that they show no interest in her. She is an older divorced lady:
Mrs. Keene,
they call her respectfully. She suspects that they have probably heard some gossip about Loomis and his parents, some version of that unpleasant story, but they have said nothing, and she appreciates that.
——
She is beginning to get flustered now—somewhere between alarmed and annoyed. Where is Loomis? She is now of the mind that when she finds him she will give him a spanking, though she has never struck the child before. She unlatches the backyard gate—did he climb over it?—and walks into the driveway. The folding garage door is shut, but she peers in through the windows anyway, and then she goes into the garage and looks in the car. She remembers, in a suddenly vivid way, how her daughter Carla used to sit in the driver’s seat when she was a child, holding the steering wheel in her small fists and pretending to drive. But Loomis is not in the car. She calls his name, very loudly and angrily now. “Loomis Timmens!” she calls. “If you don’t answer me this minute, you’re going to get a spanking!” And she strides down the drive toward the sidewalk, her thongs making sharp clacking sounds as she walks. Otherwise, the street is enormously silent.
She
will
spank him, she thinks. She will have to now. He has disobeyed, he has frightened her, and a lesson will have to come out of it. She thinks forward to this: dragging Loomis angrily down the street by his arm, turning him facedown on her lap in the kitchen and bringing the flat of her hand down on his bottom. Ten hard slaps, no more, no less. Sending him to his room without lunch. He may or may not cry—he seldom does, but she hopes that he will this time. Tears will mean that she has been effective, that she has impressed herself upon him and that he has repented. No tears will mean, what? Something to worry about.
That’s the fear, she thinks, looking quickly to the right and left. That’s the fear. He has been such a good boy, and the idea that this might change makes her heart sink. Loomis’s mother, Carla, had been a good child, too, and look how she turned out.
Sometimes Judy tries to pinpoint the exact moment when things had gone wrong with Carla. Maybe it had been a simple moment, like this one with Loomis—willfully running off, without any concern for the consequences, without any concern for the feelings of others. She couldn’t remember anything so specific, but she knew that Carla had started out like Loomis: quiet, bright, easily pleased. But then, outside of Judy’s control, she had begun to transform. By the time she passed into her teenage years, she had become secretive, vindictive, addictive, in and out of alcohol/drug rehabilitation facilities since she was fourteen.
She pauses on the sidewalk. She has begun to perspire, and she looks up and down her street, Foxglove Road, the small one-story houses with their striped awnings and boxes of petunias and neat, tiny front yards. “Loomis! Loomis!” she calls, and her voice sounds like a parched hen crying for water.
——
Loomis has been in her care for almost a year now—the only stable year of his life, she thinks. Before that had been a series of trashy catastrophes, starting with his parents’ marriage. Judy’s daughter—Loomis’s mother—Carla, had never been a mature or responsible person. Even at age twenty-eight, Carla was not ready to be married, Judy felt, but her choice of husband was even more ridiculous than Judy could have imagined. The husband’s name was Troy Timmens, and he was some six years Carla’s junior, twenty-two years old when they married but still an adolescent in Judy’s estimation. Troy seemed to have no future plans beyond working as a bartender and turning his late father’s home into a partying den on the weekends. When Carla found herself pregnant a year or so later, Judy had tried to tactfully suggest that Carla consider other options, such as abortion.
Mrs. Keene,
they call her respectfully. She suspects that they have probably heard some gossip about Loomis and his parents, some version of that unpleasant story, but they have said nothing, and she appreciates that.
——
She is beginning to get flustered now—somewhere between alarmed and annoyed. Where is Loomis? She is now of the mind that when she finds him she will give him a spanking, though she has never struck the child before. She unlatches the backyard gate—did he climb over it?—and walks into the driveway. The folding garage door is shut, but she peers in through the windows anyway, and then she goes into the garage and looks in the car. She remembers, in a suddenly vivid way, how her daughter Carla used to sit in the driver’s seat when she was a child, holding the steering wheel in her small fists and pretending to drive. But Loomis is not in the car. She calls his name, very loudly and angrily now. “Loomis Timmens!” she calls. “If you don’t answer me this minute, you’re going to get a spanking!” And she strides down the drive toward the sidewalk, her thongs making sharp clacking sounds as she walks. Otherwise, the street is enormously silent.
She
will
spank him, she thinks. She will have to now. He has disobeyed, he has frightened her, and a lesson will have to come out of it. She thinks forward to this: dragging Loomis angrily down the street by his arm, turning him facedown on her lap in the kitchen and bringing the flat of her hand down on his bottom. Ten hard slaps, no more, no less. Sending him to his room without lunch. He may or may not cry—he seldom does, but she hopes that he will this time. Tears will mean that she has been effective, that she has impressed herself upon him and that he has repented. No tears will mean, what? Something to worry about.
That’s the fear, she thinks, looking quickly to the right and left. That’s the fear. He has been such a good boy, and the idea that this might change makes her heart sink. Loomis’s mother, Carla, had been a good child, too, and look how she turned out.
Sometimes Judy tries to pinpoint the exact moment when things had gone wrong with Carla. Maybe it had been a simple moment, like this one with Loomis—willfully running off, without any concern for the consequences, without any concern for the feelings of others. She couldn’t remember anything so specific, but she knew that Carla had started out like Loomis: quiet, bright, easily pleased. But then, outside of Judy’s control, she had begun to transform. By the time she passed into her teenage years, she had become secretive, vindictive, addictive, in and out of alcohol/drug rehabilitation facilities since she was fourteen.
She pauses on the sidewalk. She has begun to perspire, and she looks up and down her street, Foxglove Road, the small one-story houses with their striped awnings and boxes of petunias and neat, tiny front yards. “Loomis! Loomis!” she calls, and her voice sounds like a parched hen crying for water.
——
Loomis has been in her care for almost a year now—the only stable year of his life, she thinks. Before that had been a series of trashy catastrophes, starting with his parents’ marriage. Judy’s daughter—Loomis’s mother—Carla, had never been a mature or responsible person. Even at age twenty-eight, Carla was not ready to be married, Judy felt, but her choice of husband was even more ridiculous than Judy could have imagined. The husband’s name was Troy Timmens, and he was some six years Carla’s junior, twenty-two years old when they married but still an adolescent in Judy’s estimation. Troy seemed to have no future plans beyond working as a bartender and turning his late father’s home into a partying den on the weekends. When Carla found herself pregnant a year or so later, Judy had tried to tactfully suggest that Carla consider other options, such as abortion.
Similar Books
