“Did you do what I asked you?” She asked, chipper.
“Yup,” he said, not looking away from the television.
“Good boy,” Amanda said, and a blush rose in Tom’s face. He shifted on the couch, rolling over onto his side. “I’m just going to change, and then we can start supper, okay?”
“Sure, mom.” She was already halfway up the stairs, heels loud against the hardwood flooring.
Bounding up the stairs, cellophane crinkled as she tapped the package against her palm. Passing Tom’s opened door, she took a moment to peer inside.
It was certainly clean-er. The clothes had been picked up and stacked neatly on his desk. The floor was devoid of magazines and video game cases and various dinnerware. The covers had been pulled roughly over his bed. Amanda went to leave, then glanced back through the door.
Something smoky grey peeped out from under one corner of Tom’s pillow. Amanda’s brow furrowed; she stepped into the room and plucked at it with thumb and forefinger. Pantyhose, *her* pantyhose, her *missing* pantyhose, came tumbling out, pooling on the floor. She tossed the pillow aside, revealing a small nest of nylon underneath, black and electric blue.
Amanda scooped up the grey hose, and held it up against the light. It looked unstained, intact. She did the same for the other two pairs. They seemed clean.
Her nostrils flared. She drew herself up to her full height and bellowed, “Tom! Thomas Michael Kennedy! Get up here! Now!”
Her son appeared in the doorway, seconds later.
“Mom? What-” She turned to face him, nylon dangling from her fingers.
“What.” Her words were clipped. “Is. This?” Amanda thrust her hands out accusingly. He blushed, then paled, mouth working but unable to produce any sounds. “Sit down, young man!”
In a rush, he seated himself on the bed.
“Explain yourself, please.” Amanda gestured at the pantyhose still lying where his pillow had been.
“Mom,” he started, licked dry lips, then started again. “Mom, I don’t know. I was home and I was cleaning up and I saw them and I picked them up and I just liked, I just liked the way they felt and I put them there for safek-”
“Do *not* lie to me, young man.” She waved the grey nylon under his nose. “These were missing from my room when I woke up this morning. Those,” she pointed, “I told you to throw out yesterday. *Those* I left lying on my bed when I went to work this morning.” Tom squirmed under his mother’s glare. She fumed, waiting for an answer.
When none came, she said, “lie down.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Lie. Down.” Hands on her hips, Amanda stared down her lanky son until he complied. She grabbed hold of one wrist.
“Mom, what are you-” a twist of her hands, and the grey pantyhose was looped around his wrist. She yanked it up, and fed the loose end through the spindles of his headboard. “Mom?” Not saying a word, she tied the other end around his free wrist and let the nylon snap back.
Tom looked into his mother’s face. Her features were set, angry, but her eyes fairly shone with manic energy.
“This is cr-”
“Shut up,” she said, snatching the ruined black hose from behind his head before stuffing it into his opened mouth. Tom’s eyes rolled back in his head, and he pulled at the pantyhose restraining his arms, biceps standing rigid as he did. Somehow, the hose held.