HELPER12, Jack Blaine [reading in the dark .TXT] 📗

should not have said this; I know that as soon as I have.

“What do you mean?”  Ms. Sloane looks at me sharply.

“She means Thomas, dear,” Mr. Sloane says, quickly.  “That’s all.”

Ms. Sloane appraises me.

“I understand that you spent a day in the country. With Thomas.”  She narrows her eyes.

“Thomas wanted to get to know J . . . William.”  I put my hands in my lap.  They’re shaking.  I cannot believe I almost said Jobee’s name.

“I see.”  Ms. Sloane eyes Jobee.  “He seems a bit better-behaved tonight.”

“He had a stomach ache last night.  I’m so sorry about that.”  I try to take regular breaths.  I hope she doesn’t notice.

She sniffs.

“Darling, I think we need to discuss Thomas’s school situation.”

Mr. Sloane looks weary.

“Not at the table, Anna.”

“But I’ve put a call in to Barr—“

“Not now, Anna.”  Mr. Sloane looks surprised at his own tone.

“Well.”  Ms. Sloane lowers her eyes.  “Fine, dear.

We eat the rest of our meal in silence.

Chapter Twenty Eight

I don’t see Thomas for three days.  I go to meals in the kitchen, except for dinner, when I am expected to be present in the formal dining room.  Jobee cries every time Ms. Sloane tries to hold him, no matter what I try.  I think he has been too long with me, and I despair at how to get him to like her.  She looks at him with something between dislike and disdain, now.  One time, I hear her muttering when she walks away from us.

She says what was I thinking.

I am growing afraid for Jobee.  And afraid for myself.

I try not to think about what Thomas told me, about projections and calculations.  While I’m bathing Jobee, or watching him giggle at his boggle toy, I wonder what he would have been tracked to do.  Would he have been an Artist, or a Laborer, or a Thinker?  He would have been whatever they needed, says a voice in my head.  I squeeze my eyes shut hard as if that will make the voice stop.

On the fourth day, Thomas appears at the dinner table.

He looks older, somehow, as though his hair is about to go grey.  His face is leaner, and he holds himself very still.

Mr. Sloane looks apprehensive, and Ms. Sloane looks like she wants to spit.  I try to settle Jobee as quietly as possible into his high chair and busy myself feeding him his cereal.

Helper comes out with covered dishes.  “We have halibut filets tonight, with buttered sukis and greens.”  She sets the dishes down carefully, rebalancing her tray as she takes each of them off.

“Thank you Helper,” says Mr. Sloane.  “It looks delicious.”

Ms. Sloane doesn’t look up from her plate.  Thomas says nothing.

Once Mr. Sloane has served us all, he sits back in his chair, and looks at his food.  He looks sick to his stomach.

“I suppose you’ve been sleeping in the city.”  Ms. Sloane’s voice is hard, and brittle.

“Yes.”  Thomas sounds like he’s speaking to a stranger.

“Well, you’ll stay here tonight.  Your father has arranged for an interview with Director Matthews—”

“I’m not going to that school.”

“Yes you are, Thomas!”  A knife clatters off of Ms. Sloane’s plate as she half-rises from her seat.  Her face is red and she sprays droplets saliva as she screams the words.  Mr. Sloane rises too, and puts his hand on her shoulder.

“No.  I am not, Mother.”  Thomas doesn’t look at her.

“Thomas!”  Mr. Sloane is still patting Ms. Sloane’s shoulder.  “Your mother has been through enough, don’t you think?”

Thomas stares at his father.

“Has she?  Has she suffered any more than someone who wiped her own son should?”  Thomas’s eyes are glittering, but not with tears, this time.  They gleam with sheer hatred.  “Greg’s dead.  Because of her.  And the fact that you can stomach it makes me wonder what kind of man you are.”  He pushes his chair back calmly and stands.  “If you’ll excuse me,” he says, looking at me for the first time.  Then he walks out of the room.

Ms. Sloane collapses in her chair, sobbing.  Then Jobee starts crying too.

“Take that thing out of here!”  Ms. Sloane’s face is buried in her hands, but her words are clear.  I scramble to get Jobee out of the high chair, and take him upstairs.

He calms quickly once we’re away from the dining room.  I can’t say the same for myself.  I’m shaking while I change him, shaking as I lay him in his crib for the night.  She called him a thing.

There’s a low knock on my door.

It’s Thomas.  He doesn’t wait for me to answer—he opens the door and slips inside the room.  He doesn’t cross the room.  Instead, he leans against the door, watching me where I stand by Jobee’s crib.

“Benna.”

“You shouldn’t be in here.”  I’m afraid for him.  And for Jobee.  And for myself.

“I shouldn’t, should I?”  He smiles a strange, sad smile.  “I shouldn’t be here.  But here I am.”  He crosses the room in three strides.

“I shouldn’t be in love with you, but I am.”  He doesn’t touch me; his hands are at his sides, but I feel the effort it takes him to keep them there.  “And you’re in love with me, Benna.”

I shake my head.

“I know you are—I feel it from you.  So don’t lie about it now, Benna.”

“I won’t.  I love you.”  I look into his face, still shaking my head.  “It doesn’t matter, that’s all.  It doesn’t matter if I love you, or if you love me.  We’re not supposed to be together.”

“Says who, Benna?”

“Says the world.  You know it, Thomas.  So stop behaving like a child.”  I turn away from him.  “I have to try to protect Jobee now.”

He laughs.  A low, ugly laugh.  “I heard what she called him—didn’t you?”  He puts his hand on my shoulder, turns me back toward him.  “She called him a thing.  I know you heard that, Benna.”

I try to turn away again but he holds me there.

“She’s been talking to Father about him—I overheard them today in his study.  She