by Ryan Byrnes
Mum exhaled, gave me a nod, and headed back toward the dining room. On the way out of the kitchen, I glanced at the work table where there was an unfinished batch of truffles. There must’ve been a hundred of the coin-sized jewels, with a bowl of rich ganache next to a plate of nuts. I loved the days when Mum made truffles. I would sometimes help, but I would always watch and smell. I knew the motions well—cut the chocolate, melt it down, add the cream, stir the ganache, and roll the truffles into marbles between cocoa-powdered palms. Beside the bowl, I noticed another boarding school pamphlet.
“Is it true?” I waved the pamphlet at her. “Are you sending me away?”
“Listen, I need you to work with me, Jim. We don’t have a normal family. People don’t know what to make of us and so they talk. You need to get away from here because you’re not going to make it if you turn sour. People on top, they can get as sour as they want because everyone cares what they think. We are the people on the bottom, and we have to keep our heads down, smile, say yes sir and yes ma’am to everyone who asks. You need to learn how to do that, Jim, or you won’t make it in the world.”
“Think I don’t know that?” I swallowed hard and blinked at her.
“You’re the only one in this family who has a chance of rising up above”—she swept an arm around the room—“above all this. If you do well at school, you’ll get a job and enough money to take care of Luther after I’m gone.”
“No.” I shook my head. “I don’t want to go. You can’t make me.”
“Yes, I can,” she said and went back into the dining room.
I followed, of course. Aunt Lavinia looked up when I walked back in and then looked over at Luther who was now rocking back and forth in his chair, making bubbles on his tongue and staring at the cake. He grabbed for the cake and Aunt Lavinia caught his hand and pulled it back. I was so mad I grabbed his gift—Dad’s copy of A Tale of Two Cities—and slammed it down on his plate, cracking it.
“Happy Birthday, Luther.”
He squealed and slapped my arm.
“Jim, now, no need to upset him.” Aunt Lavinia took on that high-pitched, ragged edge.
“Doesn’t matter. You’ll all be rid of me soon enough.”
Aunt Lavinia’s eyes widened, and Luther smashed his fist into the cake, squelching the iced Happy 10th Birthday! into a ball of frosting that squeezed through his fingers and into the wrinkles of his knuckles and the cracks of his fingernails. He made that moaning sound that sounded almost inhuman and then jumped up on his chair.
Uncle Mark looked petrified. He glanced at Aunt Lavinia for assurance that everything was perfectly normal, and she shrugged and tried not to make a big deal of it.
“Luther, sit down.” Mum tried to sound nice in front of Mark. I knew she didn’t want them—her own family—to see a full-blown episode with the hitting, the pillows, the grappling and pinning down on the rug. Same old, same old. Just not in front of the guests.
But Luther was too far gone. He ran out of the dining room, into the kitchen, and in circles around the house like he always does before he bursts. Any second and he’d stop to bash himself against the wall and start hitting himself.
Mum gave me the death glare, and then turned to go fetch him.
“Luther, Luther,” she kept calling with that high-pitched voice, trying to sound nice.
What was she hoping for? Anyone could tell Luther had passed the point of no return; his meltdown would keep boiling until he reached his final form—fetal position, holding his head, tucked away in a corner, not responding to sound or touch. But Mum was trying to pretend things were dandy, and Aunt Lavinia was going along with it. She directed Uncle Mark’s attention to the nice clock that Granny left us.
Meanwhile, Luther ran into the kitchen, pulling his hair and moaning. I stepped into the doorway. He looked like he was in so much pain. He didn’t like loud noises, I knew that, so why did I have to slam the book in front of him? I just needed to control myself. Mum knew it, I knew it, but that didn’t change anything right now. I’d tipped Luther over the edge. It was my fault his birthday was ruined.
Mum ran after Luther, opening her arms to lock him in a hug that would prevent him from hitting himself, but she couldn’t catch him. Luther and Mum found themselves facing each other on opposite ends of the big truffle-dotted island in the middle of the kitchen.
He looked up at Mum and then at the truffles. Mum, truffles. Mum, truffles.
In the dining room, Aunt Lavinia and Uncle Mark spoke in hushed tones.
“Luther, please,” Mum whispered, “don’t do it. Control yourself, just this once. We wouldn’t want to cause a ruckus for Uncle Mark now, would we?”
Mum bowed her head down on the island, covering her face with her own hair. She was begging him, and yet, Luther probably didn’t even hear her. Mum knew that, right? She had to.
Luther looked at her, then at the truffles again. He picked one up and held it close to his eye, studying every facet down to the fingerprints and palm lines left over from the rolling. He held it to his nose and inhaled. His eyebrows knit and forehead wrinkled, and then he reached into the big copper bowl of ganache and pulled out a clump the size of his fist. Tearing it into ten chunks, he took each between his flattened palms and rolled them into little balls.
When the shrieks and hitting never came, Mum looked up. She gasped and put a hand over her mouth.
“Oh my…” I turned to see Aunt Lavinia peeking into the kitchen, touching her cross necklace. Uncle Mark stood behind her, asking what was going on in a whisper.
Luther ignored them all, rolling out truffles between his palms. His whole universe had narrowed down to those truffles and everything else must have faded to him. The first one took about ten seconds, but he kept got faster and faster. Soon, he had the entire surface of the table covered in truffles. Occasionally, he’d pat his hands with flour, just like he’d watched Mum do his whole life, just as deftly, just as naturally, just as rhythmically as a concert pianist, a genius at peace. It’s like he was back in Mum’s womb, safe and quiet. His chest rose, rose, rose, rose, rose, and then fell, fell, fell, fell, fell. And he kept making truffles. By the time the copper bowl was empty, his eyebrows flattened, his licked his lips as if he were parched, and then calmly walked over to the cupboard and climbed inside. He pulled the door shut, and it clicked behind him.
When my eyes cracked open, the first thing I noticed was the battering wind outside and the walls of the house creaking. A storm must have blown in because it was still dark and the rain didn’t just patter on the roof but pounded sideways against the walls and window panes. Was it even morning? What if it was only midnight and the storm had woken me up?
Oh well. I knew I’d have plenty of time to sleep on the train to Rugby the next day. That’s where I was headed, to the boarding school in Rugby, the same town Mum was born in. She said she knew the headmaster when they were both kids and that he was being especially kind letting me in and blah blah blah. Apparently, Ethyl was right. It would be a chance for a good education as Mum kept stressing that the classes were a lot better than the classes at the country school in Leamington.
Other boys from Leamington were headed to the school in Rugby, too, Rodney among them. He said there’d be hundreds of boys, all crammed together in one house without any privacy. All my life, I’d seen the boarding school boys during Christmas and summer breaks when they’d come home on holiday. They would wear their suits and ties and hang around the country school house, leaning on walls and throwing cricket balls and squeak-laughing and hitting each other. They’d swear loudly and curse their mothers’ graves whenever they stubbed their toes. In fact, they swore loudly about pretty much everything, but only when they were the oldest ones around. Their faces were red and agitated with pimples and scars, and they had little fuzzy beards and little fuzzy mustaches they weren’t sure if they should shave yet. Their favorite topic of discussion was the penis, something I still hadn’t quite come to terms with.
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I already knew how school would turn out. First day, some older boys would gang up on me in the loo or something. They’d steal all my clothes while I slept or bathed. It happened to everyone. But I’d get through It.
Luther wouldn’t be there.
And only the Leamington boys would even know who Luther was and none of them would care, besides Rodney. In fact, there would be nobody to make fun of Luther. And with no one to make fun of Luther, there would be no one for me to fight. This could be really great, actually. But I couldn’t let Mum know that. I had to keep pretending to be angry or she’d figure it out.
I rolled out of bed and put some clothes on. The wind kept battering against the walls, and I felt a draft that made me shiver and want to crawl back under the covers. I pulled my undershirt over my head, buttoned my shirt, belted my trousers, and tried to figure out how to tie the tie. It was a red and gold and matched the colors of the school. Finally, I just left it hanging around my neck and put on the jacket. There, I looked fit and proper like one of the squeak-laughing boys with the pimples. Oh joy—I was a wonder to behold.
I purposely left my bed sheets crooked and untidy and grabbed my luggage cases. I looked around my room before I left. Of course, it was empty now, everything packed away in my cases, but I felt like I was supposed to look it over and say good-bye. Only, it was four rickety wood walls that didn’t give a damn one way or the other. So, I shrugged and shut the door.
In the stairway, I passed all the awards Luther had won over the summer.
THE GREAT WARWICKSHIRE BAKING CONTEST THIRD PLACE
THE GREAT LEAMINGTON BAKE-OFF SECOND PLACE
THE GREAT CANDY EXHIBIT, LONDON BEST CHOCOLATE ARTISAN
There were photographs of Luther standing open-mouthed next to famous chefs whose names I couldn’t even pronounce. There was a blue ribbon from the Warwick County Fair and a newspaper clipping that read BAKER’S TRUFFLES ARE NO TRIFLE. I remembered going to these contests and watching the other red-faced chefs. They would throw their towels down and yell, then run a hand through their hair to cool down. And Luther would step up to the table, just like he always did, face empty, eyes only for his bowl of ganache. He would pat his hands in flour and roll those truffles better than anyone in the whole of England.
Girls would giggle when he looked at them, and he would show his teeth.
What surprised me the most were his sentences. When girls came up to him, he would say things like “I make candy. I watch Mum. You want my candy.” He would try and put candy in their mouths, and they loved it. It turned out that baking shows were the only places where social boundaries didn’t matter.
When I made it down to the kitchen the next morning, Luther was already there, rolling out a hundred truffles just to get the day started. The thing was, we knew he’d sell most of them that day, too. More people started coming to the shop once they heard rumors about Luther the Truffler. Mum even cleaned the place up, and we all painted the walls pink, and polished the shelves until they shined with the chocolate coins and sugared jewels under glass. The place was really coming back to life, like it had been before Luther arrived and Dad died. Occasionally, Luther would speak with people, too. He was getting better every day, but sometimes he’d be really quiet and nervous. Still he put words and sentences together, and, strangely enough, people were charmed by him. He had turned into a good looking bloke and when he wasn’t flapping his hands, hitting himself in the head, or running around like a madman, he seemed almost normal. At least when he was in the kitchen. Which was where he was now. I stopped in the doorway and said good morning. He glanced up from his work.
“Why do you have bags?”
“I’m going to the boarding school this year, remember?”
No answer. He returned to his work, and I smiled.
“You know, you should give some of those truffles to Ethyl one of these days.”
“Why?”
“She—she’d like it. She’s nice. A lot of the girls in town made fun of you before, but Ethyl never did.
“I know.”
“But now that you’re famous, even the ones who made fun of you talk about you and think you’re cute.”
“I am cute.”
I laughed. I found myself walking over to the mantle, where all of Dad’s books still sat next to our grandfather clock. Funny they called it that, when really it belonged to my grandmother. I still had a few of those books to read, including Byron’s poems. I personally hated Byron, but I had to do it to know what Dad was like. I had to. And if Dad was a hopeless romantic, then so be it. In a way, those books were my Dad, still alive with all his opinions and morals. They had done more to raise me than any teacher or priest or old man or mother I knew. Except maybe Aunt Lavinia.
I stood there, staring at the books for a while, when I heard Mum’s steps coming down the stairs, fully dressed and ready for the day. First thing she did was give Luther a kiss on the forehead.
“Jim,” she called from the kitchen, “it’s eight o’clock. We were supposed to leave fifteen minutes ago. Get your bags to the door.”
She had just appeared, and I was staring right at the clock and it said 7:45. She wanted to play this game now? On the day I was leaving? God damn. I took that book of Byron and shoved it in my suitcase, just to show her.
I met Mum by the door. She called for Luther to hurry, and the two of us stepped onto the street. When Luther emerged, Mum locked the door behind us. At least, the rain had stopped. Still the cobblestones shone in the grey light. When I thought about it, they were only dry maybe ten, twenty days a year at most. We walked a short way down Bath Street and under the train bridge where all the rats and rubbish usually settled, passing Doc Abbott’s on the way. Down High Street a little way, there was the train station. I couldn’t figure why my stomach was churning, so I decided I was angry. At Mum? Of course at Mum.
“One to Rugby, thank you.” Mum slipped a fold of money under the glass window, then handed me my ticket.
I tucked it in my trousers before I could get a good look at it. I didn’t want to see it.
And who else did we see waiting at the station but Mr. Stoker himself.
“Jim, good man.” He walked up to shake my hand, stiff and gruff, in a full suit. “Now, I like to see this. I know you and Rodney have had a falling out of late, but I like to see that you’re going to a proper school, nonetheless. Nothing like a good English education to turn boys into men.”
I shook his hand, and his grip was tight. He didn’t let go of my hand but instead bent down to inspect it.
“Fiiiine grip, lad, a trigger grip if I ever saw one. You’ll make a fine soldier one day, my boy. Just like Rodney. You’ll be a service to king and country, I’m certain of it.” He turned to Luther and looked him up and down and then turned back to me. “I suppose the burden of serving your family and your nation must fall to you, considering your brother’s state—”
“I see you bought a new wedding ring?” Mum interrupted, nodding at his fat fingers.
“Uh, what? Excuse me. I must rejoin Mrs. Stoker. Good day to you, Mrs. Baker. Jim.” Mr. Stoker wet his lips, tipped his hat at us, and walked back over to where Rodney and Mrs. Stoker sat on the bench, awaiting the train to Rugby as well.
Mrs. Stoker and Rodney watched the exchange but said nothing.
And that’s how I left home to become a man. Watching the train station roll by in a car crammed full of eight-year-olds, and my older brother talking for the first time in complete sentences, as if the prospect of me leaving had set him free.
CHRISTMAS EVE, 1914
THE WESTERN FRONT
~ LUTHER BAKER ~
Rodney Stoker told me to follow him onto the field and to leave the trench and we crawled in lots of mud and then the sky rained bombs and then he pushed me in the big hole and said hide and wrote a letter to Mum for me. Rodney Stoker said do not go outside the crater do not leave until they come for you and it was light and the guns would see do not step out
side. But we had to get back to pals where there were no bombs and there was food. I was very afraid and the sounds went away and the feelings went away and there were truffles. Truffles in my hands that I made best. Little candies to give to happy kids that giggle and girls that giggle and say they like me and I blush like at the candy contest. Happy happy happy happy not here not here not here not here. Why isn’t everyone happy? Why do they want to hurt each other? Why? Why? Why? Why do they shoot at me and scare me so bad my thoughts stop and I stop. Why do they throw bombs that shriek so loud they made me feel like my head is broken? But Rodney Stoker really was broken. Blood turned brown and crusty in places blood wasn’t supposed to be like when I pushed him down when he was little. His skin was red and hot and his hair was gone and he was bald. Rodney Stoker’s arms turned into wood because they would not bend and he didn’t answer any of my questions and didn’t talk or look at my eyes. I was dead for the whole day. The bombs stopped when it was dark and I turned alive again and my thoughts started thinking again. I thought they would come back but they didn’t. I wanted to look over the edge but everyone who did it died. And Rodney Stoker told me not to so I didn’t know what to do. I asked Rodney Stoker can I look over the edge to go back to get a doctor but he didn’t answer and I tried to poke him and lift him but his legs were stiff like wood just like his arms. So I sat there until it was darker and my thoughts came back because the bombs weren’t making them go away. If I didn’t look over the edge we would not be able to go be safe and we would stay here and I did not want to stay here. So I looked over the edge and there was nothing. The world was flat and grey even though there used to be trees. The guns did not make noise but I didn’t know if they saw me so I hid again in the big hole. I didn’t know what to do if I should stay or leave we would get killed. What do I do, Mum? I cried a little and crawled around the big hole. I saw the letter Rodney Stoker wrote and stuffed it in my pocket because I had to send it to Mum so she would not be sad and know I was okay. I had to get out and send the letter to Mum. I had to get out and send the letter to Mum. A man was standing on top and looking at me with a gun he was a German because he had a pointy hat and a mustache. But he talked normal and said hello are you stuck. He talked English like me. We looked at each other and I was not scared because he was a person and people I knew usually tried to help other people so I said yes I need help am I allowed to leave the hole my friend is hurt bad. He said yes but not now. He said wait. He said words I did not know and looked around and told me to be quiet and stay still and he would be back when it was safe. So I waited because I did not want to die and I did not want Rodney Stoker to die. I thought maybe he would not come back and then he did. He told me the bombs were going to stop for a while and I could take my friend for help if he was still alive. I had been checking and Rodney Stoker was still alive, but almost not. Then the German crawled into the hole with me and crouched down beside Rodney Stoker. He looked at me and said it is Christmas and he and his friends do not want to fight now and if he lets me go can I tell my friends that the Germans will not shoot if the Brits do not shoot. I said I do not want to fight anymore at all especially at Christmas and so I would tell my friends. And he gave me a note with some words on it and I put it in my pocket with my letter to Mum. Then he helped me pick up Rodney Stoker because Rodney Stoker did not get up and he was heavy to carry but I was big. And he helped me get Rodney Stoker out of the hole and I said thank you. And the German shook my hand and told me Merry Christmas and please don’t shoot on Christmas day and maybe even a week or so after that and did I have his note?
