by Jaap Robben
“Lucien’s got five.”
“Could be worse.”
“He has to take them every day. That’s a lot of pills in a year.”
“Your mum agreed all this with the home. That was her business. At first she went off the deep end about them pumping your brother full of pills, but when he started acting up around her she said ‘yes’ to any crap that was going.” While he’s talking, Dad holds one of the pallets at an angle and sticks the plug of his jigsaw in the extension cord. “Pop these on your brother’s head, will you?” Dad chucks a pair of ear protectors my way. Lucien shrinks deeper into the pillow when I clamp them over his ears, shakes his head as the jagged wail of the saw rips through the air around us. When Dad’s finished, I hear Lucien humming softly to himself.
“Do you know what they gave him that time with my ear?”
“Something to calm him down.”
I hold up the file.
“Pff …” He runs a pinkie caked in sawdust down the list. “Could be any of them.”
“How do the doctors know where Lucien hurts?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then does he really need all these pills?”
“Bry, do I look like a doctor to you? We give your brother whatever’s on the list.”
Rico and Rita take cover in the shade under the bed, rubbing and twisting their backs against the slats on the underside of the mattress. Lucien hauls himself up and leans as far over the bed rail as he can, catches the occasional glimpse of Rico’s swishing tail.
“Bry?”
“Hmm.”
“I’m off out,” Dad says, eyes fixed on the garage. “Forty minutes max.”
“Where you off to?”
“To fetch some applesauce. Can’t have your brother going hungry.”
“And what about him?”
“He stays here with you.”
“With me? No way. What am I supposed to do with him?”
“Just … nothing at all. Let him watch the dogs. Make sure he doesn’t swallow any wasps. Maybe give him something to drink. If he gets restless, stroke his hands a bit. It’s not like you can do much wrong.”
“And if something happens?”
“An hour tops, Brian. I’ll be back before you know it.”
Dad drives off and I go inside to put the file back where I found it. Everything looks so familiar in the caravan that I have trouble imagining Lucien lives with us now. I look out through the little window above the sink—he’s still there.
Among last year’s dog-eared school notebooks, I dig out a comic I haven’t read in a while and settle down in Dad’s easy chair. I catch my own reflection in the dark of the television screen, then decide to take another quick look through the window. Lucien is lying there peacefully enough. Back to the chair. Thirty-two minutes past three. I read the first few pages of my comic, though I know every speech bubble by heart. Three thirty-five, thirty-six. Outside, the high wall of poplars rustles. Swallows whistle and click. Three thirty-eight. I get absorbed in my comic again.
“Quarter to four!” I’ve left Lucien alone too long. I dash outside. He’s still lying there. A flat little wasp hovers above his face, quivering with curiosity. It zips off to the side then back to his nose, hangs in the air above his forehead, then vanishes.
“Want a drink?”
Lucien’s right arm is sticking out between the bars of the bed rail. Rico and Rita take turns licking his hand. “Hhhhhh,” he sighs, and his mouth becomes one long yawn. “Watch it,” I say. “They bite, you know.” But Rico and Rita go on licking his fingers like an endless ice cream, without so much as a growl. Sometimes they lick at the same time, but mostly one waits patiently for the other to turn away.
Jean emerges from the garage, parks his oxygen tank and pulls out his lighter. From the way he stops in mid flow, I can tell he’s spotted Lucien. He shouts something over his shoulder.
Henri appears, wiping his mucky paws on an old tea towel. I can see them mouthing off to one another. When I raise my hand, only Jean waves back before they disappear inside again.
-
17
“Hey Brian, take a look at this!” Dad yells excitedly. He’s standing at the truck, leaning in past the steering wheel. “A welcome-home present for your brother.” He pulls out a battered cardboard box with a banana on the side.
Beaming with pride, he holds it out to me. Towers of Duplo, built by the kid who used to own them. Toy cars, bashed about until the paint began to peel. A solitary domino tile. Dried-out needles from a Christmas tree are piled deep in the corners. “Not a bad haul, eh?”
I shrug. “What happened to the applesauce?”
“All in good time. This was a stroke of unexpected luck. Remember how you loved this stuff when you were a kid?”
What I remember most was Mum knotting our Duplo blocks in a pillow case and popping them in the washing machine. I never saw the need. Lucien had already sucked them clean. His toothmarks were all over my blocks.
Dad sidles up to me. “Anything happen while I was away?”
“What? With Lucien, you mean?”
He nods over at the garage. “Any visitors?”
“Jean came out for a smoke. He shouted to Henri and they both ogled us for a while.”
“That was all?”
I nod.
“See! What did I tell you?” Dad looks pleased with himself. “They’re all talk. Now your brother’s here, they don’t dare lift a finger.” Lucien slams his foot against the banana box and sends the Duplo rattling. Rico and Rita think the noise means food and snuffle the foot of the bed.
“Fuckin’ hell!” Dad yells. “Jesus!”
“What?”
“Have you seen the state of your brother? This cheek’s fine …” He grabs Lucien by the chin and turns his other cheek toward me. “But look.” Half of his face is bright red, so red that the downy hairs on his cheek stand out like gold fuzz. Dad turns Lucien’s head from side to side so I can see the difference, then let’s go. “You might have put up a parasol or something.”
“You said I couldn’t do anything wrong.”
“That’s when your brother was still in the shade.”
Lucien presses his sunburned cheek deep into the pillow. The insides of his arms are red too.
“What now?” We’ll have to call the home. Maybe Selma will pick up the phone. No, of course she won’t.
“Let’s get him into the shade first.” Dad is already halfway to the swimming pool behind Emile’s caravan. Lucien licks the corners of his mouth.
I take his chin carefully between finger and thumb, and turn his head to take another look at the difference. His neck, the rims of his ear, and one side of his forehead are glowing. I press a white patch on his skin with my pinkie. It turns bright red again as soon as I let go. “Sorry, bro,” I say. “I need to look out for you more.” I hold his face still and run my thumbs under his eyes. “You like this, don’t you? That’s how Selma does it.”
“Huu-huu-huu!”
“Selma,” I say again. Lucien wobbles, starts to twist and crane his neck to see over my shoulder. “Hey, settle down. Selma’s not here.”
Dad comes back with a party tent that’s been lying in the weeds and the mud since last year. “Never chuck anything out,” he shouts triumphantly. He’s carrying the tent by two legs while the other two jerk through the grass behind him.
Lucien frowns at the flapping white roof unfolding above him. Long-legged spiders creep out of the creases. “Don’t be scared,” I whisper to him. “Now you won’t get sunburned anymore.” We brush away the cobwebs and fumble with the guy ropes. One of them won’t reach all the way to the caravan, so I tie it to the bed. When I pull the other one tight, I can just fasten it to one of the bars of the dog cage. Dad rolls the rim of an old car wheel ahead of him with his foot,
lets it topple beside the bed, and ties the final rope to that. “Right then …”
We shake the legs of the tent and dried mud shimmies down the plastic. We brush the stray crumbs from Lucien’s sheet.
“Oh, yeah,” Dad says brightly. “Nearly forgot.” He walks over to the back of the pickup. “Close your eyes.”
I hear a dull thud on the grass, then rustling and a command for the dogs to stay away. When he lets me look, I open my eyes to see a six-foot stretch of Astroturf rolled out beside the bed. “Our half-cooked lobster will want for nothing.”
“Where did you get that?”
“It was going begging. Sweet price.”
“What else you got back there?”
“Can’t I treat my boys once in a while?”
“Yeah, but …”
“Kick off those flip-flops,” he commands cheerfully. “Take a little walk.”
It feels soft beneath my feet.
“And?” A thump on my shoulder.
“Yeah, feels good.”
“Well then.”
“We need to put something on Lucien’s cheek. Want me to call and ask if they know what’s best?”
“If who knows what’s best?”
“The number in Lucien’s file. In case there’s a problem.”
“Are you mad?” he barks, as if I’ve got the phone in my hand. “What’s that you say, sir? Lucien’s been home one afternoon and already he’s got a faceful of blisters? Why, that won’t do. The minibus will be round to pick him up directly.” Dad grabs the bar at the foot of the bed and lifts it a little way off the ground. Lucien is too busy glowering at the plastic above his head to notice. His right cheek looks fiercely ashamed of itself.
“Full-fat yoghurt,” Dad says. “Works like a charm.”
-
18
The light that creeps into the bedroom with me makes his crooked, curled-up legs look even paler. Lucien has kicked off the covers. Dad’s pallets have made a fortress of what used to be my bed. Quiet as I can, I tiptoe to the mattress on the floor. My shadow ripples over Lucien’s body. His breath is moist, his eyes stay shut.
I let my swimming trunks drop to the floor and kick them away, then kneel down and pull the empty duvet cover over me. Even that’s too warm. Dad’s silhouette fills the open door. “Can I turn out the light?”
“Sure,” I say. “Sleep tight.”
“You too. Both of you.”
A few moments later everything goes black. I hear Dad shut the door to his room and listen to the familiar rummaging around his bed. The clink of his belt buckle, the kicking off of his boots. Night racers skid round a bend in the distance and tear full-throttle onto the bridge.
I snap awake to the sound of someone being strangled. Two minutes to three. I feel my way along the cord to switch on the bedside lamp. Lucien scrunches his eyes in the glare. Three fingers are jammed into his mouth, pinkie and thumb sticking out either side. “What are you doing?” I pull his arm aside so that I can peer down his throat. He tries to bring his fingers back to his face. “Don’t,” I say. “You’ll choke if you don’t watch out.”
“Nga-nga-nga.” The contents of his beaker have stained the mattress pink. The yoghurt mask on his cheek has burst and smeared into his hair.
“Do you want a drink?” There’s still a little left in the bottom of his beaker. His tongue reaches for the spout. “Here, drink this up for now.”
The bedroom door slams open. “Jesus, Dad. What are you doing?”
“I heard someone choking, and I thought …” A long yawn, hollow scratching by his crotch. “… maybe he had you by the throat.”
“He’s thirsty.”
“Go back to sleep,” he mumbles, mainly to himself, and leaves us alone. Lucien slurps air from his empty beaker.
“More?”
He jerks his shoulder toward his ear because he thinks I’m going to tickle him, but I’m only trying to straighten his pillow. “I’ll get you a refill.” The tip of a cigarette glows in the dark of our little bathroom. A trickle of piss hits the bowl, then the sound of pumping until the toilet flushes.
“Try and get some sleep,” I whisper to Lucien once I’ve given him some fresh water. I stroke between his pinkie and his ring finger. I don’t know if it’s helping, but he closes his eyes.
“Calmed down a bit in here?” Dad’s sleepy head peers round the door.
“I think so.”
“What was up?”
“Thirsty.”
“You can bunk up with me, you know.”
“With you?”
“If he’s keeping you awake. With that choking of his.”
“I’m okay.”
“Or you could try and kip on the bed outside. Mosquitoes might eat you alive though.”
“He’s already nodded off.”
The night is fading to light blue. The hoarse cackle of a pheasant sounds below our window. It wakes Lucien too. His pyjama top has crept up, baring part of his belly. His nappy is lopsided. I lean across and rattle the window. The pheasant makes a show of flurrying off and settling down a yard or two further along. Those dopey birds can’t fly, only they don’t seem to know it. There’s something la-di-da about them, as if someone dreamt them up—a posh lady poet caked in makeup.
A construction lamp is shining down on the big steel doors of Brown Henri’s garage. Rita barks. Then Rico. Then Rita again. “Shhh!” I hiss at them to keep quiet and toss one of my flip-flops at their cage, but I’m too late. A distant dog barks back. Lucien’s eyes open and glint in the bluish light. “Moo-wah-wah.”
“Yeah, it’s the dogs.”
I can’t tell if he’s cold or not, but I pull the covers over his legs just to be sure.
-
19
I find a pen and write Selma’s number on the inside of my arm. Lucien has been rocking away since he woke up. Dad’s gone out in the hope of earning some easy money. It will be at least another week before Lucien’s allowance starts coming in. I’m in luck—while I was in the shower Dad stuck a fresh nappy on him.
Footsteps by the door. The puff of an oxygen tank. “Brian?”
“What is it?”
“Where are you?”
“In my room.” I can’t remember Jean ever coming in here before. He’s got Henri in tow.
“Is that him?” Jean pants, clinging to the doorpost of my bedroom.
I nod. Jean and Henri both do their best not to look at Lucien. “What’s your brother’s … name again?”
“Lucien.”
“What’s up with him?” Henri asks, as if Lucien’s not supposed to hear.
“Sunburn. They didn’t tell us he’s not used to the sun.”
“I mean, was he born that way?”
“I think so. Something in Mum’s belly. Nothing she could have done.”
“And Maurice has left you alone … with your brother?” Jean takes a look around my room.
“There’s not much I can do wrong.”
The oxygen tank hisses. Jean shakes his head.
“How long’s he staying?”
“You’ll need to ask Dad. He’ll be back this afternoon.”
Their eyes dart back and forth and I can tell they’ve agreed on something. “Here you go,” Jean says and pulls two cans of energy drink from his trouser pockets. Still cold.
“Thanks,” I say, and wonder what’s coming next.
“I thought you might like it.”
“Hey, Brian,” Henri interrupts. “How long did you say your brother was staying?”
“Don’t know.”
“One week? Two weeks?”
“You heard me. I don’t know.”
Henri pushes Jean aside and grabs me by the arm.
“Ow,” I yelp. “Let go of me.”
�
�Don’t hurt the boy,” Jean says.
“How long is your brother here for?”
“I. Don’t. Know.”
“Yes, you do.” Henri pinches my arm and twists.
“You’re hurting me.”
“There’s more where that came from.”
I look at Jean for help, but he’s fiddling anxiously with the mole on his neck. I try to squirm loose but Henri only tightens his grip. “How long’s your brother here for?”
“Just tell him.” Jean runs his hand over my shoulder. “We won’t let on to your dad.”
“A month, maybe.”
“A month?” They exchange a brief glance. “See! What did I tell you?” Henri’s grip slackens and I pull myself free.
“For fuck’s sake,” Jean growls.
Without another word, Henri storms out of my room and exits the caravan.
“Sorry, Brian. But this is no place for a kid, especially not a kid like him.” Jean must mean it or he would never have crammed so many words into one breath. “And your dad knows that full well.”
“Don’t tell him I told you.”
Jean taps me on the cheek. “You’re the only one who can give yourself away. Keep your mouth shut. We’ll do the same.”
-
20
Lucien sucks on the wet facecloth I’ve given him. I feed him one of the little tubs of applesauce and follow it up with a few chunks of bread. Henri and Jean have really gone—I checked twice.
“Do you want to take a walk?”
He stops rocking.
“The way you did with that Thibaut guy.” I lift his right foot from the mattress. It’s warm and dry. I expect it to be soft and pliable but it’s all knots and bones. His tendons are tight, the corners of his toenails sharp.
I start by turning his ankle every which way. Lucien hums but he doesn’t seem to feel me touching him. It’s as if the foot in my hands isn’t really his and they accidentally clicked someone else’s leg into his hip before they loaded him into the minibus. I dig my thumbnail into his little toe. Lucien goes on humming. I dig deeper and he tries to pull his foot away. “Sorry.” I move his ankle in every direction, push until it won’t go any further, then push a little more. “I’m reminding your feet what they can do.” Thibaut’s words sound weird coming from my mouth, but it feels like I’m doing it right.