Bone House_ A Novel - Betsy Tobin [17]
On the reverse of the frame is etched a tiny signature that I cannot make out, for the silver has been tarnished badly with age. I turn it over and stare again at the woman in the tiny frame, and this time it strikes me that she shares a few similar features with the great-bellied woman: mainly in the shape of the mouth, which is wide and full, and in the eyes, which are large and penetrating in their gaze. I glance over at the boy; the woman in the portrait must be his grandmother. He too shares a trace of resemblance to the portrait about the mouth and eyes, though that is all.
The boy coughs in his sleep and I quickly close the lid of the box and replace it. I move to his side as he stirs and wakes, blinking several times. He looks at me and yawns.
“Are you hungry?” I ask.
“Where is the other woman?” he says. He has known my mother all his life and yet he does not refer to her by name.
“My mother has gone home to rest,” I tell him. “She will return later.”
His eyes drift to the bread on the table. I rise and fetch him some broth from the pot simmering over the fire. He is still weak and I must help him sit up, but I am relieved when he is able to feed himself. He eats the soup hungrily, noisily, and asks me for some bread. I break off a hunk and give it to him, then wait while he finishes and take the bowl when he is through. He lies back against the pillow, his eyes darting restlessly about the room.
“What happened?” he says.
“You had a fever,” I tell him. “But it is gone now.”
“Who else was here?” he says.
“The doctor,” I reply. “He came yesterday, and again this morning.”
“I have seen him here before,” he says. He picks at a feather poking out from the bedclothes.
“Your mother asked him to look after you,” I tell him.
“My mother?” He looks up at me expectantly.
“Before she died,” I add. Can it be that he does not remember? He looks past me at the wall for several moments. I draw a chair up to his bedside and sit down. I hesitate a moment, unsure how to proceed.
“Long Boy, your mother carried a child when she died,” I say slowly. “Did you know of this?” He looks at me uncomprehendingly. “In her belly,” I explain. “She had an unborn baby in her belly.” Inadvertently my hands go to my own belly, and Long Boy follows them with his eyes. We both stare at my hands for a moment, splayed across my belly, until I feel self-conscious and remove them.
“What happened to it?” he asks.
“It died when she did,” I tell him gently.
“Why?” he says.
“Because an unborn baby cannot live without its mother,” I explain.
“Did you see it?” he asks intently.
I shake my head slowly. “No.”
He frowns. “Then how can you be sure?” he says.
I hesitate, and I realize that I cannot be sure of anything.
“The doctor told me,” I say finally.
He appears satisfied with this answer, and looks down at the covers once again.
“The baby had a father, Long Boy,” I continue. He flashes me a questioning look. “All children do,” I say, by way of explanation.
“I don’t,” he says immediately.
I bite my lip. “No. But this baby did.”
Long Boy ponders this a moment. “Where is he?”
“I do not know,” I say.
He nods and makes an odd grinding noise with his teeth, as if he is preoccupied.
“This baby’s father,” I tell him. “I should like to know who he is.”
“Why?” he says.
I take a deep breath, let it out slowly. Why indeed? I can think of no answer suitable for someone of his age. “Because,” I say finally.
He nods, but does not realize I am asking him for the answer. I lean forward, catch his gaze.
“Did any one man come to visit more than the others?” I ask.
Long Boy’s eyes come to rest on the vial of camphor, still lying on the table. “He came,” he says.
I nod. “More than the others?”
“No,” he replies.
I frown. My instinct tells me that Lucius is not the man I seek. Then I remember the glass vial hidden under my kirtle. Slowly I withdraw it and take the vial from its pouch, holding