My brother Tommy had always been twitchy. He was born wound tight, and growing up in our house hadn’t done the kid any favors.
But when Tommy stumbled into Momma’s kitchen that day, pale faced and clutching the crumbled paper bag under one arm, the look in his eyes told me something was seriously wrong this time.
Tommy hesitated in the doorway when he saw me. His eyes darted from me to Momma, but the old woman wasn’t going to be any help. I’d been sitting in her kitchen for going on half an hour now, and she’d only said a handful of words to me. Even now she kept her back to us, washing dishes in the sink, the scalding water turning her arms a bright, angry red.
“Hey, bro,” Tommy finally said. His voice had a slight tremble in it, like he was fighting to keep it under control.
“You coming in or not?” I asked.
Tommy looked toward Momma again, but she was still deep in her own world of crazy. With a look of resignation, he closed the door and joined me at the table.