Tuck Sinn

16

Tom got back from the woods.

He had snuck in and gotten into bed and all, but just laid there for hours. He couldn't stop thinking about the boy, or about Amy, or about Becky. About all the hurt that had happened between all of them.

Surely Amy had talked to Becky by now? But there was no way to tell. Either way, though, the pounding in Tom's heart had stayed through the whole night. The feeling of being uneasy, of falling and dropping, continued in his stomach while he laid there. It made him sick. All these thoughts, and yet he just wanted to fall asleep and wake up for the morning. All these thoughts and he couldn't make them go away. A dread settled in him-- a steady discomfort and awakeness, preventing him from sleeping. He just wished he could close his eyes and calm himself. He felt sick.

Sick until the cold dawn brushed into his room. Pre-sun, where the air was still dark but he could tell it was about to be light out. Today was a Saturday, though, and his only other usual chance of seeing Becky this week would be on Sunday. In church.

He needed to talk to her, but this was not going to happen there.

Tom got himself out of bed, feeling sickly and not rested at all. His beating heart and tired legs moved him forwards. He hadn't even changed out of his clothes from yesterday, and he wouldn't go back and waste time and change clothes now. He needed to see Becky before tomorrow. He needed to resolve this.

Tom thumped down the stairs as quietly as he could, avoiding the creaking parts of the grainy old stairs. Saturday morning, awake before the fast dawn.

He left the house quickly, a wind sweeping through him and through the air around him as he went down the street. He felt the gravel and the dirt against his toes, rough then soft then sharp again. Breezes pulled into his hair, pushing the curls down to his eyes. Nobody was up, yet, except for him. The air was still dark.

He reached Becky's house, and the last bits of pre-dawn were still lingering.

He knocked. Knocked on that big door, and the tiredness of the morning reappeared all around him. With that unnerving feeling of the door opening, of it all starting, he could see that tiredness in Judge Thatcher's eyes upon seeing Tom Sawyer standing at his door one more time.

"I see you're here again, Tom."

"Yessir', I am."

"What do you want?" The Judge's voice spoke with all the feelings in his eyes. With his exhaustion and his annoyance, and perhaps a nervousness-- Tom couldn't tell at all.

"I would like to speak with Becky." Tom glanced around, looking at the early parts of sunrise. It was probably too early for this. He turned back to Judge Thatcher, who was staring at him.

"Go home, boy." A yawn pulled through his voice, and Tom shook his head. "Stop coming to my house when I'm trying to sleep. It's a Saturday, for goodness' sake!"

"I know, sir, but--"

"Boy, you ought to leave. A Saturday and you're up and at our door at dawn."

Tom looked back at him sadly, running a hand through his hair.

"Go! I didn't tell your Aunt about last time. Maybe I should have." He said, staring questioningly at Tom, who quieted a moment and looked right on back.

But he couldn't let this moment pass, so Tom took in a breath to start, and as he did, the Judge looked around, exacerbated. He'd have to make it quick.

"Yeah, okay. You can do that-- it's fine. But sir, I really gotta speak with Becky." Tom said, unmoving. Judge Thatcher leaned his head against the side of the door, closing his eyes a moment.

"Boy..." Mr. Thatcher started, but then stopped, exhaling sharply and lifting his head from the door frame, shaking it. "Alright, alright. Fine! I'll go and fetch her. Just don't bother me in the middle of the night ever again." He said, turning.

He took a dragging slow step, then stopped and turned again, back towards Tom. "But, Tom..." The man sighed. "You sure've caused my Becky a lot of turmoil. All this week she's been upset at you." Mr. Thatcher said, and Tom met his eyes-- hardly-- and saw it. In the tired way the skin creased around them, and in the way the light shone and glinted and stayed, there was a stress and a fatigue. Tom's stomach fell and ached and pooled into black inside him.

Judge Thatcher continued and went through his house, not bothering to close the big front door behind him. So Tom stood there, watching him go into the darkness of their predawn unlit big home. He stared forwards, not caring to look at their furniture like he would've-- he had never really seen the inside of their home before, but now all he could think of was Becky. Hopefully Amy had talked to her: otherwise, he would just be tearing her heart again.

Tom heard their steps coming back to the door. His heart quickened, his breaths fastening around it tightly, compressing, crushing it. Judge Thatcher brought her to the door. Her hair with its curls was all messed, the edges of it frizzed out and flattened in different spots. She looked at Tom and met his eyes for the first time in a while. It made Tom's body mold like waves, made the air in him turn and curve and mix and curl over itself.

Judge Thatcher gave Tom a quick look, a glance, and then turned and went back inside, leaving Becky and him at the big open doorway.