Chapter 2

If there was any doubt in the reader's mind, let it all be laid to rest here and now: this novel will not lie. Clearly, the book continues in Chapter 2 as promised. The reason this novel doesn't lie, incidentally, is because it hates liars. Once, when it was four, its mother told it that if it ever, ever lied to her, she would Fahrenheit-451 it in the furnace. She would know whenever it was lying to her, of course, because all mothers can read their children like open books, especially very young, inexperienced four-year-old children. (Remember those clips on America's Funniest Home Videos, formerly hosted by Bob Saget, where the kid has a face full of a chocolate but denies ever eating a single brownie?) From then on, it decided it would never lie, and has stayed true to its charge. The infallible, unfailing honesty of Mr. Thomas Woerth was also decided in a much similar manner at the age of four, due to an equally impressive mother, so instead of dwelling on this point, the narrative shall now focus on the incredible oddness of Mr. Woerth.

In the history of all men, there would be no one else quite like Mr. Thomas Woerth; those are the kind of men, after all, that are interesting enough to land themselves in novels. Thomas's understanding of human nature was so profoundly misguided and fundamentally flawed that every single dialogue he ever shared with another human being was a moment of utter bewilderment and befuddlement for both parties. It never came to pass, despite his constant confusion, however, that Thomas tried to avoid human contact or social situations; in fact, the more flat-out wrong he was about a person or situation, the more he seemed to want to talk or act, and the less he seemed to realize how wrong he was.

Let's have an illustrative, graphic example. On a cold December night, Christmas Eve to be exact, Little Thomas lie in bed awake, the covers pulled up to his chin, his eyes and ears as wide and attentive as the five-year-old could muster. Like most normal children, he had been fed the story of Santa Claus. However, unlike most children, he was not lying in bed awake, waiting for the slightest sound or hint that Santa Claus had arrived, so that he could clamber out of bed to catch a glimpse of this incredible legend. Thomas had no desire of the sort to catch a glimpse of Santa Claus. He didn't really care for the man at all. As far as he was concerned, the bloke could waste his time trying to stuff himself through their chimney as much as he wanted. The Woerth's didn't have one. No, on this cold December night, Christmas Eve, it was not fanciful thoughts of Santa Claus that were keeping Little Thomas Woerth awake. It was the rhythmic squeaking coming from his parents' bedroom next door. He listened to the squeaking getting progressively louder, faster, and more urgent for a good fifteen minutes before deciding that he couldn't just lie there listening and doing nothing. He had to take action.

Climbing out of his twin-sized bed, he surveyed his room for a moment in the gray-blue dim. He knew exactly where the door was, and could stride right to it confidently even in the dark, but he was hesitating right now because he couldn't remember if he had left a toy of some sort in the middle of the floor. He usually never did, because he was an extremely neat child who always put his toys away after he was done with them, but for some reason, tonight, a lurking doubt struck his brain softly like so many feathers. Had he put that yellow and black bulldozer truck away after playing with it this afternoon? He couldn't remember. He took one tentative step forward in the darkness. It was not pitch-black. He stared with wide eyes as hard as he could at the center of the carpet in his room, trying to see if he could catch a flash of something, some darker mass lying there, but it was impossible to see for sure. Finally, he decided that whatever was happening in his parents' bedroom was far more urgent than this worry, and strode quickly to the door. His carpet was clean.

He made his way swiftly down the hall to the other end, where the door to his parents' bedroom was firmly shut. Without thinking, he grabbed the doorknob, turned, and burst in on his father and mother under the bedsheets. They didn't hear him enter, because his father continued to do whatever he was doing on top of his mother, while his mother continued to wear an increasingly pained expression on her face. This must have been the source of the squeaking, thought Thomas. He's trying to kill her!

"Mommy? Daddy?" It would be another year, the moment he started first grade, when he would startcalling them Mom and Dad, but for now...

"Mommy? Daddy?" They had not heard him the first time. Suddenly, Thomas's mother's face dropped its look of pain and turned into a look of horrified mortification. This, Thomas's young mind did not understand, having never experienced shame like that before (actually, he would never understand such shame for as long as he lived), mistaking the look instead for one of extreme happiness mixed with relief. His father's expression, however, was unmistakable.

"Get out of the room, Thomas!" he said angrily, but not loudly.

"No! Why are you trying to kill Mommy?"

Clearly disturbed and confused as to what exactly was happening, his father yelled this time, "Just GET OUT! GET OUT, GODDAMNIT!"

"Never!" Little Thomas exclaimed with incredible gallantry for a five-year-old. And then he rushed towards the bed.