Skeletons

Goodnight Jacob

The house was like every other cookie-cutter home on the street. The same oak doors led into the foyer with the small 4'x6' tile square and the surrounding honey-colored wood floors. The mother, Jane, was just like every other mother on the block. She wore pearls, slept with Susie Clarke's father two doors down, ate expensive salads, and sipped on tea when company came over.

She was single though, a rare occurrence on Lighthouse Avenue. There was only one other single woman on the street, she was unmarried and was known to prefer women. Rumors circled that she entertained Mrs. Clarke on the evenings when Mr. Clarke worked late in Mrs. Johnson's bedroom. But those were just rumors.

Kaitlin, the youngest child, 7, was intellectually sound and far surpassed any of her grade-school classmates, and her brother Jacob, 11, was observant, constantly finding what didn't belong amongst all the things that matched. He was a collector of odd items, bringing home all manner of useless things in his pockets. He collected them through the day, the items that called to him – the ones that told a story.

Each night before bed, he organized his special baubles in a straight, horizontal line across his dresser about a quarter of an inch from the edge. This particular evening, he lined up three pieces: a white feather, a speckled marble, and a star charm that must have fallen off someone's bracelet. When each piece had been placed just so, he turned his bedside lamp on, the main light off, and crawled into bed. Then he waited for his mother. She came in just before her visitor arrived – a visitor no one was supposed to know was there. She normally would kiss her son goodnight, and switch off the lamp before closing the door until it was open just a crack. He was afraid of the dark, and the small sliver of light that spilled into his room like sunshine was enough to keep his fear at bay.

Tonight, at 9:21 p.m. his mother walked in, stared at the objects on his dresser and perched at the very edge of his bed to look him full in the face.

"Why do you bring all those things home Jacob?" she asked him, just as she did each night. She wiped off imaginary lint from her white cashmere sweater and folded her hands in her lap.

"I have to, Mom."

"Why?"

"I have to." She glanced at the clock on his bedside table, an old gold one with a cracked face. Another one of his collected stories, one that just wasn't good enough to present to—him. He could see the impatience tremoring through his mother. She was behind in the nightly routine of tucking-in; he could see the slight agitation in the tight way her lips squeezed together, the tangy smell of her newly applied perfume perforated with nervous sweat.

"Alright then." She smiled at him, ruffled his hair, and turned off the lamp. She had little time to spend with him at bedtime, needing to make sure that Kaitlin was tucked in and sound asleep. It was her night to entertain Mr. Clarke in secret. Everyone knew he was punctual: 9:30 p.m., never any later and never any earlier.

Ever. Everyone knew it. 

Jacob was fidgeting himself. Folding and re-folding his hands over his blankets. His mother gave his hands a quick look from the door. "Be still, sleep will come easier that way," she said. And then she was gone, softly murmuring her goodnights to Kaitlin. 

Jacob could not sleep just yet. He had to wait. He had to know when he needed more of his collectibles. Hoped that he would take these dark, dirty ones away — their memories made his stomach turn.