Author's Notes: This is in answer to a request for a story about why Tim hates his father enough to wish he could have shot him. I want to thank the reader for the idea and thank hallonim for a critical eye. It's entirely fiction. I don't own anything by EL or F/X and I didn't mean to use your name if by any chance I did. As usual, I'm always happy to get a review but it's NOT necessary. I'll answer PMs, so feel free to send a note. Enjoy the reading. I write for the pleasure of it. It beats going insane.
Bygones – Chapter One
She just disappeared. He came home and she wasn't there. At first he was glad, snuck some bread and peanut butter, cleaned up the evidence of his wrongdoing and went back outside to feast in secret. After two hours though, and nearing supper time, it felt wrong. He kicked a stone down to the neighbors, all the way without losing it, walked up to the house, opened the door and called in.
"Mrs. Nickell?"
"Hey, Tim."
"Hey."
She came out from the kitchen, drying her hands, looked down at him. "Have you eaten yet?"
He lied, "No."
"Why don't you come on in and I'll fix you something."
"Okay."
He sat at the table, comfortable there, in the same chair he always sat in, feet now touching. She slid a plate across with a sandwich and he methodically ate, wiping the crumbs up with a finger and sipping at the reheated, sugary tea. She regretted not having milk for it, he was so scrawny. Then again, she reminded herself, his mother was tiny. He seemed to take after her not his sturdy father. She frowned when she thought about him, the soft lines in her face hardened and she was grateful all over again for Mr. Nickell.
"What were you up to today?" she asked.
"Just out in the woods. Have you seen Mama?"
She shook her head. "Out walking again, I guess?"
"I guess."
She took the plate and replaced it with a cookie which promptly disappeared then so did the boy. She watched him from the porch, followed his erratic meanderings up the road then went back inside.
The sun was low, down among the trees scattering light, then gone from view and the back side of the hill where his house was darkened quickly. Tim wandered the nearer paths in the forest in the remains of the second-hand daylight until he was uncomfortably cold. He climbed the back steps to the house and turned on the kitchen light and the light in the front room too, to fill it with something, and made another peanut butter sandwich. He was more careless this time with the evidence, feeling rebellious for being left alone so long, vaguely angry. He got his favorite book and sat at the table and read and looked at pictures but that got boring, restless as he was, so he started exploring the house. There wasn't much to it but it amused him, his game, and he always ended his clandestine operations at the closet in his parents' bedroom where he'd shimmy up the walls inside and wedge himself carefully on the high shelf, reverently pick up the rifle and pretend.
When he heard the car door slam in the front he hopped down and ran to his room, under the covers and faking sleep before the front door opened. Then truly asleep.
The sun had moved south in its path and came directly in his window this late in the season and woke him early. The bear was snoring and Tim knew from experience not to disturb him. He tiptoed over and peeked just to be certain but there was only one body on the bed. He wasn't sure what that meant except that his mother wasn't in the house again this morning and it made him uneasy. She always laid out breakfast for him, except today. He put on his shoes and jacket and slipped quietly out to look for her.
The frost was uneven, already painted over with sunlight in patches but shimmering in the shadows and fun to walk on. He admired his footprints melted into the silver, not old enough yet to dread it as a sign of winter looming, still appreciative of the variety in the seasons. He traipsed the well-worn paths again in the warmer morning light looking for her, was distracted from his mission for a while and climbed a tree, then remembered that he was on a hunt in time to use his high perch as a lookout. He was all there was.
Finally, sometime near lunch, he got bored with the task or maybe hungry and wandered back home. From the path he saw his father step out onto the porch and light up a cigarette. Tim crouched urgently behind a fallen tree. Best not to be seen, a lesson he'd learned well. After the car disappeared down the hill he slipped into the house and made himself another peanut butter sandwich and watched TV. The daytime shows were boring on every channel so he walked out the front door and went to find his friend, Christine.
It was a school day. A Monday. And this Monday his world was different and with no one to remind him, no one to hurry him out the door, it just never crossed his mind. The Sheriff pulled up beside him on the road into Campton, the road to Christine's house.
Tim stopped when the car did. The Sheriff rolled down the window.
"Hello, son," he said, friendly. "Aren't you supposed to be in school?"
Tim stared back blankly.
"Forgot maybe?"
He remembered what Mrs. Nickell had told him, always say 'sir' to the police.
"Yes, sir," he replied and wondered if they arrested kids for not going to school, wondered if he should make a run for it.
"Hop in. I'll give you a ride into town." The Sheriff waited while Tim ran around the back of the car and climbed in the passenger's side. "Better put your seatbelt on. I don't want one of my deputies pulling me over and giving me a fine," the Sheriff joked. "You're Frank Gutterson's boy, right?"
Tim nodded, nervous, fumbled with his seatbelt. The Sheriff waited patiently then put the car in gear and pulled back onto the road.
"Well, you missed the bus – by about five hours," he stated putting some severity in for good measure. "Where were you headed? School, I hope."
Tim shook his head, forgot about Christine, said what was foremost on his mind, "I'm looking for my mama."
The Sheriff reached into his memory for what he knew about Frank's wife. "Isn't she at home?" he finally queried.
Tim shook his head again and tried not to look concerned in front of the policeman.
"It's okay. She's probably shopping. Tell you what, I'll take you to school and then I'll find her for you. She'll be waiting for you at home after, alright?" he promised.
"Alright."
They pulled up in front of the school and the Sheriff put a hand on Tim's shoulder in case he had a runner, escorted him into the office and greeted the secretary.
"Mrs. Rose, I've found a truant," he said seriously and smiling to counter his tone.
"Tim Gutterson," she scolded. "Where have you been? And now you're wasting Sheriff Henley's time. Go on to class."
Tim was out the door, fast, before any more trouble came, running down the hallway. The secretary turned her attention to the Sheriff and defended the school though there was no need in his mind. He knew what the statistics were like in Wolfe County.
"Thank you, Doug. I tried calling his house when he was missed this morning but no answer."
"Is he absent often?"
"He normally shows up on the bus in the morning but we've had him sneak out at lunch once or twice and not come back."
He smiled in understanding and waved and left. By the time he reached his car he had decided to forget about the matter. Then by the time he reached the traffic lights in town he felt something creeping, something he'd rather ignore and hoped would go away. He sighed, turned the car around and headed back out to the Gutterson residence. No one was home but the door was open. He called in then nudged the door with his boot and it swung wide so he had a cursory look around. After, he stopped at the Nickells' to make some inquiries and had coffee and cookies and listened to what Mrs. Nickell had to say about her Sunday afternoon visit with the Gutterson boy.
Twenty-four hours was not a long time for an adult to be missing, no cause for any serious concern usually, except the Sheriff knew what kind of a man Frank Gutterson was. In fact, everyone knew. He was free with his fists, unhappy with his burdens, not angry so much as entitled. He felt he was blameless, that it was his right and that made him unpredictable. No warning signals like an empty bottle, not even a slow-building rage, he'd just decide it was time and someone would end up hurting. Frank had spent a few nights in the Sheriff's lock-up, sleeping it off or waiting for the charges to be dropped, usually a bar brawl, occasionally a domestic call, but nothing would stick.
Frank would be out the next morning. An insolent, "What?" and a shrug and he'd finish it with, "She shouldn't have got pregnant then I wouldn't have had to marry her, would I? Not my fault she's miserable."
It was too soon to file a missing person's report, but the Sheriff went looking for Frank Gutterson to have a conversation. He found him playing pool in town, unconcerned about his wife's absence.
"She'll turn up," he said, adding in a discouraged tone, for his pool-partner's amusement, "She always does."
Sheriff Doug Henley stood staring at him for longer than would be comfortable for most folk. Frank lazily lined up a shot.
"What?" he asked finally.
"You haven't seen her since yesterday morning?"
"That's what I said."
"And you didn't think to call when she didn't turn up last night?"
"She's a grown woman," Frank replied, smiled coldly across the table.
"You still working for the coal company?" The Sheriff remembered seeing him in a security uniform.
"Got laid off last month. They're cutting people like crazy. There's no operators anymore in the County. Not a job worth having." Frank's cigarette was burning low so he pulled his pack out of his pocket and lit a new one with it.
"Those'll kill you, Frank," the Sheriff warned.
"Nah, it's being married's gonna kill me."
Sheriff Henley showed up again at the Nickells' door, hat in hand, hoping for kindness.
"Doug," Mrs. Nickell invited him back in. Twice in one day was probably not for good news.
"Millie, I'm hoping you might help me out," he started. "I'm a little worried about what's going on at your neighbors'. There's nothing but suspicion on my part and I can't take that to Children's Services. Could you, maybe…"
"He can stay here," she said firmly, "if his mother doesn't show up by dinner."
"Okay, thanks. I'm going to meet him off the bus and take a look around the house. I'll drop him by when I'm done. It's Tim, right?"
She nodded gravely.
The boy and the Sheriff walked up the hill. The older one had informed the younger one that his mother wasn't home yet and asked if he could come in for a bit. Innocently, the boy agreed. Sheriff Henley looked around the house for something to go forward with.
"Do your folks get along okay? Any fighting?"
Tim just looked up at him. It was the kind of question his teacher asked in class after reading them a chapter of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, the kind with no answer that made any sense because it seemed so obvious that it must be wrong.
"Does your daddy keep a gun?"
The sliding eyes and solemn shake of the head told him plenty.
"It's okay, Tim. I just want to look at it. I won't tell."
"My daddy's got a rifle. I found it once."
Tim led him to the closet, pointed at the shelf. The Sheriff reached up and pulled it down, had a quick look and figured it hadn't been used recently. He set it carefully back and smiled down at his accomplice.
"Do you know where he keeps the ammo for it?"
Tim shook his head again, sincerely this time. Sheriff Henley dug around in the drawers and cupboards until he found the box. It wasn't even opened. He smiled reassuringly for the boy, feeling a bit better himself.
"That's it then, I guess."
He took a last look around then delivered Tim to Mrs. Nickell. Her husband looked grim but didn't complain and after that when Tim's mother didn't come home that night or the next or any night again, he became a regular house guest, sleeping school nights on their couch, usually at the table at mealtime. She didn't stop him from going home when he wanted to. Nothing in the arrangement was legally sanctified. Frank Gutterson didn't seem too concerned one way or the other.
Adults talk and kids listen, then the kids talk. Tim heard it for the first time from his best friend.
Christine sat beside him on the bus, shook her head looking like Mrs. Rose from the school office and said, "If your daddy killed your mama then how come he's not in jail?"
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