by Ursula Hegi
Stop it, Agnes says. Stop it now. His two blankets weighed on him—cold and heavy like wet snow—but when he kicked at them to free himself, they only got tangled around his legs. How long would it take to starve himself? Maybe I’II be dead in a week if I stop eating. Stop it, she says, and all at once he was hungry. He raised his face. Imagined leaving the drying room and walking up the stairs to the apartment. He stands in the kitchen, feet cold on the tiles, and makes himself a jam sandwich. No, two. One with strawberry jam, the other with grape jelly. Saliva pools on his tongue as he cuts the bread into triangles the way he likes them. As he eats—No, starving would take too long. Because whenever you ate something, you’d have to start all over with the starving. Maybe I’ll freeze to death. … A train—I could throw myself in front of a train. He’d seen that in a movie once, a woman in a railroad station, face pale, coat black. She stood immobile on the platform, arms along her sides, hands empty, while others rushed past her with bags and suitcases. As the train sped closer, she let herself fall forward in slow motion, hands calm and white against her coat. Or I’ll drown myself in the lake. It certainly was deep enough. But he was too good a swimmer for that. His body would keep coming back up. At least until I get too tired to swim. My body is never found. They bury an empty coffin. My father stands at the open grave site in his black coat, snow on his shoulders, tears on his face. “If only I had known…” He’s crying, my father who is also the father of Agnes. Agnes whom I saved from my father, hid from my father, stronger with me tonight than any other time ever before. Crying, my father, he is crying. “Tobias, my son … I am so sorry.”
“And I am not,” Tobias said aloud. “I am not sorry. And I won’t come to your funeral.”
It soothed him, saying it aloud. Soothed him because already he sensed that this was much worse than saying, “I wish you dead,” worse because it presumed that wish and reached beyond its deadly summons by knowing this about his father’s funeral: that he would not be there. And taking power from that promise to himself. Power for daring to do the worst possible—obliterating his father beyond death.
And he said it once again. Louder. “I won’t come to your funeral.”
Toward dawn of his second night in the drying room, Tobias packed up his plants and his blankets and his pillow, took the elevator to the sixth floor, went into the kitchen, and ate so quietly that his parents, who had not slept since they’d found him missing, did not know he was back until his stepmother found a cutting board and knife on the kitchen table, along with an open jar of strawberry jam, half a loaf of bread, three apple cores, and the rind from a large chunk of cheese. She rushed into Tobias’ room but did not wake him. When he emerged from his bed late that afternoon, his father was waiting for him in the living room with several pieces of wood—cherry and ash and maple—two kinds of glue, and a set of small tools for building whatever a man’s son might desire to build. Tobias thanked him. Politely. The way he’d been taught. But left his gifts on the bench by the tile stove. For that entire week, every morning he woke up, he felt dead—Your severed head. Your bloody head—until he latched on to the rage deep inside himself.
It happened one morning when he saw his stepmother read to his little brother who looked so satisfied as he prattled about, that Tobias suddenly felt his rage at his own mother for not even staying alive long enough to read him some stupid story. He glared at Robert who was holding the silly lamb he’d gotten in Germany where Tobias had not been allowed to go. His father would have never made Robert destroy the lamb.
When his stepmother left for a few minutes to stir the lentil soup, he snatched the lamb and ran from the apartment, followed by Robert who chased him down the steps and into the fourth-floor utility room. Identical to the utility rooms on each floor, it had a trap door in the wall for throwing garbage down. Holding the toy out of Robert’s reach, Tobias climbed on top of the trash can and from there on the sink, his breath coming in and out through his mouth. As Robert kept leaping for his lamb, the small room magnified his screams.
“Give it to me,” he wailed.
“Catch!” Tobias tossed the lamb into the air and caught it himself. The fleece was almost entirely worn off its head, and its stuffing was lumpy. “Catch!” But on his third toss, the lamb fell past his outstretched hands and landed on the floor where Robert threw himself across it, defending it with his body.
Tobias leapt from the sink and stood above his brother. “Give it back.”
Robert scrambled up and scooted against the wall, the lamb between his chest and the wall.
“Give it back, you!”
“But it’s mine.”
Tobias jabbed his fingertips into the soft flesh of his brother’s back, wanting to hurt, to decimate—your severed bloody head. “Ticklish…” He whooped with laughter. Grabbed hold of the lamb’s front legs. “You’re ticklish. I know you are.”
To protect his lamb, Robert yanked the trapdoor open. But the instant he thrust the lamb inside, a look of terror settled on his face. Shoving Tobias aside, he darted from the utility room, past two alcoves with fire extinguishers, and into the elevator where Tobias caught up with him, as intent on retrieving the lamb before it got burned as on keeping Robert from telling on him.
“We can save it,” Tobias shouted, “we can save it.”
But Robert didn’t answer. A wildness in his eyes that Tobias had never seen, he stared at the brass arrow that traced their descent in a semicircle, ready to pounce from the elevator door.
In the furnace room, the lamb had dropped into the Dumpster with the refuse that Mr. Wilson shoveled into the trash burner every day, and as additional trash tumbled from the chute above, the lamb settled amidst chicken bones and coffee grounds, peach pits and stained butcher paper.
Robert tried to shinny up the side of the dumpster. “Boost me up,” he yelled.
But Tobias had stayed on top of the six stone steps that led into the cavernous furnace room, and when Robert called out to him again, he slid out and slammed the door. It was not that he meant to lock his brother in when he turned the key—he only did it to have time. Time to think. While his heart pounded with the thrill of taking revenge. On his fat little brother. His father. Punishing him through Robert, who was racing up the stairs, hurling himself against the door.
But his weight didn’t force it open. At the far end of the room, beyond the trash burner, dim light filtered down an air shaft through the grated opening above. He tried not to cry as he inched down the steps. In front of him loomed the immense boiler, its round door latched tightly. On its back he found several red-and-white cards, each with the Wasserburg’s address, a date, and a signature: Stan Erkins, Boiler Inspector, City of Winnipesaukee.
The big water tank rested high against the side of the boiler. Eighteen feet above him floated the ceiling and pipes, countless pipes that crisscrossed the ceiling and walls like the veins on the leaves of his brother’s hungry plants. Any moment now they would close around him, trap him, swallow him the way he’d seen them swallow the spiders and mosquitos that Tobias caught for them. Tobias who’d locked him in here. His steps, they sounded hollow. And his feet—his feet were right on the large metal lid that was set into the cement floor. He knew what was beneath there. One day when Mr. Wilson had removed the cover, he’d seen the sheen of filthy water far below. All at once he was afraid he might want to lift the lid and let himself fall. Just as he’d dropped his lamb through the chute. Only deeper. To the center of the earth. Already he could taste the putrid water, cold and slimy, and then the taste of rice. Dead people turn into rice, Robert dear. Trudi—she wouldn’t be afraid. Trudi wasn’t afraid of anyone, not even of the big boys in school who laughed at her and imitated how she walked. With her father’s last letter, she’d sent him a picture she’d drawn of herself and her friend, Eva, playing with her new dog, who was black and gray, not white like his lamb who reminded him of Trudi with its pale hair and short legs.
If he had a dog, he’d teach it
to listen only to him, and then he’d tell it to bite Tobias. Carefully he straightened. As he backed away from the lid, something stiff prodded his shoulder. Screaming, he whirled around. Stared at the shrouded figure that leaned against the wall by the boiler. Though he was used to seeing the leftover Virgin Mary from the nativity whenever he came here with Mr. Wilson, it was different to be locked up with her and her bashed-in face. The hand that had touched him was extended in a blessing. Wrinkles of grime blurred the folds of her gown, and dust clotted the injury on her face as if her blood had dried around it. The baby Jesus, wrapped in the statue’s arms like a small mummy, had a dirty hole where his nose had been.
Robert was his own echo as he flew up the stairs, tears blotching his sight. They didn’t sound like his, those howls that rose from his chest and brought Homer Wilson running from the back corner of the garage, where he’d been washing Nate Bloom’s silver Model T.
“Hold it… hold it there.” He swooped Robert up into his wet arms. “How’d you get in here?”
But Robert only pointed toward the statue.
“It’s just that goddamn BVM. … Look, there’s nothing to her.”
Robert covered his face with his fingers.
“Pal… little pal.” Homer Wilson pried Robert’s hands loose and carried him down the steps. “Look at it. Just a statue. At least this one’s keeping herself decent. The ones I can’t bear are the flashers … them who pull their gowns apart and flaunt their bloody hearts. That’s what they are—flashers—most of the BVMs.”
Robert dared a quick glance.
“If I have to look at a flasher,” Homer Wilson said, “I’d much rather see a set of tits.”
Tits. Robert knew what tits were. His mother had them underneath her dress, but Mrs. Wilson sure didn’t. Mrs. Wilson was flat. Like a picture. And she yelled at Mr. Wilson whenever no one else was around. Except Robert, as if he were invisible. Lazy, she called Mr. Wilson. Drunkard. Bum. Gambler. While Mr. Wilson simply stood there and nodded. But in front of Robert’s parents or the tenants, Mrs. Wilson was always friendly to Mr. Wilson and praised him whenever she mentioned his name, saying he knew how to repair anything.
“What were you doing in here by yourself?” Mr. Wilson asked.
“My lamb. It’s in the bin. It—” He thought of his brother, tall and angry. “It fell,” he said. “From upstairs.”
And of course Mr. Wilson was able to retrieve the lamb, just as he was able to fix sinks that were stopped up and doors that squeaked. He shook it till its fur was almost clean, sniffed it, and passed it to Robert with a grimace. “Your pal needs himself a bath.”
Robert clutched the lamb against his chest, mumbling sounds of assurance to it while Mr. Wilson took him by the shoulder and walked him out of the furnace room, through the hallway with its black-and-green diamond-shaped tiles, and to the elevator. There, Mr. Wilson pulled aside the gate that opened like an accordion and pushed the sixth-floor button.
“What happened to your face?” his mother asked. “It’s all messy.” She was sitting with Tobias and Greta on the corner bench in the kitchen, lunch and a vase with tulips on the table.
Robert hid the lamb behind his back and glanced toward his brother, who was crushing his thumb into the firm bread of his Frikadelle—meatball sandwich. “I was playing,” Robert said.
“Your manners, Tobias,” his mother said. “Don’t mash your food.”
Robert slid on the bench close to her.
She shook her head. “Mr. Howard has been waiting. You don’t have time to eat before your lesson. Wash your hands.”
He peered at the Bratkartoffeln—fried potatoes—and Frikadellen she’d prepared, and he knew exactly what they would taste like and how much better they would make him feel. His stomach cramped in protest as he headed toward the sink to wash his hands and his lamb. In the living room, Mr. Howard sat on one edge of the piano bench, his back very straight as he waited, prepared to listen. Quickly, Robert stuck his lamb behind the sofa.
Once his fingers rode the ivory keys, his hunger shrank to a cold point deep inside, and soon, the familiar solace flowed down his neck, his shoulders, and into his fingers.
That afternoon, when Robert sat on the swing, rocking himself with one foot on the ground, Tobias sauntered toward him, black hair sticking up like a brush around his thin face, one arm hidden behind his back. A knife? Robert was sure it was a knife. But it was too late to jump from the swing and run. The fast pulse of panic in his throat, he tried to push himself high on the swing, away from his brother.
But Tobias’ free hand grabbed his knee.
Robert kicked. Kicked hard.
“Idiot.” Tobias let go of him, but his hidden hand swung forward. Shoved something at Robert. “Here.”
A knife a gun a saber—
Not a knife.
A chocolate bar.
A chocolate bar? Robert hesitated, fearing another prank. Dog shit pressed into an empty chocolate wrapper. But the silver foil was new, uncreased. Still…
“Because you didn’t tell,” Tobias said.
Carefully, Robert unwrapped the foil. The chocolate had almonds in it. He took one small bite, hummed softly as he pressed it with his tongue into the high curve of his mouth to make it last. It was so good that he wanted to go there, all of him, to that sweetness at the roof of his mouth, melt there—prayer is like that, high and arched and holy—but then he thought of his brother and broke off a piece for him. They chewed, slowly, and there was just the sound of Robert’s humming till they were finished with the chocolate, till his brother stepped behind him to give the swing an easy push, then another, and Robert pumped his legs till he was flying alone, far above the stone bench where his brother sat down, long skinny ankles stretched in front of him.
Though Tobias never built with matches again—not safe to do so in my father’s house—he assembled a secret compartment in his top drawer in case he ever wanted to hide something. At the lumberyard across from school, he had a sheet of thin wood cut to size, and he glued four of his old scuffed alphabet blocks into the corners of the drawer, the M and the I and the N and the E—spelling MINE—to support the wood, creating a three-inch space only he knew about. When he stacked his underwear on top, even he couldn’t tell that the drawer had a false bottom. Yet, once it was finished, he couldn’t think of anything worth hiding there. He let his flesh-eating plants die. Promised himself that he would never again own anything he couldn’t bear to destroy.
Instead of remaining Robert’s tormentor, he elected himself his protector, launching into speeches of defense, especially when his father scolded Robert for leaving his shoes untied or walking too slowly; and as he honed his strength in these daily battles against his father, Stefan saw a side in his oldest son he’d never seen before. It made him feel a certain pride, made him wonder if, perhaps, having the boy step on those flimsy little fabrications of his had been good after all for his spine. Still, he would have liked to reverse what he’d made Tobias do.
One Sunday at breakfast, he felt the blaze of the boy’s eyes on him and glanced up, only to catch him turning away. He pointed to his son’s plate. “Eat your eggs, Tobias. They’re getting cold.”
The boy glowered at him. Asked what he’d already asked him several times lately. “Could you please pronounce my name the American way? To-buy-as. Not To-bee-as.”
“Eat your eggs then, To-buy-as.” Stefan tried to joke. “They’re still getting cold.”
But the boy didn’t even smile.
Maybe, Stefan speculated, he’s embarrassed to have a father who speaks with an accent. Recently, he’d been feeling clumsy and unpolished whenever he talked to the boy, who made him self-conscious about an accent he usually didn’t hear. The awareness of his son’s distrust, hate even, would shift itself into Stefan’s thoughts while he was at his restaurant, cooking or greeting his guests. He was used to making happen what he wanted, but with Tobias that didn’t work. With others the boy was talkative, always ph
ilosophizing, persuading; but with him he was evasive. Except when he was flying at him with words to defend Robert.
As Stefan finished his coffee, it occurred to him that he was not well suited to be a father. And here he was with three children, but without the skill or habit of asking forgiveness. All at once he desperately wanted to reach Tobias. “Let’s go rowing, you and I,” he said.
When Helene frowned at him, he realized his words had sounded like an order. She’d been distant with him ever since the boy had run off, watchful, taking the children’s side against him.
“You’ll enjoy being in the boat, Tobias,” he said, and when the boy squinted at the window and the gray sky as if to question his decision, Stefan insisted.
He obeyed, of course, the boy. But for the two hours that they were on the lake—switching seats to take turns at the oars whenever Stefan suggested—Tobias only answered in short syllables and kept his eyes on the water as if he didn’t feel welcome in any space where his father was. As Stefan thought of Sara and what she would say if she knew her son didn’t feel welcome with him, he felt ashamed. Angry too that Tobias was not responding to his efforts. And yet, to be honest with himself, he had to remember how often he had pushed the boy aside because he was too busy.
The clouds were getting denser, darkening their reflections on the water, and in the blunt light, the boy’s jaw and cheekbones were even more angular than usual. He has his mother’s Schlafzimmeraugen—bedroom eyes—Stefan thought.
Aloud, he said, “Are you eating enough?”
Tobias nodded. I won’t come to your funeral What if he’s drowning? I won’t save him. What if a train is coming right at him? No. What if—
“Because you’re awfully thin.” He had gone into Tobias’ room one day when the children had been at school and Helene at the store, and he’d found nothing built from the wood he’d given him, nothing made from matchsticks. The room had been so bare that he’d felt a deep failure at having a son who lived in his house as if he were a guest. He had checked beneath the boy’s bed, inside his closet, feeling odd and yet unable to stop himself as he’d opened his closet and drawers; but other than clothes, he’d found nothing personal. Nothing. He’d been seized by a piercing and inexplicable homesickness, and it wasn’t until now, in the boat, that he knew the homesickness had to do with the distance from this son whom he hadn’t tried to know. And that something had been wrong between him and the boy for much longer than these last few weeks since he’d made him break his toy animals.