Tom Bedlam

by George Hagen

  What was the truth about William Bedlam? Tom wondered. Some families lock up the liquor, or the savings; the Bedlams were miserly with the truth. In refusing to speak of her husband for the majority of Tom's life, Emily Bedlam had denied the boy his right to assess his father's character and measure himself against the man. The few details that Tom had teased from her as her mind became feeble merely perplexed him. Had his father really killed Tom's brother? Had there been a brother? Or was Tom simply the unfortunate product of two adults with equally flimsy grips on reality?

  Emily Bedlam did not rise from her bed after Mr. Bedlam's visit. Her illness took a turn for the worse, and Tom was spared such existential questions while he dealt with her care and worked the hours necessary to sustain their small household.

  THE FURNACE

  TOM GAINED SEVERAL INCHES IN THE SUBSEQUENT THREE MONTHS, and his voice dropped. Mr. Todderman rewarded him with a new job, working in the furnaces, shoveling coal. In proportion to these changes, Tom's view of life contracted. As he was paid more, he began to understand the virtue of money, and the relative poverty of freedom. Wandering around London lost its appeal in comparison with feeding the eternal fires at Todderman & Sons Porcelain & Statuary. He shared the coarse jokes of his furnace mates, who talked about the pleasures that sustained them—drink, women, and more drink.

  His mother's condition did not improve. Mrs. Limpkin sat with her once in a while so that Tom could take a night off. Even the gap-toothed spinster took a turn at Emily's bedside.

  Tom saw more of Sissy Grimes, whose perspective changed in kind; she still dreamed of leaving the factory, but she had to accept its one virtue: the newly strapping figure of Tom Bedlam.

  As for poor Audrey Limpkin, she pined for Tom dearly, and her expressions of love became impossible for him to ignore. When he returned from work, his dark hair caked with coal dust, his skin fiery red, and his boots gray with ash, she was always there to greet him. If he was late and the stairs were empty, he knew he would see her face peeping from the Limpkins' door as he stepped upon the landing. Her greetings were always giddy and sweet, and when she had coaxed from him a summary of his day she would tell him of her own, minding the Orfling while Mrs. Limpkin baked and sold her tarts to the workers at Todderman's.

  “Tom, there's something wrong with the baby,” Audrey confessed one night. “He hasn't grown in a year. He won't walk when other children his age are running, and he babbles while they talk—it's the strangest thing.”

  “Is he eating?” asked Tom.

  “Anything mashed.” She nodded. “His teeth haven't come through, yet he's such a happy child, Tom. He never cries—he's a little joy, crawls around looking at things on the floor. Just the other day, when I was short of money at the grocer, he held out a sixpence. I don't know how many days he'd had it in his fist.”

  “I'm sure he'll catch up,” Tom said. “He has to want to walk, and speak. When he's ready, he will.”

  Audrey smiled. “You're going to be a doctor one day, Tom. You think like one.”

  “Oh, Audrey.” Tom laughed. “Doctors need an education; I'll be here forever.”

  But Audrey's expression contradicted his despair; she looked at him as if surveying his mortal coil from beginning to end and saw only his potential. “No,” she replied. “I don't think so. I've a feeling you'll surprise yourself.”

  The confidence of this remark belied his impression of Audrey as a weak, mousy girl. She was changing, and there was, in her spirit, a resilient flame. All at once she pressed her hand to her breast, then kissed her finger and touched it to his lips. “I see you in far-off lands. A doctor, respected and admired, with lots of children of your own,” she said.

  TENDING THE KILN FIRES for twelve hours a day had burnished Tom's taut muscles with sweat and coal dust. Though he strode home looking as filthy as the other stokers, his figure became tall without being beefy and his expression furtive. The job required no thought—hoisting up coal with a hep and a haw, and knocking the cast-iron doors shut with the butt of his shovel—a constant, mind-numbing repetition. Sometimes his mother heard the sound of his labor as he slept. Tom could tell when a furnace needed stoking just by holding up his palm to feel the heat emanating from the iron door. As his movements were confined to the furnace, his fantasies contracted. He could no more imagine himself being a doctor than he could hawking newspapers. He had rent to pay, a sick mother, and no money even for a doctor.

  In the midst of this meager lot, with his wings clipped and his dreams stunted, Tom turned to Sissy Grimes. On his day off, they would walk out together. She would link her fingers in his and touch him seductively. Their conversations, however, were never lewd. Sissy was thinking ahead.

  “I see us in a little house, Tom, with pigeons cooing under the eaves.”

  “What about in some far-off land?” suggested Tom.

  “Oh no, Tom,” said Sissy. “I could never be away from my sister and mother. Besides, they have awful diseases in those places.”

  “Once I thought of being a doctor,” said Tom.

  “Don't be silly,” Sissy replied, resting her hand on his firm shoulder. “Doctors don't have muscles.”

  As Sissy gauged her effect on him, Tom exercised considerable self-control. He desired her but feared her capricious nature. He dreamed of her white cheek against his and imagined himself entwined with her naked body. Sissy took advantage of his caution, tempting him with kisses from her flawless milkmaid's mouth; she presented herself to Tom as the only uncharted territory worth exploring and, by running her finger along the curve of her breast, caused him to tremble with lust.

  One evening, below a pier, while the boatmen sang profane arias across the misty Thames, Tom and Sissy shared several bottles of ale and overcame their inhibitions upon a bed of crushed mussel shells. While they kissed, he worked feverishly to remove the many layers of her underwear until his fingers felt the round of her bottom. She sighed encouragingly as his hand rode her hip bone and descended to the warm mesh between her legs, but then she pushed Tom's hand away and sank her own fingers in place of his. Confused by his limited role, he watched as her breaths became quick and shrill, her back arched, and she suddenly uttered a long and satisfied sigh.

  Realizing bleakly that he had served merely as the inspiration for her pleasure, he glared at her.

  “Did you have fun, then?” he inquired.

  Sissy's expression was defiant and unashamed. “I've let no man touch me the way I let you, Tom. And you're not even my husband.”

  “Here, then—” he said, steering her hand into his own breeches. “I'll do you the same favor. I've let no woman touch me here either.”

  Sissy balked, however. “Goodness, Tom, it's like a piece of knotted rope you find on the beach. I won't have anything to do with it!”

  “Then some wife you'll make,” he said bitterly.

  Sissy lowered her skirts and started for home. Tom tagged miserably after her, wondering if the carnal pleasures he'd heard so much about in the furnace room were merely a cruel joke passed down from the old fellows to the young.

  After he had seen Sissy home, he returned to his building, a little drunk and much disgusted. Audrey was on the second floor, her legs dangling through the banisters. She eyed him with a look of betrayal.

  “You're late,” she remarked.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “A good time?” she inquired.

  “Not really,” he confessed.

  Audrey's face was a storm of jealousy. She struggled to keep her composure, then forced a remark she'd been practicing all day long: “That Sissy has a reputation. For your own good, I hope it wasn't her you wasted your time with.”

  “What reputation is that?”

  “Oh, what an awful creature she is. I've heard that she leads boys on with the most shameful performance.”

  “Performance?” replied Tom sharply. “Who says?”

  “Well, my mother hears everything from the men and the women,�
� she answered. “Apparently Mr. Todderman has a nephew who is very interested in her, and she catches his eye when he passes her”—Audrey paused to be sure that he grasped the full implication of her account— “by touching her own person suggestively. She's ambitious, Tom; and she might inherit Todderman's factory if her plan works.”

  “Audrey!” Tom laughed. “That's just talk!”

  “Is it?” she replied. Then she traced her finger about the curve of her breast in mocking imitation of Sissy.

  “I can't imagine she'd do that in broad daylight,” he replied weakly.

  “Well, I've heard she's done worse when it's not broad daylight. She's an awful creature, Tom. I hope you have nothing to do with her!”

  “You shouldn't be spreading stories,” he declared and disappeared into his room.

  Wracked with jealousy, poor Audrey kicked her feet against the stairs and stamped back to the hue and cry of the Limpkin household.

  TOM FOUND HIS ROOM dark that evening. Ravenous, he consumed a bowl of cold porridge while he brooded over Sissy's ambition. He had no doubt that Audrey was right. He couldn't compete with Todderman's nephew.

  A sound from the corner gave him a start.

  His mother was talking in her bed.

  Tom put his hand near her cheek; he felt the heat of a fever, like Todderman's furnace, a raging one.

  He whispered to her. His mother turned her head, and though she stared directly at him, she showed no recognition. “What of Tom's education?” she murmured.

  “Mother,” he whispered several times; when this failed to rouse her, he tried addressing her as Mrs. Bedlam, and finally Emily.

  “Who is it?” she asked, looking around, though her head didn't move.

  “It's Tom,” he replied.

  “Tom?” she repeated curiously, as if his name came strangely to her lips.

  “Your son.”

  “My son? Turn your head!” she said suddenly.

  Tom turned away, and she pointed to his neck.

  “You're not my son. He had a little red spot below his left ear. Mr. Bedlam took him from me and buried him. When I woke up, I saw the man stamping the snow from his boots, and then his hair turned white. White with sin. My poor little baby gone. My little baby. Just below his left ear, a little red spot.”

  This repetition, and the unnatural glow in his mother's cheek, propelled the boy to seek help, not for her but for himself, for he felt the most selfish panic. Was he to be orphaned tonight?

  Tom rapped on the Limpkins' door. Mrs. Limpkin appeared and immediately sent Oscar out (in boots, nightshirt, and Mr. Limpkin's coat) to summon her cousin, a young doctor in Whitefriars. Audrey kept Tom company, patting his hand and whispering assurances. Mrs. Limpkin put cold compresses over Mrs. Bedlam's forehead in an attempt to bring down the fever.

  “Try not to worry, Tom,” whispered Audrey.

  “How can I?” he replied. “She's talking madness. She has forgotten my name. She thinks I'm a stranger.”

  “Perhaps it's the end, Tom,” Audrey said. Mrs. Limpkin issued her daughter a shocked frown. But Tom nodded, sensing that she was right.

  Audrey kept Tom company that night, and in the morning, the doctor examined Mrs. Bedlam and declared that she had a swelling in her head.

  For the next three days, Tom's mother lay in bed, sleeping for long spells, then waking in a state of delirium. She was blind now. Audrey took turns with the twins caring for her. Tom returned in the evenings only to find that his mother didn't know his name. The raging fire in her cheeks perplexed the boy for it was the most color he could remember her having, making her seem more alive than ever before, though it also seemed unnatural on her normally gray features.

  “I saw my father this morning,” she said. “He was standing across from the factory gates in his striped trousers, looking for me. He always looks for me.”

  “Your father?” Tom asked.

  “I was too proud.” She nodded. “He begged me to leave Mr. Bedlam. Couldn't. Stubborn.” She laughed weakly. “Just like him. If I die …”

  Her ramble ceased. “Paper, Tom, and a pencil. Fetch it for me!”

  She scribbled a note, folded it, and asked Tom to close it with sealing wax. The letter was addressed to Shears Brewery, a familiar location; Tom had seen the brewery carts driving past with that name painted on them. But the possibility that he was related to such a wealthy enterprise seemed too good to be true. “You'll send this, Tom,” she said, “if I pass away. This will get you your education. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” he replied.

  “Put it in your coat pocket,” she said.

  EARLY THAT MORNING, in the darkness, Tom heard his mother talking. Gibberish, it seemed at first. He rose, lit a candle, and saw her eyes fixed blindly in space. “He's not sick. Listen to him cry!” she insisted. “Give him back to me!” she demanded, as if Tom were his father. Her hands stretched out to Tom, fingers quivering. “Give him back to me!”

  “Mama?”

  “Give him back to me!” she wailed. “Give him back!”

  Her pleas continued until Tom, now desperate to calm her, bundled his own coat into a shape resembling a small baby and offered it to her. “Here he is,” he whispered.

  Mrs. Bedlam's stricken expression softened. “My baby?” She clutched the bundle to her breast and then smiled briefly. But her face hardened, and she gave Tom a wretched stare. “I'll never forgive you for killing my child! And when the time comes, I'll search heaven for him. Search every baby in heaven until I see him.” And here Mrs. Bedlam pointed to the left side of her neck. “I'll know him because of the spot, that little red spot. I'll find the poor abandoned creature!”

  Then, with the bundle clasped tightly in her arms, she sank slowly into her bed, sobbing, and closed her eyes.

  TOM CONSOLED HIMSELF by watching the rise and fall of her breast— assurance that she remained in his world. But he must have drifted off eventually, because the next thing he became aware of was a change in the color of the room. The sun had not risen yet, but the walls were suffused with a cold blue light. His mother was still clutching the bundle, her eyes wide open, fixed on the window, the faintest smile on her lips.

  Tom approached her bedside. He gently removed the bundle from her grip and, with trembling fingers, pressed her lids closed.

  He ached in silence. He had expected tears to come, but none did. Of course he loved her, but for as long as he could remember he had borne the duties not just of son but of confidant, companion, advocate, nurse, and defender. With the burden of those responsibilities lifted, Tom felt a pang of relief—and, with it, the tears fell.

  He rose, dressed, shook the bundle until it became his coat again, and set out. He walked the empty Vauxhall streets as the sun rose, wearing his new circumstances like a fresh set of clothing. He wept as he walked, consoled himself, and wept again.

  As he passed the great gates of a brewery, Tom recognized the name: Shears. Recalling the note his mother had written, he retrieved it from his pocket and placed it under the wooden gates.

  There, he thought. I've done my last errand for her. Tomorrow I shall be responsible only for myself.

  He found enough money in Emily Bedlam's Bible to pay for her burial. The matter was resolved swiftly. She was buried in a cheap plot. The Limpkins attended, with Oscar speaking in place of a clergyman because none could be found. Sissy did not appear, but many of the women from the pottery benches came, including Mrs. Mudd, who apparently wished to make sure that her verbal tormentor was gone for good. Mr. Todderman sent Brandy Oxmire with a beautiful piece of white granite to mark Mrs. Bedlam's grave.

  The following day, Tom returned to work in the furnace room. Mr. Todderman assured Tom that he would keep his job, and explained that the headstone was not a gift but an item to be paid for in installments over the next two years. It was then that Tom realized his employment was secure for as long as he owed a debt to Mr. Todderman.

  TOM VISITED SISSY in the g
lazing workshop, but she would not look him in the eye. Her skin was as pale as porcelain. Shame suited her beauty.

  “What d'you want?” she said finally.

  “I didn't see you yesterday at the funeral.”

  “I warn't invited,” she replied.

  “Everyone was invited.”

  “I hate funerals,” she replied, pursing her lips.

  Tom was hurt, but she was a delicate creature, he decided, and perhaps the ceremony would have been just too much for her to bear. He vowed to work as hard as he could to pay back the money for the headstone so that he might save for a wedding befitting his sweetheart.

  That evening Tom returned to the tenement building to find Audrey on the landing, with her ear pressed to his door.

  “Tom,” she whispered. “I believe your father's waiting for you inside.”

  “My father?”

  “He has been arguing with a stranger this last hour.”

  “About what?”

  “You, Tom!” Audrey replied urgently. “I believe this other man is your benefactor. Perhaps this is your chance for an education.” She smiled. “Know what you want, Tom, and ask for it.”

  MR. SHEARS

  WILLIAM BEDLAM GREETED TOM WITH A MERRY AND ASSERTIVE CRY. “There he is, my son, my heir! My dear boy what a tragedy! What a sadness! Oh, you poor lad! Your poor mother! An unfortunate creature! A fine woman, a good woman, pious and dedicated and, oh, the tragedy!”

  Before Tom could reply, Bedlam staggered towards him and half-fell into his arms in what was meant to be a consoling embrace. “It's true, blood is thicker than water! What joineth here let no man cast asunder!” Bedlam began to sob upon Tom's shoulder.

  Unmoved by the man's dramatic display, Tom's other visitor regarded his father with narrowed eyes and openmouthed derision. Each time Bedlam uttered another remark, the elderly man's mouth would open again, as if he couldn't believe the performance.