How Archibald Sweeney Vanished: Part II
By: Omar Ateyah,
Staff Writer
“Archibald,” my mother called, “we’ll go with you-"
“No,” my father said sternly. “I’m going by myself. Also, I would thank you three-“he pointed at Warner and the two other men-“for accompanying me for dinner tonight. Now, you must go home. I have to find him, like always.”
“Yes, sir, we will do that,” said Warner promptly. “Also, we hope you find your son in peace.”
The three of them left, and my father followed. I stared down at the broken coffee table, biting my lip as the minutes etched by.
Within an hour, my mother and I were pacing in the living room for neither Adam nor my father had returned. My tongue dried and it felt like it was in the midst of withering; I tried to drink something but it was like rubber crawling down my throat.
“Relax,” my mother said eventually and she decided to sit on the couch. “This has happened before; your brother has left before and then he comes back. Just sit down.”
As I matured, I began to understand my mother’s mind; she was a strong-willed woman, who, like all human beings, suffered emotions such as fear, sadness, and anger. However, once she had a grasp on the situation she managed to sort everything into channels in her brain, allowing her to work through the situation step by step. Also, the severity of the situation determined how long it took her to master that task; for example, her acutely rational sense of self allowed her to realize, fairly soon, that the fact my brother was wandering the streets of Crocs was not in the slightest unusual, due to the fact that it happened at least every other week. Even in my adult years, I have failed to achieve that confident outlook on what fate has to offer.
Before, I could order my limbs to obey my mother’s request, sirens flared outside the house. My neck snapped in the direction of the window as lights flooded in, turning the carpet into an un-aerosolized rainbow. Then, I heard heavy footsteps pounding up the front steps to the door. I sprinted to it, and the hefty and bulking Commodus stood before me. The police were rushing up the street, obviously seeking him; in the driveway I could see a motorcycle, one that Commodus evidently stole. I tried to shut the door, but he nervously shoved me to the side and onto the floor as he entered and shut the door swiftly behind him.
“Hey!” my mother screamed, a sound that suggested she really wasn’t my mother at all for never in my sixteen years until that time, had I heard my mother make such a racket. She walked towards him quickly, and before I could summon the energy to gasp, her palm met Commodus’s cheek with a resounding PAP! Commodus’s bronze face morphed into that of a ghost’s as he stared at her with eyes that seemed determined to never allow their lids to cover them again.
“I swear, you obscene man, if you ever touch my daughter again!” My mother was shrieking, and then as if lost for words, she slapped him again, significantly harder than the first time.
“Stop! Stop!” Commodus sobbed, slapping one of his hands over his eyes. “They’re after me, because they think that I’ve done it. I know Archibald and I have had our disagreements, but I would never even consider…you must know that I wouldn’t-"
“I swear, if you don’t speak with some sense,” my mother said warningly.
“You don’t know?” he asked, removing his hand from his now glassy eyes. This question was obviously deemed nonsensical by my mother, for she whacked him again. Then, she grabbed a fork from the fallen coffee table and pressed the tines against his temple.
“Okay, okay,” breathed Commodus. Then, with eyes shut tight he murmured, “Archibald’s dead. He’s been-"
He broke down into weeps, and I stared blankly at him, hearing but not comprehending what came out of Commodus’s mouth. My mother’s eyes that had been fiery a moment ago became glazed.
Then, as if emerging from a haze of stupefaction, she said, “Dead?”
“I swear it wasn’t me, I swear,” Commodus said, his lips becoming lines of thin and translucent paper.
“You’re lying,” my mother said in a soft voice, that sounded like the soothing sounds she used to put me back to bed after I would have nightmares as a child. Then, a blood curdling sound filled with something that was not pain, emitted from her. “YOU’RE LYING TO ME!”
This whole time, I sat as if my mind had paused and I could no longer allow anything to penetrate the surface of my skull. Then, another bang came on the door. My mother, still in a stupor, walked towards it. She opened it to reveal a police officer holding a harassed looking Adam. His face was pale and his eyes looked like orbs that had sucked the life from the rest of his being, making them look like two small organisms resting on a rock. Sweat conquered his hair, and his clothes were muddy and ripped.
“Adam,” my mother gasped, reaching towards him.
“Madam,” the officer intervened. “Your husband, Archibald Sweeney, has been killed. We were able to snap photographic evidence of the body, but then gunshots filled the air and when we passed by the area again it was removed; perhaps some residents of the area placed it elsewhere, but that is not important at the time. A few minutes later, we saw these two running and screaming and really no sign of anybody else.”
The cop removed a small photograph from his pocket, and he showed it to her. Her eyes bulged and her mouth quivered then sagged. She looked up at the officer, and his words of condolence were: “This man Commodus and your son, Adam Sweeney, are the prime suspects for presence and strange behavior during and after the incident.”
A sound escaped my mother, but it was unintelligible for it was merely an odd potion of a gasp, a gulp, and a whimper.
“No,” my brother uttered, wildly fighting against the police. “This isn’t true, I didn’t do it. Please! Mother, please. I didn’t, I was just so scared, please, I wouldn’t, please!”
He screamed until his face became purple and he tried to pull away and enter the house, under the protection that my mother could offer, but the police roughly pulled him by the scruff of the neck.
“We’re going to have to take both of them in for more questioning and investigation, as we try to figure out who the true culprit is and where the body is located,” the policeman said, keeping a firm grip on the flailing Adam. “Alright, let’s go.”
“NO!” my brother screamed as the policeman dragged him to his vehicle. “MOTHER, DO SOMETHING! I’m innocent, PLEASE! I don’t wanna go, I don’t wanna go! PLEASE!”
His cries were partially drowned out as he was aggressively inserted into the cop’s vehicle. His blood and mud stained fists, beat against the window with agony as the cop progressed into the house, attempting to grab Commodus.
Commodus leaped to his feet with a small squeak and sprinted into the kitchen. The cop followed and returned a few moments later with Commodus squirming, as the cop grabbed hold of a fistful of his hair. He was shoved viciously into the car, and within a few moments it drove away, leaving my mother and me alone in the house.
It was strange how such events had reached our ears and shaken our hearts and the house managed to look exactly the same, as though my father had not passed and my brother had not been taken into custody. Finally, my mother had a small fit of shivers and she collapsed onto the couch with her body being dragged forward from the audacity of her sobs. I joined her, and we stayed in our wretched and grieving state for the rest of the night.
Adam remained at Crocs Jail for interrogation; my mother and I simply remained in the house, mostly on that same sofa. We hadn’t the strength to leave and attempt to retrieve the body. The cops had called us the night after the event to tell us that once they received actual knowledge of the body’s whereabouts, they would allow us to help on the search.
On the third day, I made my way to the couch and sat there staring at a blank patch on the wall. My mother, having sorted out the emotions by then, said, “Come along, Anastasia, and eat breakfast. It won’t do you any good to sit like a stone.”
I shook my head, numbly. My mother sat right in front of me, blocking my view of the wall.
“That wasn’t a request,” my mother said, anger dipping into her voice. “You will meet me in the kitchen in five minutes for breakfast.”
Two minutes later, I unglued myself from the couch with a groan and walked in a dreamlike state to the kitchen.
I saw my mother sitting in her usual seat, with an expression of recently acquired strength on her face. She smiled at me as I took my seat across from her. We ate in silence for a few moments before I was able to croak out a few words.
“Do you think he actually could’ve done it?” I blurted out in strained tones.
A look of panic and grief flitted across my mother’s eyes for only a moment as she looked up at me.
“For as much as we know,” she said wearily, “we cannot convict your brother, and we have no right to.”
“But, what if it was?” I persisted, my voice sounding worse and worse. “What if Adam did-?”
“Stop,” she said, closing her eyes. “Just stop.”
The matter was dropped for the time being; however, it haunted me for the rest of the week.