THE CAT'S MAW

CHAPTER I (Part 2)

Billy's mother had had enough.

She was tired of the lounging in front of the TV, of the comic books strewn around living room, and of the toy-soldier wars that threatened to engulf the entire house.

In short, her son's tendency to dream was fraying the tip of her last working nerve.

"Silly Billy," she said, "I'd really like it if you found something to do outside. Something productive. Ask your father for a chore. Or build something. Or, maybe you could find a friend..." 

She unscrewed the cap from a fat green bottle, and poured red wine up to the rim of a juice glass on the counter. After a long sip, Billy watched her putting extra muscle into kneading the pizza dough. Her face reddened, and began to resemble an heirloom tomato from their garden.

That's when the boy decided it was unwise to stay and risk losing his special 'perfect report card' dinner.

Billy shuffled to the front hall. Arranged for him on the low hall table were the blue wristwatch and matching running shoes that he got for his birthday. He put them on, opened the door, and stepped out into the heat of the first Sunday of summer.

Find a friend.

It's something she had said many times before. This only convinced the boy that his mother didn't have the best grasp on their geographical reality.

The Brahms lived in Appleton, a tiny rural town in the heart of the eastern valley. It had a year-round population that hovered just shy of 800.

The kids anywhere close to his age lived far away – past the sprawling orchards and sweet-corn fields and dairy farms – on the other side of the hills. A trek like that was a daunting prospect in the heat of late June with only a slim chance of success. Besides, after the year he'd had, Billy wasn't exactly keen to see anyone from his school anytime soon.

He circled the house and wandered back to his father's workshop. It was a small grey shack with white trim and topped with tarry black shingles.

The square door yawned open and Billy peered inside. Paint-flecked ply-board walls were lined with hanging tools, and a set of old golf clubs was hoisted high in a shiny black bag near the door.

Billy liked to watch his father work. Sometimes the man would spend all weekend in the shop cutting and sanding pieces of sweet-smelling wood. The shop was filled with projects in various stages of build and design – unfinished masterpieces, as his mother called them.

But that didn't seem to bother Stanley Brahm. He looked happy just pushing the circular saw through a fresh plank of cedar, as he was doing at that moment.  

"Can I help?" Billy said.

The boy wasn't eager to follow through on the offer, but it was cooler there in the shade of the shop. He waited for an answer, but the man kept on cutting. Billy knew his father was focused because his tongue was still sticking out the side of his mouth.  

"Dad! CAN I HELP?" Billy shouted. 

Stanley jerked his hands at the sound, shearing the wood at an ugly angle. Unlike his mother, Billy's father wasn't one to show big emotions. This made the boy nervous, because the man's moods were harder to read. But it didn't take a psychic to see the annoyance hanging in the air just then with all that wood dust.

"Busy right now, son," his father said. He clicked off the saw and it whirred slow, stopping with a sudden CHUK. "How about you help your mom with the pizza? I'm sure she'd appreciate it."

"She sent me outside," Billy said.

"Of course she did," Stanley said, sliding off his safety goggles and wiping the sweat from his brow.