Butterfly's Shadow - Lee Langley [37]
Unhappiness grew on her, thickening like a second skin, but she did her best to conceal it, and since she was out of practice with smiling these days, concealment was relatively easy. But one day at the nursery, cradling a curly-haired tot who had grazed his knee, she broke down, holding the toddler to her breast and weeping inconsolably into his soft hair, to the alarm of her colleagues.
Brushing away their anxiety she offered explanations. Her time of the month. A few sleepless nights . . . They sent her home: ‘You have a good rest now.’
In bed, curled into herself, clutching a pillow, she lay unmoving and sobbed into the empty room. Joey had been a mature three-year-old when she took him on; she had missed the early, milk-sweet moments, the small body expanding from the birth canal to fill a mother’s arms; the messy, repetitive demands, the mouth seeking her breast.
Next day she was her usual brisk self, but writing her weekly letter to her mother that night she found tears falling on to the page, smudging the ink.
17
Driving home, Ben worked on a scenario, trying out different words, rehearsing his speech to Nancy, shaping and reshaping it. Should he build slowly to the point, giving her time to take it in, or lay it out up front? They didn’t talk much these days. Toss a coin; there was no ‘right’ way to deal with this one. He became aware that his bones ached.
He had reached the edge of town when he found his view of the road blocked by a thick cloud of dust which resolved itself into a slow-moving cluster of men: husbands, brothers and fathers of the Hooverville women, a grey, shabby column.
He leaned from the window of the truck.
‘Anyone need a ride?’
A few men gave him a wave; two on the edge of the crowd climbed aboard, and a couple of women with young children.
‘Where to, gentlemen?’
‘We’re heading for Portland.’
‘You can drop us at the turn-off.’
Ben glanced at the men squeezed into the cab of his truck. One of them looked familiar.
‘It’s . . . Walt, right? You guys setting up something?’
He rested his buttocks on the kitchen table and sipped from a glass of water.
‘So I said, what’s going on?’
She continued to get supper ready as he talked, moving from table to gas stove to sink. She did this more and more these days, half listening, half attending to something else. Ben addressed the back of her head.
‘You know what he said?’
‘Nnh.’ She knew he would tell her. As she began to carve slices off a small end piece of ham she paused and looked over her shoulder: ‘By the way, I had a letter from my mother today.’
He nodded and drained the glass. ‘So anyway, Walt said . . .’
The truck rattled and bounced over the rutted road surface and Walter said in his slow way that the plan was for the men to assemble in Portland and head for Washington the following day.
Ben peeled off a strip of gum and added it to the tasteless lump held between his teeth. He chewed for a moment, drawing the cool, peppermint flavour into his mouth.
‘Washington county, that’s a fair way.’
The two men looked at each other, managing a grin. ‘Washington, DC, Ben, the Capitol. The White House.’
‘Come on, guys. What, you’re crossing the whole of the United States?’
Ben overtook the straggling column, inching his way, slow-paced to keep the dust down, throwing quick looks at the men in the cab. ‘Washington DC,’ he repeated, in a tone of disbelief. ‘Washington, DC? That’s what – three thousand miles.’
Now Nancy did stop, in mid-slice, and give him her full attention.
‘Washington? We’re talking about the vets, right?’
Joey, curled up on the bed in his closet-room, called out, ‘Why are old soldiers going to Washington?’
‘Not so old,’ Nancy said. ‘They were in the war. In Europe.’
She was aware that had Ben been a couple of years older he too might be heading for Washington. So would his big brother, only Charlie hadn’t come back from France. His was one of the white crosses marking the graves of those fallen in battle.
She moved round the table, concentrating on placing knives and forks