Our Daily Bread

by Lauren B. Davis

  “Holy shit,” said Bobby.

  “Exactly.” Albert held his nose as the noxious fumes filled the cabin. He’d never get that smell out, the smell he remembered all too well from his years in the trailer-shack with Gloria and his grandmother Sybil. That smell was one of the reasons he’d sworn he’d never have children.

  Noises tumbled down through the pines from the house. Voices, shouts, and the sound of breaking crockery or glass. Laughter.

  “Are we going to try to get Jill?” said Jack. His jaw was set and Albert knew fantasies danced in his head, visions of storming the house and rescuing their sister, maybe taking out a few of the others at the same time.

  “Nope.” Albert looked out the window and watched the shadows and forms in the windows on the other side of what seemed an ocean of mud and garbage. “We wouldn’t get her. Not now. They’re too far into it.”

  “Next time, then,” said Jack, who’d taken a seat on the floor. He sat on his jacket because the floor, wood laid straight on the earth, was damp in summer, in winter ice cold. His head slumped on his forearms, which rested on his bent knees.

  Next time, huh? Yes, it was clear. There would be a next time now. There was no going back. Once given entrance, he’d never get rid of the kids. Not doing what The Others did was never again going to be enough. By letting the kids stay, he’d become the refuge, the stone at the mouth of the cave. The three-headed dog. Whatever came after tonight, things were going to be different. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, and feared he might do both.

  “Bobby, come here,” he said and when Bobby was close enough he grabbed his arm and put his mouth to the boy’s ear. “You want me to get you out of here?”

  “Naw, it’s okay.”

  “I don’t know what’s going to happen.”

  “I said, it’s okay.”

  “Your funeral,” Albert said.

  “Where do you want me to put this?” Frank said, holding the soiled diaper.

  “Give it to me.” Albert took it and, stepping outside, threw it far into the woods. He watched the house. Whatever was going on in there held their attention, for now.

  He returned to the kids. “All right. Get into bed. All of you. And go to sleep.”

  “It’s too early.”

  “Go to sleep anyway.”

  “We going to stay the whole night?” said Toots, and for the first time in as long as Albert could remember there was a hint of a smile on her face.

  “Yeah, but don’t get used to it,” Albert said.

  The kids moved about and arranged themselves like little piglets on the foldout. Albert told Bobby to put the sleeping bag over them, but when the younger boy came near them, they pulled away. He tossed it to them and they pulled it up to their chins, peeking out. Albert hoped they’d all gone to the bathroom first. It was his only sleeping bag. Jack roused himself long enough to move to the beanbag chair, where he lay curled with his hands between his knees. Albert wondered when he’d last slept.

  “I guess you and I are sleeping on the floor,” said Albert.

  “How old is he?” said Bobby, looking down at Jack.

  “’Bout your age.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  Albert poured two large glasses of brandy and handed one to Bobby. They sat with their backs to the door, listening to the younger children breathe. Other than Cathy and Kenny, none seemed able to sleep, although they remained silent, their eyes only half-closed. Listening, Albert suspected. It’s what he used to do at their age, what he still did most nights if he didn’t drink enough. They were watching him, too.

  It was quiet inside the cabin, and the air was hot and smelled of children in need of baths. The cabin was like a tree house, someplace where you needed a special password to gain admittance, but once admitted, it was yours and trespassers would be prosecuted. The only problem was, Albert thought, now everybody had the fucking password.

  “Albert?” Bobby asked after a while.

  “What?”

  “Is this why you don’t move off the mountain?”

  Albert didn’t answer and a while later Bobby said, “I think you’re a great guy. Honest.” His voice only slightly slurred with brandy. He patted Albert’s shoulder and squeezed it. Albert surprised himself by permitting this.

  Now and again, they heard noises outside and Albert got up to look out the window. Once it was Old Harold pissing and stumbling by the side of the house; twice it was more cars coming for dope or booze; once it was Dan and Ray in some sort of slow motion wrestling match, which ended when Carrie threw a pan of water on them. People moved in and out of the house and tossed bottles into the woods, spit into the night air, but no one came through the pines to the cabin. At some point Bobby slumped down on his sleeping bag, put his jacket under his head and fell asleep, and by then most of the kids were asleep as well. Jack snored on the beanbag chair, his head at an angle sure to cause him pain when he woke.

  Albert should have been embarrassed to have Bobby see the way they lived, and mortified because Bobby would surely know the truth of what went on up at the house, and be able to deduce what had happened to Albert himself. He should have been embarrassed, and enraged because of it, but he wasn’t. He felt tired, that was sure, and invaded. But something else. He felt clean, somehow. That was the word for it. Clean. As though something filthy that had stuck to his skin for years had finally soaked off and disappeared.

  He imagined he floated in a cool pond of water. Silver water. A strange texture to the water, like mercury. It shimmered all around him, reflecting nothing, absorbed all the images floating just outside his line of vision and transformed them into an argent pool—opaque and formless. It was a seductive sea where nothing was expected of him, each separate action, and each single decision fused into the liquid surrounding him, blending it into a pearly mass where all things were acceptable and no judgment existed. Then, in the way of dreams, the quick flash of intuition, he realized the opalescent fluid was something toxic. His skin tingled. Deeper. It burned. The water burned his skin. He floundered, finding no bottom to stand on, no branch or rock to cling to, no bank to scramble onto. He screamed and . . .

  He jerked awake, crying out, a mosquito stinging his neck, the buzz loud as a dentist’s drill. He swatted it, found blood and the fragile crust of wing and thorax on his palm. Across the room, pairs of eyes stared and for a moment he thought they were ghosts. His flesh goose-pimpled. “Go back to sleep,” he said to the eyes. Brenda and Griff and wolfish Jack. Something weighed him down. Bobby was next to him, his leg like a sack of sand over Albert’s, dead to the world, his mouth open and a thin trail of glimmering drool hanging from his lip. Shouldn’t have drunk that last brandy. Albert kicked Bobby’s leg off his. He shook off sleep like a dog shakes off water. He edged away from Bobby and sat with his back leaning against the door. He watched the light from the newly risen moon slide across the bodies and the floorboards as it played hide and seek with the clouds. He watched it slip across the floor like some sort of enchantment, like a spell, like something searching with a bone-pale light.

  Now that he was fully awake again, Albert’s mind wouldn’t quiet. It raced with scenarios of what might happen tomorrow. There hadn’t been much sound from the main house for some time, although he couldn’t be sure how long. He wanted to light a match and see what time it was, but didn’t want to risk doing anything that might set the children to crying. It was as though the world had separated, had taken on the illusion of two dimensions—that which was inside the cabin and that which was outside. The one contained within the body of the other. The weight of outside, all that darkness in all its forms—slouching and encroaching and dragging its desires with it—pressed down on the flimsy walls and roof, threatening to collapse the insubstantial structure into matchsticks. The air was thick with funk, nerves, and the smell of unbrushed
teeth, stale brandy-breath, and yeasty bodies. Albert imagined the inside of his lungs as sticky with the stagnant, child-filtered air. He closed his eyes, tried to picture himself somewhere wild and lonely and windswept. Told himself to breathe regularly. Calm down. Inside his head was a space as inky as the presence he imagined outside the cabin. It rippled with waves of panic, like concussions, like a movie of slow motion explosions. With every breath, his insides billowed and roiled.

  All the calm of a few moments before, when he’d fancied being washed clean, was gone. His life before this night seemed like some long ago delusion. Maybe he’d been dirty, he would admit that, but he’d also been damn near invisible. Now, he was all clean and shiny and as easy to spot as a mirror’s flash along a rock face in the noonday sun.

  Brenda moaned—in her sleep, Albert hoped. A small, humpbacked field mouse pattered along the wall behind the stove and disappeared through a crack in the wood. Keep going pal, he thought. And then he decided. Fuck it. He positioned himself next to Bobby and placed his palm on the boy’s mouth. Softly. Felt the warm drool on his skin. He shook Bobby ever so gently. “Wake up,” he whispered in his ear.

  Bobby’s eyes snapped wide and his body went rigid. He tried to slap at Albert, but Albert stretched out, leaned hard into him with his shoulder and his chest so the boy wouldn’t struggle. No doubt at least some of the children were alerted, but to hell with them. He put his face close to Bobby’s. “Keep fucking quiet,” he said. “I’m warning you.”

  Bobby nodded once and although his eyes retained the look of a trapped bird, Albert took his hand away. Bobby gulped air. Albert looked at the boy closely, judging how this would go. Bobby’s bony hip dug into his belly. The look in Bobby’s eyes was unmistakable, and familiar. He knew exactly what Bobby was thinking. Maybe it was just as well, for that would certainly be the end of whatever this was.

  “What are you doing?” Bobby whispered, more a mere movement of lips than sound. He lay still under the weight of Albert’s strength and muscle.

  Albert smiled a milky flash in the dark. “I’m getting you out of here,” Albert said. “We’re both getting out of here.”

  “What?” Confusion in the boy’s face now.

  “Get your stuff and follow me.” Albert rolled off him.

  Bobby rose to his knees. “What about them?” He gestured around the cabin where the children stirred and watched and waited.

  Jack said, “Answer him, Albert. Go on.”

  Albert pulled a backpack off the top shelf over the couch and shoved things inside it. Jeans, T-shirts. He stumbled in the dark and cursed. He picked up a book, held it to the moonlight and then tossed it aside, picked up another and stuffed that in the bag.

  Kenny began to cry and within seconds little Cathy snuffled and snivelled and then began to howl. Children shifted and moved in the shadows and to Albert it seemed sinister, as though they were zombies, getting ready to attack.

  “Shut her up!” growled Albert.

  Frank tried to shush her, bouncing her and patting her back and letting her bury her little head in his armpit and the howls died down to muted whimpers. The silence was thick in the corners of the room, crawling with accusation and childish fury.

  “You’re a cocksucking motherfucker,” said Jack, standing.

  “Aren’t we all,” said Albert. He grabbed Bobby’s shoulder, bunching up the fabric of his T-shirt. He pushed him roughly toward the door, and opened it. “The cabin’s all yours, Jack. I’m gone. Consider it your inheritance.”

  A light switched on in the main house. A door slammed. They had fucking radar up there. There might not be much time.

  “I don’t want your fucking shack,” Jack said. The boy took steps toward him, stumbling a little, rubbing his leg, as though it had gone to sleep and had pins and needles. “Albert, come on. Take us with you.”

  From the main house came the sound of something breaking. Something wood, not glass. A chair maybe. Albert turned toward the sound. High-pitched voices followed. The women, more than one, and shrill, Sybil maybe, cursing someone out, or maybe Gloria, or both. Fighting each other maybe. Darkness magnified the sounds, disassembled them around the tree trunks, the hummocks and litter piles, bounced and tossed them between the structures, the outhouse, the broken-down cars. Something metal—metal against metal. Pots? Glass shattering. A voice, Dan’s, swearing like a rabid wolverine. The curses scudded through the trees like ragged, startled crows. Albert and Bobby stood in the open doorway, Albert still with a clump of Bobby’s T-shirt in his fist. He had to wait, see if they were coming out, or if he had time to slip through, put the truck in neutral, and let the grade roll him out past the house before he turned the engine on.

  “Maybe we should take them,” said Bobby, looking at the kids.

  That was all it took. In an instant they started, all of them, grabbing at Albert, nipping at him, fingers around his legs, his belt loops, his arms. Take us with you. Don’t leave us. Don’t leave us. Don’t leave us. Wheedling, demanding, crying. Louder. Louder still. He shook them off, his skin prickling, panic rising. He didn’t want to hurt them, but more than that, he didn’t want their hands on him. “Get the fuck off! I’ll hit you if I have to! I’ll do it, you little shits. Get off!”

  “Fuck you,” said Jack. “You get in that truck, we’re getting in, too.”

  “I’d like to see you try,” said Albert, dragging Bobby to the truck, praying the noise up in the house was enough to muffle the voices of the children.

  Somebody from the house screamed. A child. A girl.

  Albert stopped in his tracks. “Where the fuck is Toots?” he said.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Dorothy knelt on the shop floor and swept up the shattered remains of a dropped plate. She was discombobulated, not herself at all. Since her trip to the mountain, she had slept poorly, her brain chattering like a demented monkey, and her utterly unsatisfactory meeting with Carl Whitford had not helped. She had no appetite. She found herself peeling her split nails, and scratching at mysteriously appearing bumps on her skin. Unaccustomed to indecision, her fretting, fussing and paralytic confusion soured her stomach and only increased her self-recrimination. This was the second thing she had broken while dusting, the first being a pretty hand-painted glass vase. The fact the broken plate had brought her to the verge of tears, only testified to her state of mind.

  She emptied the broken china into the wastebasket. How she wished William was here. Who else had she ever talked to, ever trusted to provide sage advice? She went to the window and looked out, unconsciously scratching the back of her hand, watching to see if Ivy might be coming down the street. But the street was quiet, just a couple of teenage girls giggling as they walked past, a truck coming down the street. The truck. Familiar. Albert Erskine’s truck.

  Dorothy’s heartbeat quickened, pushed up into the base of her throat. Should she try and flag him down? Talk to him? They had always had a civil relationship. If she told him what she’d seen, would he confide in her? Could they go together to the sheriff? The truck neared and she opened the door and stepped out. She was about to raise her hand when she saw he was not alone. Bobby Evans sat in the front seat, with something on his lap. A knapsack? They were engrossed in conversation and did not look at her as they passed. And then they were gone, leaving her there as witness on the sidewalk, but witness to what?

  After spending a few hours pacing about the store, doing nothing useful, obsessing and rehashing, Dorothy closed shop, went home and didn’t hesitate to pour herself a decent-sized, medicinal shot of scotch whiskey. She put her nose into the glass and inhaled. It smelled nutty, of peat and wood smoke. She downed it in one throat-searing gulp. The amber warmth spread along her throat into her belly and out into her arms and legs. The most beautiful lilac and pewter sunset exploded behind the trees. She watched it until it faded, and tried to persuade herself all was
right with the world. And all shall be well, and all shall be well and all manner of things shall be well. Julian of Norwich’s prayer. It didn’t work. She poured herself an unheard of second drink, with a little water this time, and then ran a bath in which she soaked for half an hour. When she got out, she lay down across the bed, intending to get her thoughts in order and make some decisions. Perhaps it was the whiskey on an empty stomach, or the several nights of sleeplessness, but she dozed without realizing it, dreaming unsettled, fleeting dreams, and when she awoke, it was nearly ten.

  She rolled to the side of the bed and sat up, blinking. In the clarity that sometimes occurs when one drops one’s troubles into the arms of Morpheus, what she must do was now obvious—absurd she had not seen it before. In the bathroom, she quickly splashed cold water on her face, rinsing away the lingering whiskey-fugue. She pulled on some sweatpants and a sweatshirt and went down to the kitchen. She hesitated then, and stood looking at the phone. Since that night she’d so indiscreetly suggested that she “step in” Tom had been cool toward her, although as polite as ever. She wanted very much not to have to make the call, for it was a boulder pushed off a cliff. Once rolling, she wouldn’t be able to stop it. Nevertheless, she knew what she knew. She could not unknow it. With knowledge came responsibility, a responsibility she’d been shirking for a long time.

  She picked up the phone and punched in the Evanses’ number.

  “Hello?”

  “Tom, I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

  “No, no. Just watching the boob tube. What can I do for you?”

  “Well, this is probably just me being silly,” Dorothy realized her hands were actually perspiring. She wiped then on her trousers. “But, is Bobby there?”

  “Bobby? Why do you want to know if Bobby’s here?”

  “Is he there, Tom?”

  “No. He’s not. He’s at a friend’s house. Spending the night.”