Summer Brother

by Jaap Robben

  31

  By late afternoon, a film of pollen is floating on Rita’s water bowl. That and a dead fly. She hasn’t drunk anything. I rattle the cage door and watch the rhythm of her breathing in the skin that sags around her nipples. She doesn’t even try to shake off the flies buzzing around her ears.

  “Dad?”

  “What?”

  “I think there’s something up with Rita.” I say it as casually as I can. “She’s just lying there.”

  “Must be the heat.” He kicks a steel toecap against the bars, then sticks his fingers in his mouth and whistles. Only Rico responds.

  “Hey, little doggy?”

  I squeak open the door. Dad worms his way inside and kneels down next to her. “Jesus. Get some water, Bry. Quick.”

  “Here.” I snatch Lucien’s beaker and twist the top off. Rita licks at the water, but soon starts to splutter and choke.

  “Out of the way.” Dad lifts the weight of her limp body out of the cage, hurries past the bed, and steers her sideways through the door. Inside, he lays her down on his television chair.

  “Wet towels,” he orders. “She’s been in the sun too long.”

  “She might have swallowed one of Lucien’s pills.”

  “This is no time for jokes, Bry.”

  “One of them rolled under his bed.”

  “And she ate it?”

  “She maybe ate three.”

  “It’s the heat, Bry. If only you’d given more of a fuck about that. A pill or two can’t hurt her.”

  We lay the wet towels on her belly. Dad tries to pour a few sips of water into her mouth, but most of it runs down her teeth and out the sides.

  “Should I get the electric fan?”

  “Top up that bucket.”

  We soak the towels again, dab her neck, her belly. “You’ll be all right, girl. It’s all right,” Dad almost croons. He feels her ear. “She’s cooling down.”

  There’s a trembling in her legs, then a sigh. Deeper than before. I only notice because after that she doesn’t breathe at all. Her head slumps sideways and her tongue twists out between her teeth.

  “What’s she doing?”

  “Aw no, poor old girl,” Dad stammers. “Dear old girl.” He stays on his knees next to her chair, barely moves. “It’s okay, girl. Let go.”

  “She’s dying! Do something.” I thump his shoulder.

  “On you go, girl. That’s right, let go.”

  “You can’t just let her die!” I shout in panic. A dark trickle of wee comes from between Rita’s hind legs.

  “Do something. You’ve got to do something.”

  Dad strokes her belly, where the hair is thinner than the tough coat on her back, then buries his face in her neck. He wraps one arm around her and pulls me to him with the other. “Dear old girl …” Rita’s wee drips from the chair onto the floor. The bitter, salty smell is prickly in my nostrils.

  “Is she dead?”

  I didn’t know my dad could cry. His finger traces the curls on her front paw. It feels like a pin is pressing into the hollow below my Adam’s apple.

  “You let her die.”

  “She couldn’t have had it any better than she did with us.”

  “It was the pills.”

  He doesn’t seem to hear me. With the greatest of care, he plucks a speck of hay from her coat.

  “Dad?”

  “An animal has to die sometime, Bry. You just have to let it happen. A pill or two can’t do that much harm. Take my word.”

  “Bury your sorrows right away.”

  More hacking than digging, Dad makes a hole with his field shovel. He hits more stones than soil, has to pull them loose by hand. His shirt is dark with dirt and sweat.

  Rita seems heavier now that she’s dead. Dad has laid her out on the grass so he can see how big the hole needs to be. A fly crawls over her ear and I chase it away for her. Death has made her more beautiful somehow. The depth has gone from her eyes.

  Rico sniffs at Rita. Nudges her jaw a few times with his muzzle. He barks, jumps at the sound he’s made, then slinks off and lies under Lucien’s bed.

  “Moo-wah-wah.” Lucien sticks his arm through the bars all the way up to his armpit, but Rico won’t come out to lick his fingers.

  “It wasn’t my fault,” I say to Dad.

  “I know that, Bry.”

  A carousel of sentences race around my head. There was nothing I could do. Rita ran in before I could stop her. I tried to feed her grass. I told Dad she swallowed the pills. There was nothing I could do …

  When the hole is finally deep enough, Dad leans against the edge, puffing, before he pulls Rita toward him and lays her on the bottom.

  The first shovel of sandy earth dirties her coat. “Wait.” I take off my T-shirt and cover her head.

  “That’s kind of you, Bry.” It feels like he’s accusing me of doing something good.

  We shove the dirt into the hole with our feet until she is completely covered. I throw the stones into the bushes. A bare, sandy rectangle in the trampled grass is all that’s left. I can’t believe she’s there beneath the ground.

  -

  32

  “Maurice!” Henri leans in through the door. “Is your dad not around?”

  “Rita’s dead,” I say, but Henri doesn’t hear.

  “Maurice!” he bellows again. He bangs his fist on the open door a few times. “There’s someone on the phone for you.”

  “Who?” Dad shouts, but stays in his room.

  “Damned if I know. Umpteenth time he’s called.”

  “What does he want?”

  “Ask someone who gives a toss. He’s looking for Mr. Chevalier. You gave him my number.”

  “Mr. Chevalier? That’ll be the lottery.”

  Dad emerges, steps into his flip-flops, and scuttles past Henri, out into the sunshine.

  “This joker says his name is Santa …”

  “Santos?”

  “This is the last time I play messenger boy, Maurice. The next caller gets told you’ve kicked the bucket. That should shut them up.”

  “Come off it, how often does anyone call?”

  “You heard me. Sort out your own phone.”

  “I’ve got things on my mind, Henri. I lost a dog today.”

  “What?” Henri’s voice turns friendlier. “Which one?”

  “The bitch.”

  “Dead?”

  Dad nods solemnly.

  Minutes later he comes stamping back in a rage.

  “Who do you think gave our man Santos a call?” Dad snorts. “Your mum, that’s who!”

  “Huh?”

  “To ask how Lucien’s doing.”

  “Mum’s a cow!” I shout, to make him feel like I’m right behind him. Or on his side. Or wherever he wants me to be. “What did she do that for?”

  “We’re not going to let this throw us, Bry. I’m going to fix this.” He pulls me to his chest.

  “What did she say?”

  “That I can’t be relied on. That my home’s not a fit place for Lucien. That … that … God only knows what else. Flipped her lid, he said. And now Santos has called me in for a little talk. It’s either that or they send someone round. I’m not letting them take my son off me again.”

  “So Mum’s back from honeymoon?”

  “Nah. Thinks she can pull the strings from the deck of the fuckin’ Love Boat. Not if I have anything to do with it.”

  “And now?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Do we go and see Selma?”

  “Who?”

  “Santos,” I gasp. Lucky for me, he’s so angry he’s only half listening. “You said he wanted to talk?”

  “And you think I’m going to let him boss me around? Is that what you think?”
/>   “No.”

  “Well then.”

  Dad spends the rest of the afternoon tinkering with the truck. At least now he’s madder at Mum than he is sad about Rita.

  “Go and wake your brother up!” Dad shouts when dinner’s ready. Another round of spaghetti with ketchup and mince. Lucien’s been out for the count all afternoon. A second trip to the bottle bank saw to that. With one hand clamped on my shoulder, he shuffles into the living room. “Look,” I say to cheer Dad up. But he doesn’t notice that I’ve managed to get Lucien out of bed by myself. “We’re practising walking.”

  “That’s great, son,” he says flatly.

  “We walked outside the other day. To the fence and back.”

  Through the window I can see the sandy rectangle in the grass.

  “Can’t we buy a new dog?”

  “Your food’s getting cold.”

  “Do you want me to turn on the telly?”

  “No point.”

  “Why not?”

  “Those fuckers have cut the power again. Not an ounce of feeling between them.”

  Rico is lying by the window with his back to us. His tail sweeps across the floor. Not because he’s in the mood to wag it, just because he can’t keep it still. I pick up the plate of spaghetti to feed Lucien.

  “This is right, isn’t it?” Dad holds out the back of a used envelope. He’s scribbled a bunch of numbers on it.

  “What is it?”

  “Just check it for me, will you?”

  When I don’t start straight away, he thumps me on the shoulder.

  “Come on, your dad asked you a question. Divide that top number by seven.”

  Two hundred and twenty-eight divided by seven should be a little over thirty.

  “Looks right to me.”

  He thrusts the envelope into my hands. “Work it out properly, there’s a good lad.”

  I put down the plate and do as he asks.

  “Thirty-two point six.”

  “Well, what do you know? Almost three euros more than I thought.” Dad snaps his fingers. “So it’s that times the number of days he’s here.”

  “Is that the money for Lucien?”

  “In two days’ time we’re off to the bank. Then we’ll have the money to get those fuckers off our backs.”

  Lucien is still sitting with his mouth open wide, like he’s afraid I won’t know where the food goes otherwise.

  “Won’t the rabbits in the freezer start to stink if there’s no power?”

  “With the lid shut, they’ll be cold enough for now. And if they start to rot we’ll hide one in Jean’s caravan. That’ll teach him not to mess us about.”

  -

  33

  Somewhere in the night, I wake with a shock. My scalp is itchy with sweat. It’s dead quiet. “Lucien?” Without the glowing red numbers on my radio alarm, the room is darker than ever. I switch on the bedside lamp, but of course that’s not working either. I feel my way across the mattress to Lucien, touch his arm, then his throat. “You still alive?” I have to lean over him before I hear his shallow breathing. “Lucien?” Just to be sure, I give him a good shake. No response. I go on shaking until he makes a grumpy noise. “Sorry,” I whisper. “Go back to sleep.”

  Among the folds of my sheet, I find something round. It’s a pill Rita missed. I see her lying in that hole, coat dirty with the sand we threw over her.

  When Dad leaves in the morning, my bedside lamp flickers on and the freezer under the bedroom window begins to hum again. My radio alarm flashes zero-zero-zero.

  I’ve figured out that when I give Lucien a toy car in each hand, it’s easier to grab him by the wrist and pull him to his feet. He stands beside the bed, panting, his forehead against mine. Deep in the colours of his eyes, I see the universe. That’s what Mum used to say. There’s a lot our Lucien can’t do, but he’s got the universe in his eyes.

  “Good morning.” Emile’s voice goes up at the end, like he’s not sure there’s anyone home.

  “We’re coming.”

  “Is your brother already out of bed?”

  “Yeah, you don’t need to help anymore. I can do it on my own.”

  By the outdoor bed, I push Lucien forward onto his mattress. He tries to catch the air as he falls. I lift his legs on after him, shove him to the middle of his bed, and pull up the rail. It will be another half an hour before the sun leaves him in the shade.

  There’s something in Emile’s expression I don’t understand.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Louise called.”

  “Really?”

  “It was a brief conversation.”

  “Does she want you to come back?” Even as I’m asking, I hope the answer is no.

  “Actually, she called to tell me she never wants to speak to me again.”

  “So you’re staying?”

  He nods.

  “Why is she so angry?”

  “It’s a grown-up thing,” he sighs. “I don’t think you’d understand.”

  “If you don’t tell me, you’ll never know.” I resolve to understand everything he’s about to say.

  “You’re a child. I can’t go burdening you with …”

  “Are you getting a divorce?”

  Emile rubs his chin.

  “Did you cheat on her?”

  “I hurt Louise, hurt her very badly.”

  “Did you hit her?”

  “A different kind of hurt. She’s ill.”

  “Ill?”

  Emile nods.

  “But that’s not your fault, is it?”

  Emile gestures that he’s had enough of my questions.

  “Want something to drink?”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  Looking at his sad face makes me feel uncomfortable. Lucien has worked himself up onto his elbows and, to get away for a minute, I go inside to get him some bread and pour myself a glass of cola. I watch Emile through the little kitchen window. He rubs his eyes and leans against the bed rail. Maybe I can buy his phone and give it to Selma now he doesn’t need it anymore.

  His smile pops into place as soon as I come back.

  “That’s nice of you,” he says, and takes the glass of cola meant for me.

  He nods at the rectangle in the grass.

  “Did one of your dogs die?”

  “Rita.”

  “I saw you and your dad yesterday and thought as much. Did you have her long?”

  “A few years. Got her from animal rescue. Rico was already here at the yard when we came. Dad used to breed dogs on and off, till he met Mum. She wanted nothing to do with them.”

  Emile takes a sip of my cola. He taps his lips with his finger a few times, smiles when he notices me watching him. “Would you ever want to live with your mum again?” His question is so unexpected that I don’t know what to answer.

  “I can’t,” I say at last. Then I shake my head. “Mum isn’t Mum anymore.”

  It dawns on me that my mum’s looking at things too, right this very moment. That she’s awake. Breathing. That her heart is still beating. That when I’m somewhere, she’s somewhere else at the same time.

  “But would you like to, if you could?”

  I shake my head. “She’s mad at me.”

  “Oh.”

  “Because I didn’t want to visit Lucien.”

  “Is that the only reason?”

  “You’d need to ask her that. We were going to visit Lucien, but Mum stayed at home under a blanket on the couch because she couldn’t stand to see him after they gave him the new medicine. And I begged her to let me stay at home with her.”

  Swallows peep and Lucien turns to see their nest, his neck twisted so far that it must really hurt.

  “That’s not so stran
ge. You were only a child. Still are, in fact.”

  I tug at Lucien’s T-shirt to straighten it and hold his beaker up to his mouth. There’s still some water left from yesterday.

  “I went with Dad in the end. Even in the car, I kept moaning that I didn’t want to go.”

  “And then?”

  “Then nothing.”

  “And that’s why your mother doesn’t want to see you?”

  I shrug.

  “Parents sometimes do things that are impossible to understand.” He runs his hand across my back, rests it briefly on my shoulder. “There’s nothing you can do about that.”

  “How do you know? You don’t even have kids.” The words make me jump as soon as I’ve said them. But they don’t make him angry.

  “That’s true. But I know what it’s like to have parents.”

  -

  34

  When Dad and I came back from seeing Lucien that Sunday afternoon, I gave Mum a drawing. A purple dinosaur on the back of a paper placemat. With lots of scribbles around it, because most of the felt-tip pens had nearly dried up. “Did you make this with Lucien?” She ran her fingers over the scribbles. “For me?” She asked about our visit. Dad told her Lucien had said “Mama.” Mama. Mama. Mum pulled a face like she was trying to hold something sad inside. “Really?” She leaned into Dad. “Did he really say that?” Now she was asking me.

  The way Dad told it, we sat with Lucien in the rec room and did the drawing together, and that was when he said “Mama.” So I answered, “Yes, that’s what he said. Really.” She pulled me into their embrace, planted a kiss on my forehead. I wiped it away because I didn’t deserve it. I was ashamed, afraid Mum would see that my drawing had been done on a placemat from Chez Pierre. “Next week, Mum will come too, I promise. Your mum will be back to her old self by then.”

  Saturday evening rolled around. She grew restless, collecting all kinds of things for Lucien, things he didn’t need. Took a long shower, as if she wouldn’t have enough time next morning. Smoked cigarettes until the filter began to smoulder.

  Sunday came. It was almost noon and Mum was still in bed. She called me to her. With her sleepy breath she said, “Will you go with Dad to see your brother? Please, will you do that for your mum?”