by Ryan Byrnes
“That Ethyl sure is something, isn't she?”
What? I turned to see four men in dirty white coats—doctors, I presumed—smoking around a table. “Excuse me,” I piped up, “did you say Ethyl Brand?”
One of them nodded, jetting out a ribbon of smoke and steam in the crisp air. “She works up in the hospital. Red Cross. Not here now, of course. She’s gone down to the front to treat a poor bloke from the Royal Warwickshires. Hit by a shell.”
“You called her Mother Brand, though,” I said. “Is she a nun now?”
“Why, do you know her?”
“Grew up with her.”
The doctor raised his eyebrows. “She’s a mystery. Some days I think she’s a nun, other days I think she’s an atheist. Came here from Boulogne with the Carmelites. There’s a convent a few miles out,” he pointed. “They house whoever they have room for—nurses, beggars, and the like.”
I nodded. Maybe I’d pay Ethyl a visit before I—well, it goes without saying.
I stared at the floor, and my breathing slowed. I was empty inside, resigned and unsure and terrified all at once. No matter. I’d made it this far and I had to keep focused on the goal. Instinctively I patted my bag where Luther’s ticket to Algeria was stowed. After I made sure he was on his way, well, who knew what would happen after that. I rose from the table and stepped outside. My shadow stretched across the street in the red evening sky. Back to the post office I marched, my reserve wobbling.
“You alright?” a baby-faced officer called.
“Hmm,” I nodded at him.
The lieutenant kept walking, and I paid him no mind until I heard him call out, “Hey, you! Girls! What are you doing?”
I turned and saw three little girls shrinking away from the officer’s commanding voice. I stopped in my tracks. The girls from the train!
“Say, what are you doing here?” the officer approached them. “This is no place for little girls alone. Where are your parents?”
Celeste reached for her skirts, where I knew she kept her knife. She’d use it if he got too close, Of that, I had no doubt. But the consequences for pulling a weapon on an officer? They’d lock her away for sure. And then what would happen to the little ones?
“Excuse me, young lady,” the lieutenant increased his pace, straggling after the three girls.
Pacing up behind the man, I grabbed him by the arm and. “Don’t worry about these ragamuffins,” I said. “I can take them to where they’re supposed to be.”
He looked me up and down with disdain. “How dare you grab me like that! Get your hand off me.”
I let go and stepped back.
“Do you know these girls?” he asked.
“I am acquainted with them and know where they live. I’ll see they get out of your way.” Before he could protest, I ushered the girls down the street and around the corner. When we were finally a few blocks away, I pushed them all into a little café and sat them down at a table in the darkest corner. Already, the whispers of Pére Noël sprang up.
“Let’s quiet down about that, alright?” I said. “You want that officer sending the authorities after you? Sending you off to who knows where?”
Celeste looked at her two sisters and shook her head.
“Right. So it looks like you’ll need to lay low for a few hours. Are you hungry?”
Hungry appeared to be a word all three girls knew for they all three leaned forward as if I’d already laid out a buffet dinner.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll buy you some food.”
I asked the bartender what food they had, and he just said, “Soup.” I fished out a few coins and carried back a small loaf of bread and three bowls of pink broth swimming with boiled beets. It was more water than soup, but the girls slurped it down in no time at all. I took the empty bowls up and paid for a refill.
“Where did you come from?” I asked Celeste. “Where are your parents?”
“We come from Lorraine,” Celeste began. “Soldiers come in the fall. They say they not hurt us, but when it was cold and we looked forward to Christmas, then our town burned down, and we knew the truth. I think they must hate Christmas. Ils dètestent noël.”
She rattled off a few sentences in French, like she was translating our conversation for her sisters, then continued.
“After the fire, we left. There were many of us at first, and we walked through farms and villages. People called us rèfugièes. One farmer gave us shoes when ours wore out. When it got too cold, a man gave us blankets.” She gestured wrapping a blanket about herself. “Nuns took some of us away, but not all. We told them we had un oncle, old man, who lives in the North. It’s our only family. So they put us on train and we go across France to find him. We come long way. But now it is Christmas, and you find us. You give us presents. You are our Pére Noël. You will take us to uncle at North Pole.”
She nodded to her sisters, and they looked up at me with wide eyes as if I was St. Nick himself. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I about wept.
It wasn’t so much the suffering that struck me—I had seen suffering before. But these little girls didn’t even know the meaning of war. They’d been so traumatized they’d gone searching for a folk tale. Santa Claus, for God’s sake! Santa Claus would give them presents. Santa Claus would take care of them. Santa Claus would take them to their uncle, the only family they had left. Jesus. To hell with Europe. To hell with this war. All this death and destruction for the whims of a handful of incestuous Kings, Kaisers, Czars, whatever damn titles they could make up for themselves. Cowards all. None of them were on the front lines, putting their own bodies in danger. Every damn one of them would probably flee if the enemy was at their gates, burning down their towns.
“You want me to take you to the North Pole? To find your uncle?” I repeated, swallowing hard.
Celeste nodded.
“You sure your uncle lives there?”
Another nod.
“Does your North Pole happen to be in the French countryside?” I asked.
“Oui monsieur.”
Celeste shoved a letter toward me. The French was indecipherable to me, but she pointed out the address.
Albert Moreau
Estaires, France
“Is this your uncle? Albert Moreau? Living in Estaires?”
Celeste nodded.
I checked my watch, pulled out my map, and found Estaires. Damn. That’s not too far from where I was headed. I’d have time to get them to their uncle and still get to Luther by morning. Bloody hell. Looked like I was going to be St. Nick for the night.
“Okay girls, it looks like we’re making a stop at the North Pole.”
The Moreau sisters looked at each other and then swarmed around me, hugging me around the waist and hanging on me as if I were their long-lost uncle.
Or Pére Noël.
JUNE, 1848
LEAMINGTON SPA, ENGLAND
~ JIM BAKER ~
“After I had Rodney down, I took his blasted knife and threw it right into the water there.” I pointed to the middle of the river.
“What set him off this time?” Ethyl asked. She was leaning against an old log with her knitting, working the wool over the needles while I waded barefoot at the water’s edge.
“Sometimes, I think he knocked something loose in his head when Luther pushed him down. We used to play fight all the time, but not anymore. Rodney is always paranoid now. Jumpy. Always looking behind his back and getting angry whenever someone makes a funny joke about him. He’s always liked weapons, but then he started carrying that blasted knife with him all the time and pulling it out whenever anyone, including me, got too close, which kind of scared me. He never cut me, until today.” I touched my arm where Rodney’s knife had drawn blood. “He was afraid to before. I mean we we’ve been best friends forever, and I guess he was always afraid Luther would appear and knock him down again. But Luther wasn’t around and maybe he wasn’t so scared.”
Ethyl frowned and her needles clicked a bit faster. �
��Does you arm hurt?”
“No. It’s just a scratch.”
“I don’t like this, Jim. Rodney’s tough talk … it’s like he has to prove something. And now, he’s gone and actually attacked you.”
“I don’t think he meant to hurt me. He was as shocked as I was. Still, I’m glad I threw that knife away.” I looked out at the center of the Leam and wondered where the knife would end up. Would it float to the sea or sink into the sediment and stay there till some bloke found it a thousand years from now? “Rodney says he’s going to join the army, you know. Plans to go serve in India or something. He won’t join the navy; says they don’t get enough action. And he never stops talking about guns. One time after school, he went on forever about what kind of gun he would use if England was ever attacked. He was hardly even paying attention to me, and I don’t think he noticed when I got up to go see if Mum had any deliveries I needed to take care of.”
“If he was willing to hurt you, he could hurt anyone,” Ethyl said. “He just seems on edge all the time now.”
“Nah, he’s not really violent. Just .. touchy. But you’re right on one account. I don’t think there’s a group Rodney doesn’t have a problem with. Irish, Germans, French. Even his mum. He says he hates his mum because she’s too protective and treats him like a baby, and he doesn’t say too much good about most anyone else. He never questions Father Carmichael or his own father, though. He never questions anyone in charge, just those he thinks hurt his pride. And he never questions the old veterans who drink at the pub smoking cigars and drinking and swearing that kids these days are too damn soft.” I looked over at her. “He doesn’t say anything bad about you, though.” I waited for a reaction, but Ethyl didn’t look up.
“Why are you even still friends with him? If he’s treats everyone so poorly—especially Luther—just cut off contact with him.” She was knitting so fast that she kept dropping a stitch and having to go back.
“I don’t know. Old habits, maybe. Or remembering good times. Maybe I feel guilty about Luther pushing him. Usually whenever Rodney gets going on about guns or war or killing people, I just laugh and say with his luck, Luther would probably be sent to the front with him. Whenever I mention Luther, Rod flinches and touches his head. Before I thought Rodney understood about Luther, but after … well, now he’s just like everyone else. They all think Luther is some kind of scary monster for being a little different.”
“People are afraid of what they don’t understand, and they don’t understand Luther” Ethyl said. “I know you want to defend him, but you can’t lose control and be angry all the time over it. My aunt’s a nun you know, and she says, ‘The closer to self-control, the closer to power.’ She’s very smart. Maybe you could take a page from her.”
“That’s what I don’t like about people, large groups of people—they’re afraid of everything. And when people are afraid, they get to acting tough and talking big—history and politics and whatnot. They get to being like Rod and lashing out to try and convince themselves they’re not afraid. But damnit, I swear I’ll hit back every time. Just like when I was little, and I’d take on the bullies Luther’s age when they made fun of him. I may have stumbled home bruised and without shoes, but at least I stood up for my brother. Someone—including Rod—hits me and mine, I will always hit back.”
“God’s sake, Jim.” Ethyl put down her knitting and scowled up at me. “You’re as bad as Rodney!”
“It’s the ones who don’t care one way or another that live best. I don’t care that Luther is different. In fact, I don’t care about him at all. Or Mum. Or the Stokers or Father Carmichael or anyone.”
“You are ridiculous. Of course you care. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t strike back.”
“You’re wrong, Ethyl, I don’t care. It’s just that you can’t let people take advantage and run right over you.”
“You care about your aunt Lavinia. And I thought we were friends. I thought you cared about me.
“Well—” I started, but Ethyl kept going.
“You care, but you refuse to admit it because you think it makes you weak. You don’t understand that weakness is denying your honest and true feelings because of what someone else might think. You already lost to Rodney when you surrendered your peace of mind to him. That’s what the nuns would say.”
I didn’t want to think she was right, so I ignored what she said and looked at the river. I would have to be home soon, anyway. Today was Luther’s birthday, and we were throwing him a party at dinnertime. Besides, I had other things to think about.
“There’s something else I have to tell you,” I mumbled. “I found some pamphlets at my house the other day, for a boarding school. I think Mum is sending me off.”
“That’s great news,” Ethyl said. She sounded enthusiastic, but she didn’t look it.
I frowned at her.
“You’re very lucky to be going somewhere you can get a good quality education.”
“You don’t understand.”
“Understand what?” Ethyl said.
“Mum’s doing this to get back at me. She’s out to get me, you see.”
“And you said Rodney was paranoid. I can’t listen to this any longer, Jim.” She stood and started packing up her yarn and needles.
“Won’t you be sad?”
“At what?”
“When I leave for boarding school?”
Ethyl looked at me straight in the face. “I’m going to become a nun, Jim.”
“What?”
“I’ve been telling you about the missions in Africa for weeks. I’m actually very excited. It means a lot to me that I might be able to help people who need so much.”
II felt the color in my cheeks and I shook my head.
“Do you care truly about me, then?” Ethyl asked. “I care about you, too, but I’m decided. I want to do something important with my life. I want something more.”
Behind me, the river twirled and sparkled as it flowed toward the sea. In the green shadows beneath the stuffy trees, I looked at her eyes and her red hair that turned gold on the edges where strands floated like spider silk.
“Remember when I tried to dance with you at your Aunt Lavinia’s wedding? It was a long time ago, I know, but—”
“Yes.”
“You pulled your hands away and ran because you were embarrassed.”
“I remember.” I looked away.
“When you pulled my hair? Did you do that to act tough? Were you afraid like Rodney?”
“I—I—I guess.” I exhaled heavily and shrugged, picking at a low-hanging leaf
“What were you afraid of?” She said it casually, like she didn’t know the answer, like she was talking about philosophy or something.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, and I’d appreciate it if you stopped nosing around in my business.” I hated myself as soon as I said it. I picked up my shoes, stepped past her, and climbed over the old stone wall.
“Where are you going?”
“It’s Luther’s birthday. I’m going to eat some cake.”
“Running away again.” The words stung, but I didn’t look back as I crossed the uphill slope from the river, where the sheep grazed without noticing me. At the other end of the pasture, I jumped over the other wall, stopped to put on my shoes, and then headed down the sunbaked path until I got back into town.
I walked in the back door and headed for the dining room where Luther, Mum, Aunt Lavinia, and Uncle Mark were already sitting.
“What happened to your arm?” Mum snapped.
Dammit! I rolled my sleeves down and looked away. Too late. Mum had her fingers around my wrist. She stood and dragged me into the kitchen.
“Who was it this time? Rodney again?”
“He was carrying that knife of his and salivating over guns and stuff. And besides, he started it. I was doing everyone a favor.”
“Listen, Jim,” she said my name whenever she was serious, but this was the first time she’d ever s
aid it with contempt, like she said Margie Stoker’s name. “You know Rodney knows Luther’s the one what pushed him. The only reason he doesn’t blab it all over town is because he’s embarrassed. You piss him off enough, and he won’t care—he’ll tell. You want that to happen? You want your brother to end up institutionalized?”
“What do you want me to do? Rodney starts fights with everyone these days. Should I let him beat me up?”
“You’re the only one in this house who can prevent Rodney from hurting Luther.”
“Why does Luther have to be the center of everything? All I want is a big brother like the other boys have—he’d teach me to fight and help me cheat at tests and show me how to get girls to like me. If I want to have fun with Luther, I have to explain things to him twenty times and he still won’t get it. And he doesn’t like me, either. Every time I touch him, he goes off!”
I’d rehearsed that speech every night for what seemed like years. It felt good to finally say it, but now that it was out, I was afraid something inside me would break, that I would start crying because I knew the truth. That Luther was the center of everything and that everything in our family was about Luther. About saving Luther, protecting Luther, keeping Luther out of trouble and out of a sanitarium. To the extent that Mum cared about me, it was just so I could some day take care of Luther when she was gone. Ethyl Brand was right about me. I was afraid. Afraid I would never have a life of my own. Never have someone who loved me for me, instead of for what I could do for Luther.
Through the dining room door, I could hear Luther stringing sentences together about cake and presents. He was talking better these days, but he didn’t like all the attention of being the birthday boy. When Aunt Lavinia began tapping on the table to recall his attention, he started flapping his hands. Aunt Lavinia had known Luther his whole life and Uncle Mark had been around for years, but only Mum and I knew Luther well enough to read the subtle signs. We had that much in common, and the same alarms went off in our brains, giving us the same terrors, the same annoyances, the same hopes.
