solidified, made palpable.

He could hear sirens in the distance too...The sound of them was getting closer and closer but by the time he reached his mailbox they had stopped. What confronted him instead was the telltale flash of red and blue lights. Tom's heart stopped...GodGodGod.....what had happened! Firefighters were there. Their hoses filled the driveway like a horde of yellow anacondas. Beyond them Tom caught a small glimpse of his home; blackened and smoldering amidst a shallow lake. The fire hoses sputtered like an old man with consumption and then dried up completely. The men retreated. Tom stood agape. His bag of tea lay abandoned, fully saturated on the driveway floor. One of the men approached him, cautiously. He placed a big calloused hand gingerly on his shoulder...."Gee man...you're not Tom Wimble........are ya?" Tom, broken out of his trance nodded vaguely. "I don't know what to tell you man....we did the best we could...." The other firemen, their hats off and heads bowed, sat exhausted on the driveway floor and the fire truck's bumper and nodded in sympathetic agreement. The lead fireman looked guiltily away. "....We came as fast as we could....couldn't get her to climb out the window..." And then finally attempting a little bit of eye contact. ".....We just wanted to let you know....." Tom continued to stare grimly ahead, much too shocked to offer any kind of reply. The firemen left. Concerned neighbors came but filed off when, one by one, they became disturbed by the single minded intensity with which Tom focused on the charred house. An afternoon shower came and went in much the same manner. The sun came out and dried him off and then- finally- the dusk descended and Tom- clothed in tattered jacket, sodden socks and deep despair- watched it knowing he was now quite alone in this world.

Chapter 4

Tom wasn't going anywhere. "Not gonna move an inch," he thought and pulled himself into a fetal position to weather the approaching storm. Of course that's precisely when the call of his mother broke through the bedroom wall.

It started every morning about 6:00 as an exaggeratedly weak whimper and matured to a ebullient, snappish sarcasm as the day went on. "Tom....Tom....," drifted faintly under the threshold. Tom opened one eye and pulled back the cover to just enough to see the clock on his bed stand. 6:04. She was late this this morning. Tom closed his eyes back. "She doesn't know I heard," he thought and focused on staying still and breathing shallow in case she decided to limp over there. Tom! More insistent this time. How long could he ignore? Weakly again...."Son....son I'm calling you! Don't you hear?"


Tom hopped out of bed frowning. The term son could move him if nothing else. He quickly thrust on his coke bottle glasses and made the short sojourn to her room up the hall. It was a small room and as soon as he entered she slammed it shut with her cane. "Good to know we haven't gone deaf isn't it?" Tom blinked dumbly; startled by the sudden change in attitude.


Corinth grinned savagely and slowly eased herself upright in bed. "In my day children respected their elders but you! You wouldn't know anything about that would you?!", she said accusingly. "All morning I've been near coughing my lungs out and did you even think to bring me tea?!" "....It's only 6 A.M.....," Tom put in sheepishly. "The answer is NO! NO, boy! You did NOT think to bring your mother who nurtured and nourished you tea. YOU SORRY, SINFUL, SNIVELING, SNOT! WHAT GOOD ARE YOU TO ANY ONE?!" "I'll get it now," said Tom. He was quite eager to escape her room where he was compelled yet far too confined to dodge the verbal barrage she sent bouncing dangerously off the walls like a deadly game of dodge ball . "You damn well better", she replied.

Tom opened the door a sliver, quickly snaked out through the small opening and sprinted down the hall to the kitchen. The water boiled fairly quickly but when he opened the cupboards in search of her favorite Earl Grey tea he found the dingy self utterly barren. "Oh God..." This half formed thought was cut down, aborted by the guillotine of his mother's sharp, querulous voice. It came charging down the hall with all the speed and force of a pack of pachyderms. "WHERE'S MY BLASTED TEA?! GOD HELP YOU IF I HAVE TO COME IN THERE AND MAKE IT MYSELF TOM?!"

The shrill quality of her voice made it unmistakably clear to Tom that she'd probably downed half a bottle of "tonic" while waiting on tea. Victor Vigemon's wonder tonic (according to the bottle) was first made in 1856 and contained "the pure waters found by the great Dr. Livingstone in the land of the African savage." As Tom knew it also contained 75% vodka. Fortunately for Victor Vigemon the majority of his patrons were too old and dim eyed to scrutinize the fine list of ingredients so they attributed the invigorating burn in their belly to the same wondrous waters which strengthened African savages to endure two centuries worth of slave work and villified anyone who tried to tell them otherwise. Old Ms. Wimble fully still maintained that it would restore her "aged person to the vim and vigor of a youthful dandy" despite the hard truth that thirty years of it's usage had done nothing but devastate her delicate liver.

Tom declared the tea finished in a desperate effort to avert a verbal whipping. He then forced his arms into a tattered jacket and ran off to the neighborhood store to buy more. His honest intention was to return before he was missed but you know (mainly because I the all-knowing narrator am telling you) that this would not be possible. The tea kettle he'd left boiling on the highest setting knew this as well and heaved one long mournful whistle at his deplorable mistake....

Chapter 3

It was something. Just something....a certain tenseness in the muscles...a dryness in the throat....a feeling of vile containment by the still and heavy summer air around him....

Tom shifted uncomfortably in his bed. He knew this feeling. In the past it had been the harbinger of wedgies, swirlies- all array of embarrassment and pain and now here it was again warning him but of what? He was afraid to even know.

And that- my friends- is the cassandric trouble with sixth senses. They have an ironic way of biting the "blessed" bearer in the butt. Though Tom's forearmed him for any form of trouble it also nearly startled him into cardiac arrest on the regular. During the prolonged periods between sight of albatross and the actual onset of trouble he quaked with fearful anticipation. His senses told him something was coming but not what. And in that quivering mental darkness the unknown morphed from a mustard grain into an ancient ficus- sinewy, monstrous, intimidating. His most absurd fears entwined with each other, propagated until they bled sap and breathed air. And Tom cowered; ran and hid himself until the danger passed. Tom had a strong mind to- well no- come to think of it Tom had a weak mind. As a matter of fact, that was what made him lay back in bed and pull the covers over his head. He thought he could hide from trouble but as any Cassandra knows and as he was about to find out- trouble always finds who trouble wants.

Chapter 2

Tom sat bewildered, hands impotent on the bed sheets. He was certain that if he could just deliver an ear scratch Nibbles would stay a while but oh well....what can one do..."What can one do" had become Tom's unofficial maxim in life. A rather comforting maxim too, thought Tom yawning widely. One that not only justified his general lack of go-gettedness but affirmed disinclination as the only reasonable disposition to have.

Tom liked to think himself a reasonable man because someone had to be and well....his bat of a mother certainly wasn't. So great was her influence on Tom that he was sure she must have been formidable even as a child. He pictured her new and nubile, thrashing about on the day of her baptism and the holy water, which stood no chance against such a hot head, evaporating with a hiss upon contact. As the steam cleared there would be revealed in fearfully clear focus the woman he knew today.

But Tom had two things over her. Two big things. The first? He could run and as sedentary and weak as he normally was he was always moved by danger. Secondly, the bullying of his mother and various school children had long ago developed within him a finely atuned sense for trouble. It was his 6th sense and with each year of his life it had grown exponetially, almost as if knowing how much it had to compensate for, until finally it outstripped all other senses and stood preeminent, supremely keen. This was his weapon and the reason for his deep lack of ease this morning.

Chapter 1

It was a Monday seemingly like any other and Tom awoke to the woeful purring of Mr. Nibbles his cat of twelve years. "What's wrong Nibbles," said Tom, thoughtfully stroking the tabby's back. Though Nibbles was in no position to respond one might figure that utterly pedestrian name to be high on his list of wrongs and indeed it was.

As a matter of fact, it had taken Nibbles two full years to respond to the name Tom had given him. Only after Tom's mother (with whom he still lived) had the clever idea of adding the title Mister did Nibbles condescend to slink into view at the sound of his name. Unfortunately for Tom, he still reserved the right to ignore calls at times. Indeed Mr. Nibbles, knowing Tom's deep and desperate dependence on his society as well as his affectionate care of him had struck a happy balance which involved coming only when called for meals and otherwise fully ignoring his master.

.....Or was Nibbles the Master? He cocked his head. Really so difficult sorting these things out....
And off the bed he lept.

Introduction

Tom Wimble was a simple man. Not at all more complex than his three syllable name might suggest. He drank nothing stronger than caffeinated soda, looked in both directions before crossing the one way, and wore white socks with everything. He didn't think much. When he did his thoughts were a dull procession of 10 point Times New Roman rather than the ripe, whirling dervishes of the gifted.


Tom Wimble's world was black and white and he always thought it would remain such. Indeed, he had never conceived that it could be otherwise. That is, until November 12th, 2007- the day he was startled into consciousness by the brilliancy beyond......