Parallel Lies Read Free Page B

plunked against the surface of the dryer. He stiffened, though he thought the noise from the washing machine would conceal this much tinier sound. But in rising up abruptly he bumped the ironing board and now watched as the iron, just out of reach, began to rock, first this way, then that, teetering back and forth. At that moment, the wife, her flannel pajama top now fully unbuttoned, pants off and left back in the bedroom or bath, crossed the kitchen to where, had she looked to her right, she would have seen a panicked stranger reaching out to stabilize her iron, which was about to crash to the floor.
    The iron started to fall.
    Alvarez caught it, reaching out just in time. He then remained absolutely still, aware that the iron might have just presented itself as a weapon, if needed. Could he bring himself to use it that way? he wondered.
    He couldn’t hear her over the noise of the appliances. He pictured her measuring the Cream of Wheat and carefully stirring it into the boiling water. That was when he realized she had used hot tap water, not cold, which had shortened the time it took to boil. He moved a bit in order to remain hidden, all the while keeping one eye on the kitchen.
    The woman’s pale bare bottom shifted hip to hip as she left the room.
    Alvarez returned the iron to the ironing board, grabbed a few more pieces of clothing—a T-shirt, several mismatched socks—and made for the kitchen. Here, he heard the shower water still running. This woman had her morning routine all planned out.
    He took two steps toward the back door and changed his mind. He returned to the pantry, deciding to take some canned food while he had the chance. A clock ran inside his head; he had maybe another minute or two.
    “Mommy?” a tiny voice called from behind him.
    Alvarez flattened himself to the wall. Dead still.
    “Mommy?”
    He rocked his head to see, with great relief, that he was partially screened from the kitchen by the open pantry door. Through the crack he saw a small six- or seven-year-old boy with red hair, freckles, and a blue stuffed dog tucked tightly under his arm. The boy crossed to the fridge and pulled out a carton of orange juice. He moved around the kitchen comfortably, reaching for a glass on tiptoes and then filling it with the juice.
    The plumbing pipes to Alvarez’s left rumbled and went silent. The shower had ended. He stood there with his bundle of clothes and cans of tuna not knowing what to do next.
    She’d be drying herself off now. Just from having observed her, Alvarez knew she’d already decided what clothes to wear, if in fact she hadn’t already laid them out.
    The boy gulped the orange juice. Alvarez felt himself tighten, not over his predicament, but at the sight of the boy—a living, breathing boy, in a joyful moment of drinking orange juice. A child. Innocent. Loving. Waiting for his mother. Alvarez’s vision blurred. Nothing would bring his twins back. He’d revisited their loss countless times. He pushed his anger deeper inside and locked it away, though only temporarily.It owned him. Possessed him. But he could not work with it in the forefront of his thought, he could barely move. He had learned to tame it but feared he would never be rid of it.
    What to do? he wondered, silently urging the boy to seek out his mother. The Cream of Wheat would burn in another minute or so. Mom had to be just about fully dressed by now. His worlds were colliding. He had to get out.
    The boy seemed to be debating whether to leave the kitchen, but Alvarez needed to take action, now.
    The window
…
    There appeared to be some home-fix-it caulking plugging its edges. Could he get out it with his arms full? Slip off this far end of the porch? He could taste his freedom.
    The boy remained in limbo, hugging his blue dog and staring off into space, but he faced the laundry room, preventing Alvarez from crossing the pantry’s open door and making for the window.
    “Nate, honey?” called Mom, sounding