Oh Oncle Tommy
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Oh Oncle Tommy
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A Long Way Gone
Ishmael Beah
Home
Literature Notes
A Long Way Gone
Uncle Tommy
All Subjects
Book Summary
Character List and Analysis
Ishmael Beah
Esther
Uncle Tommy
The Lieutenant
Laura Simms
Minor Characters
Summary and Analysis
New York City, 1998
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Character Map
Study Help
Quiz
Cite this Literature Note
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Book Summary
Character List and Analysis
Ishmael Beah
Esther
Uncle Tommy
The Lieutenant
Laura Simms
Minor Characters
Summary and Analysis
New York City, 1998
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Character Map
Study Help
Quiz
Cite this Literature Note
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( n ) A regional or social variety of a language distinguished by pronunciation, grammar, or vocabulary, especially a variety of speech differing from the standard literary language or speech pattern of the culture in which it exists: Cockney is a dialect of English.
from The American Heritage® Dictionary of the English Language, 4th Edition
Uncle Tommy is Ishmael's father's brother. He is a carpenter in Freetown who struggles to raise his children and the children of relatives who can't care for them. He is a kind and gregarious man who loves to laugh and to help others.
When Uncle Tommy learns of Ishmael's fate in the rehabilitation center, he comes immediately to see him. He offers Ishmael a home and embraces him. He continues to visit every weekend, taking Ishmael for walks and telling him stories of his own childhood with Ishmael's father. When Ishmael is ready to leave the center, Uncle Tommy takes him in and treats him like a son. Uncle Tommy is significant in Ishmael's life because his love provides Ishmael a home for his future. When other boys at the center are denied by their families, they often return to soldiering and their army families.
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I heard the front door fly open and slam shut. Desperate panting followed. Then came the click of door locking.
“Fuck,” I heard him say. I knew the voice. It was my favorite uncle, Tommy, and from the sound of it, he was in trouble.
I abandoned my toys on the living room floor and hurried to the front hall. Sure enough, there was Uncle Tommy. He was too busy trying to push a chest of drawers in front of the door to notice me.
“Adam?” my mother called from the kitchen. “What’s going on out there?”
“It’s Uncle Tommy,” I shouted without moving or averting my eyes. Having covered half of the door with the bureau, my uncle pressed his back against it and slid to the floor like melting ice cream. He looked so small and scared leaning against that hulking piece of furniture, his eyes wide and his face drained of color.
My mother appeared in the doorway behind me. “Tommy?”
He sprang to life and hopped to his feet. “Judith!” he called my mother by name. “I have to talk to you. Please.” His eyes were wide and pleading.
Before another word could be said, my mother ushered Tommy into another room and closed the door. I tried not to listen, but curiosity won out. I pressed my ear to the door and strained to make out what the adults were saying. All I caught was the odd word or phrase. “After me.” “Put me up.” “Please.” “Danger.”
There was a pause. The next voice I heard was my mother’s. “All right.”
The door opened again and I raced away from it, attempting to look as innocent as possible. Tommy stepped out first. He smiled slightly, and I saw some of the color had returned to his face. My mother followed. This time, it was she who seemed pale and anxious.
She turned and addressed us both. “I was just about to start dinner. It should be ready in about a half an hour.”
My mother gave a small nod, then turned and disappeared down the hall.
Tommy turned to me and smiled broadly, acknowledging my presence for the first time since he’d arrived. “Hey there, Sport,” he called me by his favorite nickname for me. “Looks like I’ll be staying the night.”
“Great!” I exclaimed. It was always a good time when Uncle Tommy paid a visit. “Can we tell ghost stories like last time?”
His smile disappeared. “Um, maybe. We’ll see.”
Satisfied with that answer, I led him back to the living room where we both sat on the floor and proceeded to duel with action figures. As we played, I couldn’t help but notice how often Tommy glanced toward the window. I was always more interested in my next move than I was in whatever he was looking for, and so I never asked him why. Even if I had, though, I’m sure it would have made no difference.
My mother came into the room, her face stony and as white as before. “Dinner is ready,” she said.
Dinner was an awkward affair. We ate mostly in silence. I noticed that mother barely touched what was on her plate. Occasionally, she would ask Tommy, “How are the potatoes? The peas? The chops?”
His answer was the same each time. “Delicious, thank you.” He would punctuate the declaration with another bite, as if he were trying to convince her of something.
At last, Tommy tried to start a conversation. “Judith,” he said, “I really appreciate you letting me---”
“Shh,” my mother cut him off with surprising vehemence. She then seemed to notice how suspicious her behavior was and made an effort to soften her features. “It’s no trouble,” she said. “Really.”
As the meal drew to a close, Uncle Tommy seemed to yawn more and more. He would try to handle the yawns politely at first, but eventually they became so frequent and so deep that he could do nothing about them.
“Yes,” Tommy agreed. “It’s been an exhausting day.”
Tommy rose from the table. “I think I may have to.” He turned to me. “Sorry to be so tired, Sport. Maybe tomorrow we’ll tell some stories.”
I made only the slightest effort to hide my disappointment. “Okay,” I said, as I pushed a clump of mashed potatoes around my plate.
My mother followed Tommy out of the room and I heard his manly footsteps climb the stairs. A few moments passed before my mother poked her head back into the room.
“Adam,” she said, “will you help me with something?”
I hopped out of my seat and followed her to the front hall. There, we teamed up to push the chest of drawers back into place. With the task complete, my mother crouched to my level and leaned in close.
“Now, Adam,” she began. “I need you to listen very carefully. You’re to go straight to bed and stay there. Do not come out of your room until morning, for any reason.”
I was confused. “Did I do something wrong?” I asked.
“No, no,” she said, petting the sides of my face. “You haven’t done anything. I just need you to do this. For me. Just stay in your room until the sun comes up. You’ll be safe, I promise. Okay?”
“Okay,” I said. Even at such a young age, I had a sense that questioning would lead nowhere. Instead, I headed up the stairs to do as my mother asked. As I rounded the corner at the top of the stairs, I caught a glimpse of my mother turning the lock on the front door. Weird , I remember thinking. I could have sworn Uncle Tommy locked it already.
I must have fallen asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow because it’s here that my memory stops. The very next thing I remember is awakening in the darkness of my room. The only light came from the digital clock that sat beside my bed. The time was 3:33 AM.
As I lay blinking, trying to set the numbers right in my vision, I heard a strange sound. It began as a soft, faraway click. I realized very quickly that it was coming from somewhere outside. The click came closer and developed into a rhythmic thump. Footsteps , I decided. Heavy ones on the road below, heading past the house.
The thumps were now closer than ever when they suddenly stopped. Whomever had been walking outside seemed to have stopped right in front of the house.
I was just about to roll over and try to go back to sleep when a new sound stopped me in my tracks.
“Tommy!” a voice called from the street below. It was one I hadn’t heard before, a strange middle tone that made it hard to tell if it was male or female.
“Tommy!” it called again. It kept calling. “Tommy! Tommy! Tommy! Tommy!” Over and over, it called my uncle’s name. The call was rhythmic, almost unnaturally so.
As the calling continued, I realized I was shaking. Something about that voice was simply wrong. I could feel it. There was no other word to describe how I felt.
And it got worse. The rhythm persisted, but each repetition of my uncle’s name now became frantic, grating, as if the caller were desperate for his attention, as if their life depended on it.
I couldn’t help but start crying. I grabbed my pillow and covered my head with it, repeating
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