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Jack takes him trick-or-treating.
Tim is dressed in a simple black bodysuit with a white skeleton printed on top. He’d wanted to go as a Stormtrooper—it’s all he’s been talking about at school for weeks, ever since he first saw the films—but his parents didn’t get the chance to pick up a costume until late that afternoon, and the options at Halloween City at four p.m. on October 31st are a bit sparse.
(It was this or a gigantic carrot, and even at seven years old, Tim has some dignity to maintain.)
It’s disappointing, sure, but he knows better than to put up a fuss about it. His father is already in a bit of a mood after a rough day at the office, and Tim’s worried he might refuse to take him out altogether—especially since Ms. Sophie is taking the night off to attend a Halloween party with some of her college friends.
So Tim is good and doesn’t pout about the costume, even though it’s not what he wanted at all, and Jack drives him out to Burnside so they can walk around the neighborhood since the houses are too far apart for that in Bristol. They move methodically from house to house, Jack waiting on the sidewalk with his arms crossed over his chest while Tim politely rings doorbells and says his trick-or-treats and thank yous.
Jack lasts twenty minutes before he declares it ‘too cold for this ridiculous groveling.’ Loading Tim back into the car, he drives them to the nearest Walgreens where he lets his son pick out four gigantic bags of candy, enough to fill his plastic jack-o-lantern bucket right up to the brim, Jack grinning all the while like he’s just cracked the code to Halloween itself.
“Don’t tell your mother,” he says in that particular wry voice of his as he claps Tim on the shoulder. “It’ll be our little secret, eh sport?”
Tim smiles back, but it’s empty. Outside, groups of kids are still trooping up and down the streets, laughing and shrieking with glee at the spooky motion sensing decorations as they race up porch steps to beg strangers for candy, and here Tim is in the backseat of his father’s BMW with at least ten pounds of the stuff balanced on his lap, desperately wishing he could trade places with them.
But alas, efficiency has always been a virtue in the Drake household.
Swallowing the jealous feelings back down, Tim turns his attention to more important matters. “How many can I eat?” he asks, eyeing his haul.
Jack chuckles. “It’s Halloween, champ! As long as you pick up the wrappers and don’t get anything sticky, I couldn’t care less.” He reaches over and gives Tim’s hair a ruffle.
Now Tim does actually smile, wide enough to show the gap where his two front teeth used to be. Ms. Sophie only lets him have three pieces at a time—maybe five, since it’s a holiday. Janet sets the limit even lower at two, saying she doesn’t intend to pay for any cavities.
At least there are some perks to his dad's hands-off parenting style.
…Or at least that’s what Tim thinks until later that night when he’s curled up in his bed with his arms wrapped tightly around himself. All of that chocolate and sugar seems to have turned into burbling lava inside his tummy, and it keeps trying to creep back up his throat.
When he can’t take it anymore, he slips out of bed and tiptoes down the hall to crack open his parents’ bedroom door. His father, a notoriously heavy sleeper, doesn’t stir, but his mother lifts her head once he makes it within three feet of the bed.
“...Timothy?” she murmurs blearily. “What is it?”
“I don’t feel good.” A bit of a whimper slips into Tim’s voice as his tummy churns uncomfortably. “I think I need some medicine.”
One of his other nannies gave him something once when he felt bad like this—a white tablet that bubbled and fizzed when she dropped it into a glass of water. It didn’t taste very good, but it was better than that pink stuff his parents give him sometimes. Though honestly, he’d even take that if it would make the lava feeling go away.
Janet sighs, heavy and exasperated. “How much candy did you eat tonight?”
“Um…” Truthfully? Tim has no idea. It wasn’t all of it or anything, but he’d certainly made a dent in his stash. “...A lot?”
Rolling her eyes, Janet reaches over to give her sleeping husband a little shove. “Jack, wake up,” she hisses. “Your son needs you.”
But Tim’s father just continues to snore.
“And to think he’s the one who wanted to procreate…” she mutters under her breath, which makes Tim’s stomach hurt in a completely different way than it did before.
Turning back to her son, Janet sighs. “Now do you understand why I say you can only have two pieces?”
Tim feels his cheeks heat up. He looks down at his feet where his toes are curled into the shaggy carpet fibers. “I’m sorry, Mom…”
“Be sorry to yourself,” his mother says matter-of-factly. “You’ve made your bed. Now all that’s left is to lie in it.”
The words don’t make much sense to Tim. After all, he makes his bed every day—except on Tuesdays when Mrs. Mac washes the sheets. But he nods anyway and creeps back down the hall to his own bedroom. Maybe she means he’s supposed to go lie down again and she’ll bring him some medicine there…
Five minutes later, there’s vomit running down Tim’s pajama shirt and a puddle of half-digested candy on top of his comforter, and the poor boy feels so miserable that all he can do is sit there and sob.
“...Timmy?”
He isn’t sure how much time has elapsed when Ms. Sophie finally pokes her head into his bedroom. She must have just gotten home because she’s still dressed up in her costume—a flowy white dress with fluffy angel wings that strap on like a backpack. “What’s wrong— Oh.” Her nose wrinkles up, just like Janet’s always does when he’s being gross, and it makes Tim cry all the harder.
Instantly, her expression softens. “Oh Timmy, it’s alright. It’s okay, buddy…”
She offers to get his parents for him, but Tim just shakes his head vehemently, and Ms. Sophie seems to understand. She helps him out of bed and into the bathroom, then wraps his shivery frame up in a big towel and has him sit on the floor and sip at a cup of cool water while she fills the tub.
“I’m sorry…” Tim mumbles a little while later when he’s undressed and sitting in the warm, bubbly water, his boney knees hugged up against his chest.
“Hm?” She pauses scrubbing his back with a washcloth to quirk an eyebrow at him. “What for?”
Isn’t it obvious? “I made a big mess.”
But Ms. Sophie just laughs. “You’re seven, Timmy. That’s what seven-year-olds do. Besides—” she grins, a little conspiratorially, “you didn’t make nearly as much of a mess as Ashley did tonight.”
Tim looks up at her curiously. “Who’s Ashley?”
“Oh, just a friend from the party who had a few too many… uh, juice boxes,” she says with a giggle.
Tim doesn’t know why that’s supposed to be funny, but he giggles along anyway. Sometimes it’s just nice to laugh.
“Speaking of juice boxes”—Ms. Sophie boops him on the nose, leaving a spot of soap suds and eliciting a few more giggles from Tim—“I’ll be sleeping in tomorrow,” she tells him decidedly, “so you’re on your own for breakfast. But no candy, alright?”
He instantly sobers. “I won’t,” he promises solemnly. “I don’t want any more, ever.”
Ms. Sophie huffs out a little laugh. “Yeah. Ashley said pretty much the same thing…”
Twenty minutes later, Tim is clean and dry and snuggled up in his sleeping bag on a bare mattress while his sheets tumble in the washing machine downstairs.
As she stands in the doorway, Ms. Sophie’s cheap plastic halo seems to glow in the light of his nightlight. “Sweet dreams, Timmy,” she tells him. “Happy Halloween.”
And when she slips back across the hall to her own bedroom, she leaves her door open, just a crack.