by Belva Plain
“A drink? A cup of coffee, at least?”
“No, thank you, Mrs. Just take care of the boy here. And you, mind your grandfather from now on, hear?”
The door closed, thudding into silence. Where Eric stood, in cotton trousers and thin shirt, a smudge of wet spread on the floor.
“Eric, tell me,” Anna whispered, “tell me what’s wrong?”
“I hate it here! It’s a mean, ugly place. I hate this house! You had no right to take me away from my home, and I’m going back. I’m not going to stay. I’ll run away again. You can’t keep me—”
“What kind of crazy talk is this?” Joseph cried. “This is your home. You know there’s no place else, no one but us to take care of you. You ought to be glad that—”
“Joseph! Hush!” Anna commanded. “Eric, listen to me. We can talk about all that tomorrow. But tonight it’s late and you can’t go anywhere in weather like this. There’s nobody out tonight.”
He swayed and grasped the back of a chair. “Come, come upstairs and then in the morning we can decide what to do,” Anna coaxed, urging him toward the stairs.
He was so weary that he had to pull himself up by the banister.
“I’ll heat a can of soup,” Ruth whispered.
Joseph followed them and started into Eric’s room.
“No,” Eric said, “I don’t want anybody. Leave me alone, all of you. I hate you all.”
The door slammed in their faces. They stood in the hall.
“I don’t understand it,” Joseph said again. He twisted his hands together. “He’s been so cheerful, so agreeable. We were going to buy football gear today. I don’t understand—”
Last week Anna had noticed that Eric trembled, or so she thought, but when she had mentioned it, Joseph had said it was nonsense. She didn’t remind him now.
Ruth came up with a cup of soup and joined them in the hall at the closed, defiant door.
“I don’t know what to do,” Anna whispered.
“This is ridiculous,” Joseph said. “Three adults intimidated by a naughty boy. I’m going in.”
He pushed the door open. Eric lay on the bed in his underwear, his face half hidden. His wet shirt and pants were on the floor. In the weak smudged light from the desk lamp they could see that he was weeping.
Joseph laid a hand on his shoulder. “Now, why should you be crying? A big boy like you, basketball champ, football player?”
“Joseph, get out,” Anna said fiercely. Talking to the boy as if he were a backsliding three-year-old who had soiled his pants! He forgets how he cried, how we held each other when this child’s father—
“What did you say?”
“‘Get out’ is what I said.”
“What are you talking about? Here’s Ruth with hot soup, we only want to help—”
“You’ll help by leaving him alone. Yes, there’s one thing you can do. Hand me a quilt from the linen closet; there’s a heavy blue one on the top shelf. And then go,” she said, turning upon him a look which seemed to amaze him.
When she had covered Eric and shut the door she came and sat down on the bed.
“Now cry,” she commanded. “God knows you’ve had reason enough. Cry it out. As loud as you want.”
She had a glimpse of an anguished face; then the head went down to hide in the quilt, the body thrashed, shaking the bed. The sound of grief, deadened at first by the muffling quiet, rose into gasping cries, tearing the air, tearing the heart.
What can he think of a world in which his family always dies? Twice now, his home has been destroyed. Is he afraid that we too will die, Joseph and I? And then where will he go? Ought we to talk to him about that? Some other time, of course, not now?
A baby, Anna thought. Because he’s tall and smart and speaks well we think he can cope with anything. It’s hard enough for us to cope, old as we are. One foot stuck out of the muddle of quilt, one arm thrust over the head. Thin childish arm, large dangling hand of a man. Voice that veered from a squeal to a growl. And the first fuzz on the cheeks, so cherished, so anxiously examined in the mirror every morning. Maury used to take a hand mirror to the light at the window.
“Yes, cry,” she repeated. “You’ve had enough to cry about.”
On the opposite wall the haughty, elegant face of Bellingham looked at them from above the desk, surrounded by the books and photographs, the relics of the shrine that Eric had made. Yes, a shrine, built for the same reasons men have always made shrines.
Long minutes later (how many? Five? Fifteen?), the heap of quilting moved and struggled. A wet face emerged and was laid upon Anna’s shoulder. Her arms went out and she raised the cheek to her own. And they sat there, rocking slightly, while the weeping died away into a long, shaking sigh. Then a quick sob, another sigh, long sighs and quivers and, finally, ease.
“Ah, yes, ah, yes,” she said.
“I’m not asleep,” Eric whispered. “Did you think I was?”
“No.”
“Where is Grandpa? I want to tell him something.”
“Grandpa, if I know him, is walking up and down the hall outside this room with his hands behind his back, the way he always does when he’s terribly upset. Shall I call him?”
“Yes.”
“Joseph?” she called.
The door opened instantly. “You want me?”
“Eric wants you.”
Eric’s head went back under the protection of the quilt. “I only wanted to tell you I don’t hate you,” he whispered, without looking up. “I don’t hate it here.”
“We know you don’t,” Joseph said. “We know.” He cleared his throat. He coughed.
“George is hungry,” Eric said.
Joseph cleared his throat again. “I fed him. He was very hungry. And thirsty, too. He’s asleep now in the living room.”
“I feel sleepy too, I think.”
“Yes, yes,” Anna said. “Lie down, I’ll cover you properly.”
“Doesn’t he need something to eat?” Joseph asked.
“No, better for him to sleep now. In the morning he can have a big breakfast.”
“Here, let me fix the quilt,” Joseph said.
She stood a moment, watching his clumsy arrangement of it, feeling his need to do something, some little thing, anything.
Oh, for Joseph’s sake, for mine, oh, not to lose this boy, too! Was it our fault? Can one ever say, “If this hadn’t been, then that wouldn’t have been”? But if it was our fault, let us hope not to repeat it—
So much to learn about this child, so little time left before he would be a man. And always, always, the secret places never to be entered. On those ancient maps that Iris collected there was a lonely boundary with a legend: Terra incognita. Unexplored land.
West of Gibraltar, Anna thought, where the world ended. They went out softly and as softly closed the door.
32
Vision blurred in the shimmering light; the sky, the sea and the sand merged in a white glare; figures were seen as red or blue dots in a painting by a Pointillist. But sound was distinct. It carried from far down the beach; swimmers’ voices were heard on shore; they had the clarity of voices heard across snow.
The little boys were laughing in shallow water. Or rather, Jimmy was laughing while Eric held him, teaching him to swim, although he was only two and a half. Steve screamed and resisted.
Anna said, “It’s strange that it’s the older one who’s scared.”
“Jimmy’s a tough little guy.” Joseph chuckled. He admired toughness.
Iris was silent. She laid her book face down on her enormous belly, which formed a shelf; she was pregnant again, only five months, but she looked almost ready to deliver. She was thoughtful. People were beginning to think Jimmy was the elder boy. He was almost as tall as Steve and when they were seated Jimmy looked bigger and sturdier. Only this morning, when they had all arrived at the beach, Mrs. Malone had walked over to greet them and made the mistake. Iris read so much about the psychology of children but the books didn’t real
ly tell you what to do. In each special situation you had to use your own judgment.
Steve screamed again and Eric released him. He sat down in two inches of water.
“Don’t you think—?” Iris began, but Theo, who had been walking on the beach with a colleague, came up behind her.
“You don’t have to worry with Eric there. He knows what to do.”
Theo had great regard for Eric. They all had. He was so dependable for his years, Eric was.
Now Eric carried Steve to the semicircle where they were all sitting. Jimmy trudged alongside. His walk was still a baby waddle.
“You don’t have to,” Eric soothed. “We won’t swim anymore if you don’t want to!”
“What’s the matter? Why is he scared?” Joseph wanted to know. “Shouldn’t you make him go back and learn that there’s nothing to be scared of?”
“He can’t learn all stiffened up like that, Grandpa. You’d just make him hate it. He’s only three and a half, anyway.”
“Yes, only three and a half,” Anna repeated. “We forget because he’s so smart.”
Steve had astounded them this past week by picking out some words in the newspaper. He had remembered the “c” for “cat” in a picture book, the “a” for “apple” and the “t” for “tree.” He had recognized the word “cat,” and after that two or three more words, amazing the family.
Steve dove for his mother’s lap. He burrowed, but there was no place to sit, so he butted his head hard against her.
“No, no,” Iris said, holding him away. “You’ll hurt Mommy, you’ll hurt the baby in her tummy.”
Joseph shook his head disapprovingly and muttered, “What next? You think he understands that? Much easier to tell him it’s the stork and be done with it.”
Privately, Anna agreed, but, after all, it was Theo’s and Iris’ business. “Come here, come to Nana,” she said. “Look what I have for you.”
She was sheltered under a beach umbrella to keep her thin skin from peeling. She had a beach chair and a bag. The supplies that came out of this bag were seemingly endless: tissues, sun lotion, handkerchiefs, Band-Aids, a bag of homemade spice cookies, a novel for herself and picture books for the children. People always laughed affectionately at Anna’s organization and took advantage of it.
“Here, sit down, Nana will read you a story,” she told Steve.
He crawled on her lap, dripping wet sand. If he couldn’t have his mother’s lap, Nana’s would be a good substitute. He was still shaking from his fright in the water, although he trusted Eric, knew Eric wouldn’t hurt him. But he was scared anyway. And Jimmy was splashing water in his eyes. Jimmy hurt. Mommy was always saying, “Don’t be so rough with Jimmy, he’s still a baby.” But Jimmy hit. He threw his pail at me.
He leaned his head against Nana’s softness. She read The Little Engine That Could. Every day, somebody read it to him. It was his favorite book and he knew where all the words were supposed to come, beneath every picture.
Nana pulled two cookies out of the bag. “One for you,” she said. “And one for Jimmy. Come and get yours, Jimmy.”
Jimmy took his and walked to some people sitting near them on the sand. He stood and stared, holding his cookie.
“Oh, isn’t he darling!” a woman cried. “Look, Bill, isn’t that the cutest ever? What’s your name, sonny?”
“Not sonny. Jimmy,” he said.
“Well, hello, Jimmy. Bill, look at those eyes!”
Theo scrambled up to fetch Jimmy and apologized.
“He isn’t brothering us … he’s just a very sociable fellow.”
“That he is.” Theo smiled proudly, agreeing.
Jimmy came over and stood listening to Nana. He never listened very long. Nana said it was because he was too little to understand very much of the story. He still hadn’t eaten his cookie, although Steve had finished his. He always walked around carrying his food as if he didn’t want it and sometimes he would even drop it on the floor, but if Steve should pick it up and eat it he would howl. Seeing him standing with that uneaten cookie made Steve want another one.
“I want another cookie,” he said, but his mother heard and said no, he wouldn’t eat any dinner and one is enough. At Nana’s house, he knew, he would have gotten another, but now Nana said, “Your mommy said no.”
Jimmy’s cookie was almost touching Steve’s arm. He couldn’t take his eyes away from it.
“Why don’t you eat the cookie, Jimmy?” Nana asked.
Jimmy didn’t answer. He laid it on the sand and picked up his shovel. Steve reached out and took the cookie. Jimmy howled and hit Steve with the shovel.
“No, no!” Nana cried.
Steve slid out of Nana’s lap and shoved Jimmy. He fell and hit his head on the umbrella pole. He screamed.
His father jumped up and grabbed Jimmy to examine his head. There was nothing wrong with it, but Jimmy kept crying. His father yelled at Steve, “If you hit Jimmy again you’re going to be sorry!”
“He hit me with the shovel!”
“That’s true,” Nana said.
“I don’t care, he’s the older one and he’s got to learn.”
“I want my cookie,” Jimmy sobbed.
“Did Steve take his cookie?” Mommy wanted to know.
“I think,” Nana said, “I think he thought Jimmy didn’t want it anymore.”
Joseph groaned in mock despair. “Good God! You need King Solomon to settle this.”
“Sibling rivalry,” Iris explained. “A pain in the neck and perfectly normal.”
Eric had just swum in from the float. “Come on, I’ll build you a sand castle,” he told the boys and drew them to the water’s edge. “I’ll build you a great big one, big as you are. I’ll show you a shell I found. I’ll put it to your ear and you can listen to it.”
“Have you seen his shell collection?” Joseph asked. “Tell him to show it to you when you come next Friday, Theo. He’s got a cabinet full in his room, all classified and labeled. Very methodical.”
“He built the cabinet himself,” Anna interposed. “You know, he’s got golden hands. He can fix anything. Last week I wanted to call the plumber for the kitchen sink but Eric figured out what was wrong with it for me.”
“You think he’s content here, Theo?” Joseph asked anxiously.
“Yes, yes, he’s come a long way in two years. You can see it for yourself, can’t you?”
Joseph nodded happily. “Sure, but I wanted to hear somebody else tell me.”
The beach was given over to the young. They dove off the dock and raced to the floats where they could be seen, when you shaded your eyes and squinted in the lowering sun, prone and spread-eagled, rocking and tilting on the water. They paraded along the strip of sand at the water’s edge and gathered at the shed where ice cream was sold. The group of boys and girls formed and reformed in a ritual of watchful laughter and calculated ease, a ritual as carefully rehearsed and learned as fencing or ballet.
Three girls with new breasts and not one blemish sauntered casually toward Eric. Their perfect skin reminded Anna of a fresh white dress, just lifted out of tissue paper and not yet worn; it would never look quite like that again.
Eric said something to the girls and they saw him turn in their direction. Iris called to him and he walked over.
“Go along with your friends,” she said. “You didn’t come to baby-sit. And thanks for amusing the boys.
“Good!” she exclaimed when Eric had gone down the beach with the girls.
“What’s good?” asked Joseph, who had roused from a half nap.
“That he didn’t ask permission. He just went and didn’t say where he was going.” And when no one answered, Iris declared, “He’s fifteen, you know. It’s time.”
“Yes, you’re right,” Anna said. Iris had the true gift of understanding. She had established something easy and trustful between herself and Eric. He dropped in often after school to visit; he was at home with Iris and Theo. That was as it should be. All
the adults in his life had been too old, like Joseph and herself.
“Eric’s so patient with the boys,” Iris remarked. “He really loves them, you know?”
Anna observed, “Because he’s been an only child, I suppose.”
No, Theo thought, not so. Because, like me, he’s been an orphan of the storm and he’s grateful for the warmth. Grateful, that’s what we are, he and I.
The sun struck with a penetrating sweetness; at the same time a breeze moved over his flesh. It was so good drowsing here, good to do nothing, to think of nothing. He lay back on the blanket. Theo liked beach life. Having grown up in Austria, he had never had any, yet now that it was available he didn’t have much time for it.
But that was all right; he surely wasn’t about to complain that his practice had grown so large! Sometimes he couldn’t believe the changes in his life during these few years since he had emerged from disguise and taken part in the liberation of Paris. A friendless stranger only a few years ago, and now so—so established! A fine, gentle wife. Two and a half children. A beautiful house. He smiled inwardly. He really didn’t admire the house; it was too modern, too austere with its abstract paintings and bare floors. So Spartan. The food was Spartan too, for Iris was no cook and didn’t even know how to train a maid to cook. But all of that was unimportant, and plain food was better for you anyway. Besides, Anna kept sending things over to them, or inviting them. At her house one dined richly on sauces, wines and whipped-cream cakes. Afterward one relaxed on flowered chairs; Anna would bring out fruit and chocolates; Joseph would pour brandy. They were lavish givers and enjoyers of good things, his parents-in-law. They reminded him of Vienna. He closed his eyes …
And started up, his heart drumming, bruising itself against his ribs. Had he cried out in the agony of the dream? But no, no one was looking toward him. He shut his eyes again. It had been a few years now since this terror had last come over him, half waking, half sleeping. An explosion in slow motion, it was, like a movie montage: fragments of peaked Nazi caps and smart boots; his own garden wall; a tiled corner of his roof; the rose-carved bed where he slept with Liesel; the fuzzy head of their newborn baby; his father’s hands, pleading and chained; Liesel’s eyes, screaming; all rose roaring into the fiery air, splintered and crackled and broke, then settled into ash.