The Promise (4 page)

 6 

T
om pulled up in the driveway of his three-bedroom/two-bath home, in an older but nicely kept subdivision in Lake Mary, Florida. Just like he had every weekday and some Saturdays for the last five years. Occasionally, before losing his job, he'd have to work late or else come home late because he'd get stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic on I-4. Most of the time he got home right at 5:30, so that's what he did today.

It had been quite a day. Off and on, he'd checked the local online news websites to see if anyone had run the story about the botched robbery attempt at the Coffee Shoppe. No one had. He grabbed the leather strap of his brief bag and looked up. The sight through his windshield generated a completely opposite reaction from the pronounced joy and excitement he'd felt when he first pulled up in this driveway five years ago.

Back then, he was a king coming home to his castle. Just one year out of college, he had a great job, a promising future, a lovely wife, and a new baby boy on the way, Tommy Junior. His father hadn't bought his first house until he was thirty. Tom had him beat by seven years.

As it turned out, he was actually the proud owner of a house inflated to twice its actual value. A fact he would not discover
until a year later. Tom and Jean had spent all they had to get into this place. They wound up furnishing and decorating it with credit cards. His father would've pitched a fit had he known. Jean was uncomfortable about it, but Tom knew better. He had eased her fears with a barrage of well-thought-out rationalizations. Look, he had a fairly high-paying, cutting-edge IT job with a regional banking firm, and he was certain to get a number of promotions very soon. They'd pay off the credit cards then.

That was the plan.

Gazing at the house once more, he sighed then got out of the car. The sight sickened him. He walked up the driveway toward the front door, wondering how much time he had before he lost both the house and the car to the vultures. Pulling out his keys, he opened the front door and yelled, “Jean, I'm home.”

From the kitchen, Jean heard the front door open and close, and Tom call out her name. He was going to wake up Carly; she'd gone down for a late nap. Oh well, Carly needed to get up anyway. “I'm in here,” she yelled. “In the kitchen.”

Normally, she'd greet him in person, but she was shredding cheese in a bowl. She still had to spread it over the casserole and get it back in the oven for ten minutes.

“Daddy!”

Good, Tommy would greet him.

“You came home.”

Tommy always said that, every night, as if it was some great surprise.

“I did. I came home,” she heard Tom reply. It sounded like he picked Tommy up. “Where's your sister?”

“Sleeping.”

Jean heard a sweet little voice saying “Daddy home” through the monitor.

“I don't think she's asleep anymore,” Tom said. “Let's go see.”

“Okay.”

“I'm going to have to put you down. I can't carry both of you.”

“I know.”

“Hey, wait a minute,” Tom said. “What the . . . Jean? Where's that portrait? The one with my dad and me and my grandfather?”

“It's right in here,” she said. “On the kitchen counter.”

“I bwoke it, Daddy.”

“You what?” His voice had a sharp edge.

“Not me, it was the bwoom that did it.”

“How did a broom break the portrait, Tommy?”

Jean shook the cheese off her fingers and wiped her hands on a dish towel. She'd better get in there. She picked up the portrait and headed toward the hallway. “It's not really broken. It's fine. See?” She held it out as she rounded the corner. Carly yelled out “Daddy” again, a little louder. Tommy stood next to his father, his face on the verge of tears.

Tom all but grabbed it out of her hand. “Let me see.”

Did he have another bad day at work or was his love of this portrait bordering on obsession? Either way, this was a ridiculous overreaction. She bent down to pick up Tommy. “It's okay, Tommy.”

“Daddy's mad.” His bottom lip began to pout. “Daddy's mad at me.”

“I'm not mad at you,” Tom said, not even looking up from the portrait. His voice had the same edge. “It looks the same. I don't see any new damage.”

Carly began to cry, loudly enough to hear downstairs. “I told you, it's fine.” Jean walked toward the steps, still carrying Tommy.

“I'll get her,” Tom said. “I told you I would.” He came down the hall, still holding the picture. “You go finish up in the kitchen.”

She set Tommy down. “You want to give me that?” Pointing at the portrait with her eyes. Tom handed it back to her. “Come on, Tommy. You come with me.”

“Is Daddy going to spank me?”

“No, he's not.”

“I'm not even mad at you, Tommy,” Tom said.

Jean took Tommy's hand, and they walked toward the kitchen. Tom disappeared up the stairway. When she got to the kitchen, she turned the oven on, put the casserole inside, and set the timer for ten minutes. When she turned around, she almost knocked Tommy over he was standing so close. “Tommy,” she gasped.

“Why is Daddy mad again?” he said softly. “I don't like Daddy to be mad.”

“I don't know, Tommy.” She bent down and looked him in the eyes. “Maybe he's just had a bad day at work. But it's not your fault.”

“Are you sure, Mommy?”

“Come here.” She hugged him. “It's not your fault. Do you believe me?” She felt his little head nodding on her shoulder. “You go on and play for a few minutes, until I call you for dinner.” Tommy smiled and ran off.

She heard Tom's heavy footsteps coming downstairs. In a moment, he appeared carrying Carly in his arms. The air-conditioning kicked on. Tom looked up at the nearest vent. Then he got this look. He turned around, back into the hallway.
What is he doing now?

“Jean? Could you come here a minute?”

She did. Tom was standing in front of the thermostat, still holding Carly.

“You have this set on 75?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“I thought we agreed to leave it set on 78.”

“I don't remember that.”

“Well, I do. We talked about it last week, or maybe the week before.”

“What's the difference? It's only a few degrees.”

“A few degrees? A few degrees affects the electric bill . . . a lot. Air conditioners are the biggest item on the bill.”

Why was he making a big deal of this? “What's a lot? Like twenty or thirty dollars? A hundred dollars?”

“I don't know. I'll have to check. Can't you just keep it on 78 from now on?”

“I suppose. But it's starting to get pretty warm in the afternoons, especially when I have the oven on.”

“Don't we have a fan?”

“Just the one in Carly's room. But I need that upstairs. The noise helps her sleep longer when she's taking a nap.”

“Well, I don't know what to tell you. But we need to keep this on 78. From now on.”

“Okay, I get it,” she said. But she didn't. She was about to argue the point further. She doubted they kept the A/C on 78 down at the bank. Probably more like 72. But why keep this going? It would only get him more upset. As he reset the thermostat, she noticed something. “What happened to your hand?”

“What?” He quickly pulled his hand down by his side.

“Let me see. What did you do to it?” She held her hand out. He finally put his hand in hers. She turned the palm over. “Your knuckles, they're all red.”

“They're fine.”

“Is this some kind of rash? Did you bang it somehow?”

“I don't know.”

She rubbed it gently. He winced in pain and pulled back. “It hurts that much?” Carly started fussing in his arms. The timer went off in the kitchen. As Carly squirmed, an unmistakable odor filled the hallway. “I'll go take care of dinner,” she said. “You go take care of that.” She pointed at Carly's bum.

“Sorry,” he said. “I should've checked that before bringing her down. Not the kind of thing you want to smell at the dinner table.”

“No, it's not.” She started walking down the hall toward the kitchen, then stopped. She turned around. He was just about to go upstairs. “And while you're up there, could you change something else?”

“What?”

“Your attitude. I'd like to have a pleasant atmosphere during dinner. If that's not too much to ask.”

He put on a smile, then ascended the stairs.

 7 

T
om came through the front door again. After changing Carly's diaper a few minutes ago, he realized he'd forgotten to check the mail. Getting the mail every day was a critical part of his plan.

Fortunately, they had one of those group mailboxes located three doors down, shared with eight other houses on the street. Jean had her hands full with two small children. He'd told her not to ever worry about picking up the mail. He'd get it every day. Every single day. She even occasionally thanked him. It always bothered him when she did, though he'd say you're welcome anyway.

He set the mail down on his dresser, along with his keys and spare change. Mostly bills and junk mail. He lifted the one envelope that had caught his eye when he'd pulled the stack from the mailbox; something from the Social Security office. He had no idea what it was and no energy to open it now, so he slid it to the bottom. The main thing was that Jean didn't see it.

“Dinner's ready!” Jean's voice rose through the stairwell.

“Dinna's weddy!” Tommy's little echo followed right after.

“I'll be right down.” He walked into the bathroom to wash
his hands. His knuckles weren't only red, they were sore. Must have injured them with that solar-plexus punch at the Coffee Shoppe this morning. What a crazy thing that was. If he wasn't so tense and guilt-ridden about almost getting caught, he might even feel a sense of pride.

He really had saved the day. The moves were still there, and they'd all come back at just the right moment. The odd thing was, all those years of martial arts training in his youth, and he'd never once called on them in a fight.

The one and only fight he'd been in at school, he had lost to a bully two years older and twenty pounds heavier. He came home in sixth grade with a fat lip and a black eye. His father had dragged him down to the studio the very next Saturday and signed him up for lessons. Tom had gone back to that studio almost every Saturday for the next six years, filled his bedroom wall with trophies and ribbons from various martial arts matches. His father never attended. But that never stopped Tom from looking for his face in the crowd every time he came out of the locker room.

“Tom? Are you coming?”

“Sorry. I'll be right there.” He turned out the bathroom light and headed toward the stairs. All the while, scolding himself for losing his composure with Tommy. Jean too, for that matter. They didn't deserve his “bad attitude,” as she called it. As he came around the hallway corner and walked into the dining room, he saw Jean grab the remote to turn off the TV. Tommy and Carly were already at the table.

Instead of turning off the TV, Jean stood there for a few moments, captivated by something on the screen. “Oh my.”

“What is it?” Tom got up to look. “Tommy, you stay put.” There was that same edge in his voice. “I'll be right back,” he added gently. As he came closer, his heart almost skipped a beat.

“Are you hearing this?” She was watching the local news
station. “Some kid with a gun tried to rob the Coffee Shoppe this morning. In broad daylight. The poor cashier said he stuck the gun right in her face.”

What should he say? What could he say? “Did they catch him?”

“Not yet. But some customer almost knocked him out. The thief ran out of the store, leaving the gun behind.”

They stood there a moment as the on-scene reporter finished the story. The reporter was standing right outside the front door of the coffee shop. “The police have some strong leads and believe they will apprehend the suspect in the next day or so. One of the customers got a partial video, not of the robbery itself, but of the back of the customer who bravely stepped in, as he's leaving the store. Witnesses claim this customer fled the scene before police arrived, even covering his face with his hand to avoid being photographed. The video already has over ten thousand hits on YouTube.”

The reporter's eyebrows raised and she began to smile. “Speculation is rampant about who this man is and why he wouldn't stay to receive the credit he's due. Some have said they think he might be a CIA operative or part of the Witness Protection Program. While everyone is calling this mystery customer a genuine hero, the police do not encourage citizens to take matters into their own hands when a store is being robbed. The police chief mentioned they believe this is the same suspect who shot and seriously wounded a cashier at a convenience store in a similar incident last week.”

“I hope we don't start seeing that kind of thing around here,” Jean said. “This town's always felt so safe before. Can you imagine being there when it happened? That's the little coffee shop you and I have gone into before, isn't it?”

“I think so. I think we went there after a movie a few months ago.” It was at least five months ago, Tom thought. There was
no way he'd have brought her back there after he'd lost his job. He couldn't take a chance one of the kids behind the counter might say something. He had started to tense up hearing that news reporter talk about the YouTube video. But it sounded like he was in the clear, that the video didn't catch his face.

“Mommy . . . Daddy . . . I think Carly wants to eat.”

Jean turned the TV off. “Okay, we're coming.”

Tom watched her as she headed toward the dining room, then followed behind. He didn't know how much more of this he could take. But at least there was a glimmer of hope. He'd gotten an email just before he'd headed home for the day from the IT manager at a large retail restaurant chain. Tomorrow he had an interview with an actual human being.

He'd been disappointed so many times that such things no longer excited him. But hey, he thought as he walked into the dining room, one could always hope.