Butterfly's Shadow - Lee Langley [34]
‘I’ll get a job,’ Nancy said. ‘With Joey at school now I can manage it.’
‘That won’t be necessary.’
But quite soon it did become necessary and Nancy took a job. Not one she would have chosen, but choice was no longer an option. The garage had gone, and now it was the turn of the house and the electric kitchen.
Nancy kept the focus tight: she concentrated on what to take, not what must be left behind; hold on to the small things – objects of sentimental value, she had heard them called at sales. She was keeping a Mexican plate that had been a wedding present, and a pair of silver-plated grape scissors, to remind her of a way of life that was about to vanish. Ben pocketed Charlie’s medal.
She picked out and folded the clothes she habitually wore; in truth, the rest just hung there in the closet for most of the time. Joey trailed behind her, watching. He had never been heavy on toys and she told him he could keep his favourite books.
They packed cardboard boxes and carried them down to the porch. As Nancy reached the entrance two Model T Fords drove slowly past; the cars still looked shiny new but they were loaded with household goods. The remains of their own were neatly laid out in front of the house, marked ‘For Sale. No reasonable offer refused.’
What was a reasonable offer? How many dollars could reconcile her to the loss as she watched the pieces she had picked out so lovingly, the maple side table, the standard lamp, the desk with the secret drawer, being loaded on to someone else’s pickup?
*
Nancy said, ‘Where’s Joey?’ but Ben was busy filling boxes, and she went back inside the house, calling his name. By the time she reached the top of the stairs she sounded exasperated: her legs ached and her throat was dry from the dust.
‘Joey?’ she called again.
Ben heard her calling, repeatedly, her voice growing frantic as she went from room to empty room. Then she was down the stairs and hurrying out on to the porch, running her hand through her hair, looking beyond him to the street.
She said, ‘He’s gone.’
15
She was out on the sidewalk, looking left and right, calling his name, knowing there would be no response but calling anyway.
‘Joey? Joey!’
‘I’ve been here the whole time,’ Ben said. ‘He can’t be gone.’
He stood, trying to think himself inside the child’s head.
‘Did you look in the loft?’
She came running past him, into the house and up the stairs. At the top she paused: only now did she notice the ladder to the loft, the open hatch.
Joey was crouching on the loft floor, in the corner below the tiny roof window, the brown paper bag full of his books clutched to his chest.
Nancy said, her voice calm, ‘Joey: we need to start loading—’
He said, ‘I’m not going.’
He curled up, hugging the floor, making himself heavy, cumbersome, to discourage any attempt to lift him.
She went back down the stairs and found Ben, but when she tried to explain the situation he became impatient: kid stuff was Nancy’s province.
‘Just fetch him down. If necessary, give him a whack.’
‘A whack?’
A slow wave of anger built in Nancy, composed of weariness, resentment and a sense of being on her own.
‘He’s your son,’ she said. ‘You fetch him down.’
Her legs seemed to give way under her and she collapsed in the porch; slumped, uncaring of dirt and dust on the steps.
‘You give him a whack. If you think that’s what you want to do. I’m not about to start hitting him.’
Ben went up the stairs and climbed the ladder to the loft.
‘Hey, kid.’
He peered across at the boy, very small, huddled on the floor, seeming to be hugging the wall. In the corner of the shadowy room he looked less blond, and something about the angle of his head, the way he raised a shoulder as he looked up at Ben, was for a shocking moment a reminder of the past: Ben saw that he was Cho-Cho’s child.
Joey began to cry, heavy tears welling and dripping on to his knees.
Ben