by Hannah Tinti
Sister Agnes looked at her hands. She threaded her fingers, then twisted them back and forth. “It was wrong to leave you out in the rain. I’ve thought about it many times over the years.”
“I was fine,” said Ren. “They found me.”
“God be praised,” said Sister Agnes. “I’m glad to hear it.” And then she seemed herself again. She sighed. “It will be morning soon.”
Ren saw that dawn was past. A new day was approaching. Mrs. Sands’s face looked younger against the pillow, as if this sleep had taken away years of worry. He reached out and took her hand. Her skin was smooth and papery, her fingers cold. Ren held them until they were warm again. Then he let them go.
“I’ve made an arrangement with Doctor Milton,” said Ren.
Sister Agnes sat up in her chair. “What kind of arrangement?”
“He said it would cover the room and a nurse, until she gets well. However long it takes.”
The nun looked troubled, then sighed again. She said that she would take care of everything. Ren handed her Brother Joseph’s letter, but she pushed it back. “He sent you a blessing,” she said. “You should take it with you.”
The steam from the kettle billowed out of the tent. It covered Ren like a fog, settling deep inside his lungs. The boy inhaled and exhaled, sensing the movement of air, and used his sleeve to wipe the damp from where it rested, underneath his nose.
A lock of hair curled against the landlady’s forehead. Ren reached forward and tucked it behind her ear. He leaned close and threw his arms around her shoulders, pressing his face against her neck. Mrs. Sands coughed. She lifted her hand and touched his head. Then she opened her eyes and pinched his ear until it hurt.
“TAKE ME HOME.”
“Mrs. Sands!”
“YOU’RE LEAVING.”
“I have to,” said Ren. “I’m sorry.”
“NONSENSE.” Mrs. Sands tried to get out of bed, but Sister Agnes pushed her firmly and gently back under the covers. “I’VE HAD ENOUGH LOOKING AFTER.”
“You’re still too weak,” said Sister Agnes. “You need a few more days in bed, at the very least.”
“MY BROTHER NEEDS HIS SUPPER. HE NEEDS IT OR HE’LL DIE.”
“No one’s going to die,” said Sister Agnes.
“TAKE ME HOME,” Mrs. Sands shouted.
“I can’t,” said Ren.
The landlady fell back against the pillows. She chewed her lip in frustration. “I MADE A PROMISE,” she said.
It had been three days since Ren had fed the dwarf. It would be even longer before Mrs. Sands was able to go home. Ren imagined the small man climbing down the chimney and finding an empty kitchen, the pantry raided, no one left but the mousetrap girls.
“YOU’RE A GOOD BOY.”
“I’ve tried to be,” said Ren.
“I KNOW IT,” Mrs. Sands said. “AND I’VE NO RIGHT TO ASK YOU.” She grasped his shoulder and pulled him close. She tried to whisper. “THERE’S SOME MONEY BURIED IN THE YARD, NEAR THE CHICKEN COOP. I WANT YOU TO TAKE IT TO THE MARKET. LEAVE ENOUGH FOOD FOR HIM, AND TAKE THE REST WITH YOU.”
Ren thought of the hat boys, searching the roads. McGinty, pacing the mousetrap factory. “I can’t go back.”
“PLEASE,” she said. “I’VE LEFT HIM ALL ALONE. I TOLD HIM THAT I NEVER WOULD.” She began to cry and then to cough, her lungs struggling for air. Sister Agnes stepped forward and began to clap her hard on the back, so hard that Mrs. Sands’s nightcap flew off her head and onto the floor.
Ren bent down to pick it up. It was made of a simple white cotton. He pressed it to his nose and inhaled the smell of soap, fresh and good. It had been so easy for Benjamin to walk away. But Mrs. Sands had not. She ran the house that belonged to her mother. She knit her brother’s socks. And she still dropped to her knees every day and pressed her ear to the ground, trying to hear her husband in the earth.
Mrs. Sands coughed again and grasped his hand. “REN.”
“I will,” he said. “I’ll take care of him,” he said. “Be quiet now,” he said.
And she was.
THIRTY
It rained all the way back to the boardinghouse. The sky above flashed with lightning, and Ren counted, holding the lead of the donkey, until the thunder rolled in behind and the animal tried to dart for the trees. In the back of the cart Brom and Ichy held blankets over Tom, his leg stretched across the boards. The storm followed them from the hospital all the way to North Umbrage. Every time Ren heard a horse approaching he pulled the wagon deep into the bushes, and they waited there, hidden under the branches, until the other travelers passed by.
With every step Ren told himself that he was not like Benjamin. Water soaked through his clothes, until they weighed heavily on his body. The rain poured down his head and into his eyes. He thought of Brother Joseph, and The Lives of the Saints, and all the stories he’d read late at night in the small boys’ room, of Saint Sebastian, Saint Dymphna, and the martyrs, all the terrible things they had endured in order to do what was right.
Before they crossed the bridge, Ren told the twins to hide in the back with Tom, and covered them all. Then he took another blanket, wrapped it like a hood around his shoulders and across his face. He was glad for the storm. The streets were mostly empty, only the occasional widow hurrying past and looking for shelter. Ren slowly led the donkey toward the boardinghouse, keeping an eye out for hat boys and taking the side streets so that he would not have to pass the mousetrap factory. He could still see the giant building peering over the tops of houses, as if it were following his every move, the smokestack pumping black clouds that clung to the air, even through the rain.
They found the boardinghouse unlocked and disheveled. The mousetrap girls had finished off the pantry before leaving for their next shift. There were stacks of dirty dishes strewn across the table. The roof was leaking from the storm, and pots and pans and buckets had been placed on the floor here and there, catching the rain. Together the boys helped Tom inside and settled him onto the bench, the schoolteacher moaning and cursing all the way. Then the twins went to find some dry clothes and blankets, and Ren led the donkey to the stable. Once the animal was unhitched, he went into the backyard to look for Mrs. Sands’s money.
The chicken coop was set in the corner, covered with a pitched roof and resting on four posts in the dirt. Ren crouched down and pawed through the wet soil with his fingers. He tried digging near each of the posts, and then between the coop and the fence. Finally he slipped his hand into the dirt right before the little doorway. Just as he felt the edge of something in the earth a chicken stuck its head out of the door and pecked his hand. Ren yanked back in surprise, then blocked the hole with his arm. He could feel the hens pecking his elbow as he pulled the money from the ground.
It was sealed in a glass jar, the same kind of jar that Mrs. Sands used for her preserves. Ren brushed away the grime. There was a thick roll of money inside. Plenty for the dwarf and enough to get them started on the road. They only had to wait until morning, when the market opened. Ren tucked the jar under his arm and hurried back toward the house. He found the twins huddled together, waiting for him in the doorway.
“We’re going back,” Brom whispered.
“To Saint Anthony’s,” said Ichy.
“We think you should come with us.”
“What about Tom?” Ren asked.
“We’ll say he’s dead.”
“Someone else will come.”
“Someone else will take us.”
Ren looked at his friends. Their pants were too small, their jackets worn to shreds, their prospects uncertain. If they had separated sometime in the past, while they still looked like children, they might have stood a chance. But if they went back now, they’d be sold into the army for sure. “No one is going to adopt you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Brother Joseph said so. I should have told you before.”
The twins looked confused. Ichy tugged on his earlobe, and Brom coc
ked his head, suspicious. “Why wouldn’t anyone want us?”
“Because of your mother,” said Ren. “Because she killed herself.”
Brom threw himself forward with a cry. He hit Ren’s stomach and the two went falling back into the house, a jumble of legs and arms. The jar slipped and smashed on the floor. Ren landed hard, sprawled next to Mrs. Sands’s money, and something broke loose inside him, and he began to fight with all his strength—kicking; punching with his good hand, elbowing with the other—then felt his ankles yanked from underneath, and Ichy was on top and pummeling him, and the boy was strong, much stronger than Ren ever thought he could be.
The boys rolled into the kitchen, one on top of the other. The blows came from everywhere now, and Ren was crying out, with all kinds of furious sorrow, biting and sending his feet in every direction, trying to land a fist, and then he got hold of someone’s hair, and Brom was screaming in Ren’s ear and scratching Ren’s arm with his nails, tearing the skin from his wrist, and still Ren would not let go.
A flood of icy water splashed over Ren’s head and clogged his ears. He coughed as the water washed over them all, sending bits of uneaten food and broken plates and mugs swimming across the kitchen floor. Tom was leaning over them with a rain bucket, and he swung it now over his head and knocked Ren on the side of the face as Brom and Ichy crawled away, soaked and dripping.
“Leave them be!” Tom shouted. “Just stay away from them!”
Ren lay on his side, catching his breath, his cheek smarting. The wall in front of him was made of split wood, and it showed all the knots, all the darkened holes, that seemed like faces. Bits of hair were still caught in his fingers. He had no way of telling whom it belonged to.
Tom dragged himself back to the bench in front of the fireplace. “My boys,” he said. “Come to me.” When the twins shuffled over, he threw his arms around them both and held them to his chest, and wept, and kissed their foreheads, and wept again. In the midst of this Brom and Ichy stood frozen in a state of confusion and embarrassment. Tom rubbed his eyes and patted them on the shoulder. “Now find me something to drink.”
The boys glared at Ren, then went to search for a bottle. As soon as they were out of hearing, Tom reached down, took hold of Ren’s jacket, and pulled him close, his breath heavy and sour. “Why didn’t you tell me about their mother?”
“I didn’t know it mattered to you,” said Ren.
“It matters,” said Tom. His voice was hoarse.
Ren yanked out of his grip and Tom fell forward, crumpling onto the floor. Brom came back into the room holding some wine. He saw Tom floundering, and crouched by his side.
“We need to get him upstairs.”
“He’s your father,” said Ren.
Brom walked over and punched Ren in the leg, just hard enough to let him know that they weren’t finished. Then he went back and opened the bottle for Tom to drink. He retied the splint, got the man onto his one good knee, and then, leaning, into the chair. Ichy arrived with a moth-eaten blanket and wrapped it around Tom’s shoulders. The twins went to the woodbasket Mrs. Sands kept near the pantry and carried in the logs that were left. Ichy crouched in the ashes and struck a light to the branches, while Brom went outside for another load and propped the wet logs around the irons. Then they took off their wet coats and Tom’s, too, and hung them by the mantel to dry. The rain continued overhead, drumming on the roof and washing through the gutters. Ren sat in the corner, and rubbed his burning cheek, and hated them all.
Tom took another drink. “It’s time we got our bearings.” He settled his leg out before him, then pulled the blanket across his knees with a wince. “What did that mousetrapper want with us?”
“He thinks I’m his nephew,” Ren grumbled.
Tom scratched underneath his beard. “And are you?”
“It seems so.”
“That’s a pickle.” Tom took another sip from the bottle. “You’ll have to keep out of sight. There must be somewhere you can hide.”
“Until when?”
Tom seemed surprised he would ask. “Until Benji comes back.”
Ren touched where the bucket had hit him. He thought of the look on Benjamin’s face as he said good-bye. “He’s not coming back.”
Tom waved his hand. “He always comes back. I’ve been through this a dozen times.”
“They could have killed me,” said Ren, “and he didn’t care. He just gave me away. And he left you with your leg broken, wrapped up in a rug on the street. You would have died if the twins hadn’t gotten you to the hospital.”
Tom took another drink and stared into the fire. The logs were blazing now, heating the room, so that steam began to rise from the man’s wet shoulders, as if his spirit were slowly evaporating.
“In another hour he’ll be knocking on that door.”
“He won’t,” said Ren.
Tom shook his head, but Ren could tell he shook it from not knowing what else to say. He motioned for Brom and Ichy, and the twins helped him balance as he hobbled out of the kitchen and began to heave his leg up the stairs. From the doorway Ren watched them make their slow progress, Ichy pushing a rug out of the way, Brom with the man’s arm across his shoulder. Tom paused on the landing, his breath uneven. “I’m not leaving. Not until I get word.”
“If we stay in North Umbrage, McGinty will find me.” Ren was sick of arguing, sick of being the one in charge. He crossed his arms and slid down farther against the wall. “Then what am I supposed to do?”
Overhead Tom leaned against the banister and appraised him carefully. Then he wiped his nose in a way that blamed Ren for everything.
“You’re the thief,” Tom said at last. “You think of something.”
The storm continued, reigning over the night. Ren rummaged through the mess of the kitchen until he found a few stale pieces of bread. Then he set a blanket down into the potato basket and crawled inside. It seemed a flimsy hiding place, but at least it put something between himself and the world. All he needed was a few hours so that he could rest.
Lightning flashed against the kitchen window. Ren began counting again, tracking the distance of the storm. One, two, three—he heard the roll of thunder a few miles away. Moments later the sky flickered again. One, two—this time he could feel the walls shake. There was a crack as the lightning struck close. One—and the thunder roared. It fell down on the very top of him, as if it would split the building in two.
When it finally subsided, Ren brought his elbows down from where they’d covered his head, and that’s when he heard the front door. Not a knock, but a heavy, hard thumping, as if someone was trying to push the wood aside with his shoulder. Ren stayed in the basket, hoping it would stop, and when it didn’t, he crawled out and took the poker from the fireplace. They’d drawn the bolt across the front door when they arrived, and now, as he approached the entrance, he could see the boards straining against it.
Ren watched the hinges start to give. He wrapped his arms around himself. Rain was seeping in from outside, over the threshold and across the stone floor. In another moment it would touch his feet.
“Ren,” said a voice behind the wood.
The boy reached forward and pulled the bolt. The wind was strong and the door flew open, smashing into the wall, and a figure came stumbling forward from the night.
“Dolly!” Ren cried. He threw open his arms, but Dolly pushed him aside and continued walking into the kitchen, knocking against a stool and then a table before reaching the fireplace. Dolly’s face held the same dark calm from when he murdered the men beneath the streetlight. He stared into the ashes of the fire, and his giant hands opened and closed, opened and closed.
“You left me,” Dolly said.
“I didn’t mean to,” said Ren.
Dolly turned now and offered his backside to the hearth. Tiny droplets from his robe spattered across the stone, making a circle of water around him. He stood within this circle, the cloth plastered to his legs like a second skin.
“It wasn’t my fault,” Ren said. He told Dolly everything that had happened, from the moment Tom hit Dolly on the head with the shovel to Benjamin chasing Ren down the road. While he spoke it was as if Dolly could not hear him. The expression on the man’s face was immovable, as black and solid as the irons in the fireplace. The thunder drummed overhead, softer now. It was a mile away, and then another, the lightning only a glimmer against the window.
All the penance Ren had neglected to say for the past eight months came back to him now. “You’re right,” he said, his voice breaking. “I left. I’m sorry.”
Dolly stepped out of the circle of water and crouched next to the boy on the floor. He took hold of Ren’s head, one massive hand covering each ear as if he would crush it, and then quickly leaned in and kissed the boy on the forehead, in the space between his giant thumbs. Then he let go and turned away for a moment, mopping his nose with his sleeve. When he looked back, his countenance was ragged and soft, a mountain already toppled and fallen.
“Friends again,” he said.
THIRTY-ONE
Ren fed the fire. Before long it was crackling and warming the hearth. Dolly took off his boots and clothes and hung them to dry. Then he sat down on the bench in his long underwear and declared that he was hungry. Ren gave him the bits of bread that were left, then searched the kitchen and found two small apples. He handed one over and took his place next to Dolly, and together they watched the monk’s robe dry.