“Where else would I hide drugs?” she muttered aloud, realizing she had absolutely no idea, which meant she had to look almost everywhere. She didn’t want to think that Tommie was the type of child who’d find pills or powders and ingest them, but who knew for certain? Children sometimes did dumb things simply because they didn’t know better. And anyway, who knew what other dangers there might be? Like faulty wiring or lead paint or rat poison or switchblades? Or what if there were other terrible things, like dirty magazines or Polaroids with the kinds of images children should never see? Even worse, what if there were guns? Weren’t all little boys interested in guns?
She thought again that she should have done this the moment they’d moved in, but better late than never. She started with the kitchen drawers, checking them one by one, digging through clutter and cooking utensils and half-used candles and pens and sticky notes and all the other kinds of junk that accumulated in drawers. Because her thoughts still seemed swimmy—she really should have showered to help with that—she kept each drawer open after searching it, so she didn’t lose her place. After that, she checked the cupboards loaded with pots and pans and another set of cupboards filled with bowls and baking items and Tupperware, leaving those doors open, as well, to confirm that she’d checked everything.
She pulled out everything from beneath the sink, finding all sorts of cleansers, including the ones she’d previously used. Some of them were poisonous, which meant they should be stored somewhere else, maybe on the high shelves in the pantry, where Tommie couldn’t reach them. For now, though, she left them on the floor.
In the pantry, she cleared the shelves, intending to reorganize them all later, but thankfully there were no more drugs or other terrible things. As for the living room, she’d already removed everything from the cabinet, so there weren’t too many other places to search, and it took only a few minutes. The next step was the hall closet, which was crammed with jackets, along with a small vacuum cleaner, a backpack, and other assorted odds and ends. On the top shelf, she found hats and gloves and some umbrellas, and as she pulled it all from the closet and examined the items one by one, she thought it would probably be a good idea to box most of it up to store somewhere else—no reason to put any of it back. Besides, she was on a roll, and not wanting to disrupt her rhythm or slow down, she moved next to the back porch.
A quick survey revealed that the shelves needed to be completely reorganized. On one of the lower shelves was a can of paint thinner; a small rusted hatchet and equally rusted saw sat right next to it. There was a power drill on the same shelf. Staring at them, she marveled that Tommie hadn’t already hurt himself. As in the pantry and the closet, she pulled everything from the shelves, piling it at her feet. She checked the paint cans a second time before reaching for a half-opened bag clearly marked with a skull and crossbones. The label showed that it was for use on rodents, and though she could practically guarantee there were mice in the house, there was no way on God’s green earth that she’d ever spread poison around, so into the garbage it went. She used a small step stool to put the paint thinner, hatchet, saw, and drill on the top shelf for now, but everything else could wait. She wanted to get through the house before Tommie got home, so she dragged the bag inside with her and went up the stairs.
In the hallway, she went through the linen closet, thinking all of it should probably be washed, so she left it piled on the floor; in her bedroom, she checked the closet along with the chest of drawers and the nightstand, her garbage bag at the ready. Tommie’s bathroom was next, until finally she turned to his bedroom.
It was there, under his bed, in the first place she probably should have looked, where she found the guns.
There were two of them, neither of them a handgun, one longer than the other, and both with barrels that were as black and terrifying as death itself. Beside them were two open boxes of ammunition.
Beverly choked out a sob, praying that her eyes were playing tricks on her, but when she focused on the guns again, she was swamped with self-loathing and burst into tears. Curling into a ball on the floor, she knew she’d failed her son. What kind of mother was she? How could it not have even occurred to her to make sure Tommie’s room was safe? In her mind’s eye, she kept seeing Tommie peek under the bed, his eyes bright with excitement as he reached for the guns. He’d pull them out and sit on the floor, feeling the weight and the cold, slick metal of the barrel. He would recognize the trigger and know exactly what it was for. He might even trace it with his finger, just to see what it felt like, and then…