He did not move his arms. He stood perfectly straight, his eyes fixed on the brass floor lamp in the corner of the room.
“Are you cold?” I asked.
“No,” he said.
“Let us get those boots off then.”
I knelt on the floor to reach for his laces. Usually, he would lean against my shoulder or hop on one foot, but this time he stayed completely rigid, his weight balanced precariously. When I unlaced the right boot and pulled it off, he did not bend his knee. He kept his leg locked straight, his small body trembling under the heavy cotton of his shirt.
“You can sit on the couch while I get the other one,” I said, pointing to the cushions.
He lowered his body slowly, his knees bending in small, jerky movements that reminded me of an old folding chair. The moment his trousers touched the corduroy, a sharp gasp escaped his throat.
He shot back upright, his eyes wide and dry, his hands hovering over his lower back.
“Tommy?” I asked. “What is it? Did something poke you?”
“Nothing,” he said.
He stood near the coffee table, his body stiff as a post, his eyes fixed on the floorboards between his feet.
“Does your back hurt?” I asked, taking a slow step toward him so I would not startle him.
“I just want to stand up for a while,” he said.
His face was shiny with a thin layer of sweat, despite the draft coming from the front door.
“Did you fall at school?” I asked.
“No,” he said. He began to bite his nail again, his eyes darting toward the window.
I walked into the kitchen, the linoleum cold under my socks, and picked up the telephone. I dialed Lauren’s number, my fingers clumsy on the keypad. She answered on the fourth ring, her voice high and bright, carrying the faint sound of music and clinking glasses in the background.
