The dark cloud of silence which manifested upon Curly's return home remained over the Gammelthorpe house well into the evening. With the exception of supper, the bothersome boy with the bowl cut was confined to his room and ordered to surrender his phone for a yet to be determined period of time.
On a normal night, Monica would have made some effort at roping the two gentlemen into pulling their weight when it came to ensuring post mealtime maintenance duty with her trademark quip of "I cooked. You guys clean." Yet as Lawrence dismissed Curly back to his room while he retreated to the den, the Gammlethorpe matriarch pursed her lips together and shook her head before gathering up the dishes; clearly in no mood to make noise on the matter. That said, the sound of running water from the faucet was the first soothing stimuli she had indulged in since hearing of her son's latest brush with trouble. Monica's eyes darted between the now empty sink and the glass container of baking soda on the counter. Behind her in the stairwell to the basement sat a half-opened bottle of vinegar.
"This sink does need a good cleaning." She thought to herself.
Monica lets out a satisfied sigh as the smooth hissing sound of the cleaning agents interacting with one another ascended from the stainless-steel basin all the way to her ears. But like all temporal things, the fizzing (and with it, whatever audial-based euphoria Mrs. Gammelthorpe got from it) comes to a close. The concoction's remnants are wiped with a pad of steel wool and washed down the drain. For the moment it seemed to take some of the edge off from the day.
In deep contrast to his wife, Lawrence chose to fight the taciturnity by parking himself on the couch and aimlessly flipping through the channels on the TV in a fruitless search for something stupid to clear his head. By the time his wife had finished up with post dinner duties, the Gammelthorpe patriarch selected the inanest program the evening had to offer.
"This week on Babewatch. Love and deception rock the beach!"
Monica groaned to herself as Kamala Ellison's ample bosoms filled the television screen. The theme continued as shot after shot of her buoyant assets played on behind the opening credits at various angles, each more titillating than the last: bouncing along the beach at sunset as she races to save a beach goer, propelling water as she emerges from the waves and gasps for air, or simply just testing the limits of her swimsuit fabric as she gazed upon the horizon from her stand with binoculars.
"You know, it feels like they just show the same twenty episodes at this point-"
"Yeah, you're right hon." Lawrence replies passive aggressively before flipping the channel to another program.
"-My next guest on America 360 with Scott Hannigan is the accomplished Former Hillwood Councilman and Presidential Candidate John Gladhand-"
"Ugh! Fine! Anything but that clown!"
The room fell silent again, save for the tacky rock theme. But rather than join Lawrence in some equal opportunity ogling over Donny Helfenbein's taut muffiny chest and sculpted abs, Monica quietly slipped out of the room and pulled their wedding album off the living room shelf. Going backwards from the reception to the service itself, Mrs. Gammelthorpe ultimately lingers on one of her and Lawrence running from the church's front doors to the limo in a hail of bubbles and rice. To an outsider, nothing in the photo looked out of place. Yet as she pulled the photo from its protective sleeve and looked closely at the edge, an eerie sensation began to cover her like a cold, wet, blanket and her heart began to plummet and jolt as if greeted by a sickly moment of dark surprise.
Three of the photo's four sides were bordered by an off-white 1.5-inch margin, but the left half had been snipped at with a pair of scissors. Making the picture all the more awkward was a jutting elbow amidst the sea of well-wishers who had come to see them on their big day. Monica lets out a sad and heavy sigh as the memories of that day dance about her imagination; a sigh that caught Lawrence's attention as the show broke for commercials.
"Honey what-"
"It makes sense, doesn't it? She was always such a spirited-"
"Geez, you're really doing this? Now? Tonight?"
"When else can we do this Lawrence? I mean, looking back there's so much of her I see in Thaddeus; the outlandishness, the impulsivity, the kid-versus-world sense of justice, it's all there. It's all her all over again."
"Oh, come on Mo." Lawrence says phonemically. "Our kid screwed up of his own accord and choice. All these years of poor behavior-"
"Maybe he wouldn't be poorly behaved if you didn't put all your time in that laundromat."
"Oh like you're perfect. You coddled him all these years! My dad whapped me with his belt-"
"And look how well adjusted you turned out!"
"Yeah, well it's still a better alternative than blaming every misfortune I ever dealt with on San Lorenzo spook stories!"
"Shhh! You're being loud." Monica said in a frustrated whisper as she pointed to the vent above the threshold. "He might hear us."
"Not if he's got any sense between his ears." Lawrence said as he rose himself up with a frustrated grunt.
(Upstairs)
Curly inhaled sharply as he heard his father's footsteps leave the back room. Even with his weight, Lawrence was a fast walker when he put his mind to it. And as each step seemed to reverberate around the house, it was clear that the Gammelthorpe patriarch was a man on a mission.
But Curly was a quick child too; and as quietly as a snake, he practically slithered from the vent connecting the family room to his parents' boudoir across the hallway and back into his bedroom. For good measure, the lad laid on his cot and threw a set of covers over his body. With seconds to spare, he laid stiller than a corpse as his father turned on the light and scanned the expanse.
"Thought so." He muttered.
With the light shut and his father's footsteps receding back to the family room, Curly poked his head from other the blanket and stared venomously at the threshold of his bedroom door.
"Fools. If you only knew what I know..."