Our Daily Bread

by Lauren B. Davis

  He should have married Rita Kruppman, Dorothy thought, which brought all sorts of possibilities to mind. Rita was so good with children. She had borne up so well in the face of her husband’s, well . . . life change. The affection Rita still held for Tom was no secret. It was a horrifying fantasy—Dorothy as matchmaker. She could feel hives breaking out on her skin at the mere idea. But still.

  The teakettle whistled in a strident, reproving way and Ivy lifted it from the gas burner. She poured the water into a warmed pot with two teabags, a recipe Dorothy had taught her for decent tea. She stirred it once and then covered it with a rose-patterned cozy. The consoling scent of roast chicken wafted from the oven, seasoned with the salty pinch of olives as a tangy under-note. The dog barked twice and they turned to see him standing by the side door near his empty bowl, tail wagging hopefully.

  Tom said, “I’ll feed Rascal,” and stood, somewhat slowly. As soon as he did, the dog began to wriggle and whine and dance, his toenails tapping on the linoleum, his jowls pulled back in a doggy smile. Tom took a can of dog food from below the counter, and emptied it into the dish. Rascal plunged his muzzle into the mess and ate with such a gulping frenzy that Dorothy wondered when he’d been last fed.

  The look of distaste must have showed on her face, because Ivy said, “He has really bad manners. Doesn’t matter how often you feed him.”

  “Dogs are like that,” said Tom.

  The chicken was warmed, the salad tossed, and the tea poured. “Shall I set a place for Bobby?” Dorothy asked.

  “Probably not,” said Tom.

  “Well, there will be plenty of leftovers,” said Dorothy.

  The three sat around the kitchen table. The last twilight was gone and the starkly unforgiving overhead fixture reminded Dorothy of institutional lighting. The linoleum needed mopping. A brown stain in the corner of the ceiling indicated there had been a leak. Bits of dried dog food had hardened to rough brownish grey nuggets on the floor around the dish. Stubble showed on Tom’s cheeks, there was a fine black line of grime under his nails, and Ivy’s hair was in need of a wash. On the radio, a Beethoven piano concerto filled in the conversational gaps and muffled the sound of teeth and jaws working.

  “It’s good,” Tom said, more than once.

  And Dorothy said things such as, “I’m glad you like it,” and “Oh, it’s a simple recipe,” and “It’s lovely to cook for someone who appreciates it.” She watched his face and was gratified a little colour crept back in and his eyes brightened. “You have to keep your strength up,” she said.

  “True,” he said.

  Ivy was quiet during the meal and kept her eyes on her plate. Dorothy suspected she was still a little afraid she might get in trouble, although, looking at Tom, she didn’t think he was paying enough attention to anything to get angry.

  “How is your rock collection coming, Ivy?” she asked.

  “I haven’t done much lately.”

  “I thought you and your dad were going to go, what do you call it? Rockhounding? Is that it?”

  “We will,” said Tom.

  Ivy put her fork down. “When?”

  “Soon.”

  Later, when the food was finished and they had done the dishes and Ivy—exhausted by food and anxiety—had gone to bed, Dorothy sat at the table with Tom.

  “Now, tell me, how are you, really?” she said, stirring honey into her chamomile tea.

  “Coping.”

  “Coping.”

  “I’m all right.”

  “After William died, I fully expected the grief to suffocate me. I was so tired all the time.”

  “Nobody died.”

  “Oh, I think they did.”

  “She’s not dead.”

  “In a way, she is exactly that.”

  “She’s not dead,” Tom repeated. His eyes sparked red. “She didn’t die. I wish she had.”

  “Do you? Why?”

  “Because at least then I’d be able to believe she loved me once. I’d be able to go on thinking she gave a damn about me, about her own kids, that she had one single ounce of human feeling. I wouldn’t ever have to have found out what a lying bitch she was.” His voice had not risen in volume, but the tone had darkened, grown raspy and choked.

  “Tom . . .”

  “And what a goddamn stooge I’ve been all these years. I knew, I knew, you see, and I didn’t let myself know, all at the same time.” He glanced at the doorway. “I mean, I always knew about Bobby. She never lied about that. I didn’t care. But now I’m wondering about Ivy.”

  “Tom! You mustn’t let yourself think these things. There’s no good in it!”

  The veins stood out in his neck, his cheeks were mottled. “If she was here now I’d put my hands around her neck—” He held his hands before him, large enough to encompass a person’s skull and still have the fingers meet.

  Just as quickly as the rage came, it vanished. Where there had been thunder and fury, there was only a face full of rain. “It’s like I’m under the ice,” Tom said. “Like I’m trapped under the ice, looking up.”

  The vision of Tom, mouth open, hands scrambling to find a breathing hole, was hideous. “Oh, Tom,” said Dorothy, for really, she could think of nothing else. What was she supposed to do with this? What could she possibly say that did not drip with cliché and platitude?

  “How can I ever trust myself again?” he said.

  And there was the crux of it, really. Once you had been betrayed, not only by the woman you loved, but by your own perceptions, how could you trust yourself to make any decisions at all, about anything? It was paralysis—physical, emotional, spiritual.

  The dog’s barking and the sound of someone coming in the front door saved Dorothy from having to say something inadequate.

  “Hey, dog,” came Bobby’s voice.

  A moment later, the boy stood in the kitchen doorway. He’d shaved his head since Dorothy had seen him last. Why was it African-American men looked so handsome with their heads shaved and white men always looked like they’d just chopped up their families with an axe? His pants hung low on his hips below the elastic of his underwear and his T-shirt, which sported a graphically designed cannabis leaf, was torn at the shoulder.

  “Oh. Hey, Mrs. Carlisle. What’s up?” he said.

  “Where have you been?” said Tom, rubbing his hand over his face.

  “Just hanging with friends.”

  “What friends?”

  “You don’t know them.”

  Tom turned in his chair to face his son. “What are their names?”

  “Bob. David. Pete.”

  “Last names.”

  “I don’t fucking know. Jesus. What is this shit?”

  Tom stood. “Apologize to Mrs. Carlisle. You don’t use that language, understand?”

  “Sorry,” Bobby mumbled.

  “Are you hungry, dear? There’s some chicken and some salad and strawberries.”

  “No, thanks,” said Bobby and he disappeared up the stairs so quickly he might never have been there at all.

  “What do you do with that?” said Tom.

  “I think the best thing to do would be to go grocery shopping tomorrow, don’t you?” said Dorothy.

  He looked at her as though he wasn’t sure what she meant. “Groceries?”

  “Yes, Tom. You know, those items that include edibles. Things you feed people, things you feed children. Eggs. Milk. Spinach.”

  Tom lifted one corner of his mouth, attempting a smile. “I got it.”

  “Shall I make you a list?”

  “Not necessary.”

  “Well, I’ll be off then,” said Dorothy, and she gathered up her pans and bowls, avoiding Tom’s face, fearing she had been too blunt. She walked to the door and Tom followed her. She stop
ped just short of the front door. She hung her head for a moment, puffing out her cheeks with held breath. It was all so unsatisfying. Although she would have preferred to walk out the door without any further conversation, she knew if she did the night would be spent tossing and turning. The pillow would lump up under her head and the bedsheets would twist around her feet. Her thoughts would loop and echo with all the things she ought to have said but hadn’t. Damn. Standing so, she noticed a dent in the wall, as if someone had slammed the door open with such force the knob had smashed through the drywall. Under this, near the moulding, was another hole. Someone had kicked the wall with considerable force. She exhaled. “Tom . . .”

  He was right behind her, nearly stepping on her heels. “Where’d that come from?” he said, looking at the shin-level hole.

  She put her hand on his arm and was gratified to see he didn’t pull away. “I’m not going to give you some nonsense about being a lonely old lady looking for a family, since you and I both know I am not a lonely old lady, in the same way we both know I didn’t just happen to cook dinner for six tonight. No, Tom, please let me finish. For some inexplicable reason I find myself drawn to this family—to Ivy in particular, truth be told—and I believe for her sake it would be best if you permitted me to take the reins here—for only a little while—until you are ready to take over again.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. C., but we’ll manage.”

  “You’re drinking too much. Wallowing—” Tom began to say something but Dorothy raised her hand. “—in self-pity. It’s not good for you, and it’s not good for the children.”

  The hangdog look was gone now. Tom’s mouth was firm, his eyes steadily on hers. “Mrs. C., I know you mean well, and I appreciate everything you’ve done here. But I can take care of my own damn family. What’s left of it.”

  “I’ve offended you.” Heat rose up her neck in a telltale rash of mortification. “I don’t know what’s come over me.”

  “No offence. And I appreciate the dinner. Let’s just leave it at that, okay?”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  You think Satan isn’t at work here? Right here, right now? You think all this rock and roll music, with its roots in voodoo Africa, this free love, which is anything but free, these drugs the kids are using, isn’t the work of Beelzebub himself? These kids are going on trips, all right, trips straight to hell. Well, you tell Satan he isn’t welcome here. In Jesus’ name, say it. It may not be fashionable, it may not be groovy, like the hippies are saying, but I’ll tell you one thing: Heaven’s always cool. And evil’s always hot as hell. Tell Satan to go back from where he came. We know where he’s welcome, don’t we? We know the Devil’s high roost. You see those witches’ lights up high, some nights, don’t you? Hear those foul songs coming down from the mountain. Oh, Satan’s here, all right, and we know who’s giving him succour.

  —Reverend Daniel Hickland,

  Church of Christ Returning, 1967

  Bobby and albert lay stretched out on the sun-heated slab of rock near the old stone bridge deep in the woods where they’d first met. The air was soft on their bare chests, warm as a hand and aromatic with the sharp incense of moss and algae. The breeze whispered in the leaves, chickadees and finches twittered and a woodpecker occasionally rat-a-tat-tatted. Water burbled over stones and dragonflies hovered while in a nearby black locust tree a bright-eyed kingfisher watched a deep pool by the riverbank for silver fish-flash. Now and then he dove, breaking the water’s surface with his lethal beak.

  Albert blew smoke toward the clouds and looked at Bobby. Like Albert, he had balled up his shirt to form a pillow under his head. The boy’s chest was narrow, the ribs clearly visible, and hairless. One hand was stretched out on the warm stone, the other rested on his stomach. His nipples were the colour of almonds and his belly was concave. A faint shadow of fuzz ran in a thin line to somewhere below the band of the underwear showing a couple of inches above his jeans. His expression was self-satisfied and content: his lips curled slightly, his eyes closed, his brow unlined. It was not an expression he wore often.

  “Pretty good out here, huh?” Albert said, and Bobby murmured his agreement, half-asleep. The boy’s pale skin was turning pink. It would hurt later, be sensitive even to touch. “You’re getting burnt.You should put your shirt back on.”

  “Albert,” Bobby said, sleepily, “why don’t you ever let me come up by you?”

  “I told you. It’s not the place for you.”

  “Seems like no place is.”

  “Come on.”

  “I mean it,” Bobby said, his eyes open now. “Give me a cigarette, will you? This town’s sure not for me, not after everything that’s happened.”

  Albert handed the boy a smoke and held the Bic lighter for him, cupping his hand around the flame. Although he might have tried to argue with Bobby a month or two ago, there wasn’t much he could say these days. The kid wasn’t going to be able to live down the talk and, being Bobby, he wasn’t likely to fight through it either.

  “So, you’ll get out, leave town one day,” Albert said.

  “We could both get out.”

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  Bobby leaned on one elbow, his face earnest. “I’m serious.”

  Albert ground his cigarette out and flicked the butt into the river. He watched the current carry it away. “So, you’re serious.”

  “What’s keeping you here?”

  “I got responsibilities.”

  “Your brothers and sisters?”

  “And the rest.” Jill, and Jack, and Little Joe, Kenny, Toots and Ruby, Griff and Frank, the baby—Cathy, and little clubfoot Brenda. The whole sorry pack of them. Ever since Jill had had the last, botched, abortion she’d been sickly and even more withdrawn than usual. She dragged her hair in front of her eyes, hiding no matter how close she stood to anybody. She said she was glad there’d never be any more babies, said it over and over again, until he snapped at her, said he believed her, for fuck sake. Little Ruby had come running at him last week, saying Jack had taken a switch to her, and she had the welts on the back of her skinny little legs to prove it.

  As though reading his mind, Bobby said, “If it’s so bad, like I said before, I don’t know why you don’t go to somebody—child welfare department or something.”

  “And I told you before. Don’t work like that. Social workers? Not on the mountain.”

  “So how does it work?”

  “We take care of our shit.” What he didn’t tell Bobby was that if he contacted Family Services he’d be signing his own death warrant. Plenty of accidents happened on the mountain. Trees fell. Axes slipped. Footing was treacherous. Fires started. People disappeared and graves were dug deep enough to return the slopes to silence. There had been these two women walkers years back. Come from off in New York State somewhere, hikers with fancy boots and packs and topographical maps. They got lost at nightfall and stumbled out of the woods near his grandmother Sybil’s cabin, where Albert lived with his mother, Gloria, and his uncles Ray and Lloyd. Both women hikers with their hair cut like men and no makeup and it was clear what they were. They asked stupid questions nobody ever asked, like how were they all related, with their noses so high up in the air you’d think they were hound dogs, and everything about them leaking disapproval and righteousness. Sybil was so pissed off at the questions Albert thought for a minute she was actually going to answer them. Albert, who was only nine, was fascinated to hear what the answer might be, which must have showed on his face, because Lloyd smacked him so hard he fell off the stoop. He took off running then, into the woods. He knew where to hide so he could still watch. He was too far to hear what Lloyd and Ray said to the women, but whatever it was, they said it close up, with the women backed into the wall. Not even the tall one with the mole on her cheek looked so self-righteous then. Lloyd piled them into the truck and drove off down the mountain and came back a w
hile later. Said he left them on the highway and they could fucking get a lift to town from there, old dykes, and they wouldn’t be saying shit to anybody about anything. Which Albert guessed must have been about right, since nobody ever showed up, although he had waited for a couple of weeks after, thinking now, surely now, somebody would come.

  Bobby was saying something. Begging again.

  “Come on, Albert. I won’t get in the way. Maybe I could help out, you know?”

  “How are you going to help? And help what?” Albert stared up at the endless sky. He liked the vertigo it gave him, liked the idea he could fall up, just keep on falling and drift off into the blue, smaller and smaller until he was nothing, nothing at all. He didn’t want to look at Bobby. It bothered Albert, the sort of conclusions the kid drew. You’d think Albert had been spilling his guts, and he hadn’t been. Maybe just a hint or two, here and there, just to see how the boy would react, but nothing else. He kept the code. He kept his mouth shut. Erskines don’t talk.

  Bobby sat up and crossed his legs Indian-style. He was close to Albert, one of his knees touching Albert’s thigh. “You’ve helped me a lot, you know. Don’t know what I would have done without you. I just feel . . . shit, I don’t know. Kind of left out, you know? Like you know everything about my life and I don’t know anything at all, not really, about yours.”

  “Nothing to know.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “What are you going to do? Pout? Jesus Christ, does that work on your old man?”

  “I’m not pouting.” But he was.

  “What the hell’s so important about being on the mountain? Why don’t you want to stay in your own tidy little bed, home with Daddy and the nice big television and fridge full of food and little sister in the next room and even a fucking dog? You’ve got it made, kid. Jesus, sometimes I could fucking knock your teeth out.”

  Then Bobby was crying. Tears drifted slow and thick down his cheeks.