by Ryan Byrnes
I had watched the world treat my sister unfairly for so many years. I had watched her fights with our mum when Mum had too much to drink and lashed out, had watched her fret when she realized Luther was not like other boys, had watched her mourn when James died, had watched her do everything she could to keep running the shop while caring for Luther and putting all her hopes and dreams and aspirations on little Jim. While others talked behind her back, I had tried to shield her, help her, protect her. But now it was like she was all emptied out. Mum had lashed out at her, then Father, who had tried to protect us, died. James, who loved her so completely, had died too young. Luther had tried her patience. Jim had abandoned her. Stoker had betrayed her. And now Luther was gone and there was nothing I could do to fix it.
I tried to tell her that Father Carmichael had written to someone in London to tell them about Luther’s problems and about his talent as a baker. He hoped maybe he’d be stationed at some general’s headquarters making truffles for senior staffers rather than carrying a rifle in some trench somewhere. But with Mr. Stoker’s connections, I held out little hope. He had obviously nurtured his grudge against Luther all these years and had seen his chance for revenge. And now Constance held out no hope at all.
After the train left, I followed Constance to the cemetery on the edge of town, where she knelt at her husband’s grave. I don’t think she’d been there in twenty years.
Oh James. What would her life had been like if he had lived? Jim had been a constant reminder of his father—he looked just like him—but caring for Luther alone had been the biggest burden of James’s death and a constant reminder for Constance of what she had lost.
Of the life she might have had.
She said nothing at the graveside and then said nothing as she rose and walked back to the house. The shop was dark. The house was empty. And so it remained for many weeks after.
August ended with high enthusiasm for the war, and it was the only thing anyone would talk about. Constance had finally opened the store again, but because sugar and milk was rationed, it was hard to get supplies enough to make big batches of anything. He heart wasn’t in baking anyway. The only times she ventured out was to buy groceries, and the customers who did stop by noticed the corners of the shop were dark and dusty.
The bell above the door would tinkle and a customer would enter and see her at the counter, head rested on her palm, leafing through the paper but not reading it. One toffee, please, they might ask. That’ll be sixpence, she would reply. Yes, here it is, thank you. And the customer would leave, bell tinkling behind them.
September and October were the same. Everything was the same—monotonous, thoughtless. I noticed how she would forget things, like how much sugar she needed to buy or how much flour to add to her recipes. Ethyl Brand, the sweet little girl who once played the piano at my wedding, now twenty-three and studying to become a nun, started visiting. She and Constance would speak, but I know not what of.
Town had emptied out, and the only men left behind were too young, too old, too infirm, or too posh like Mr. Stoker, God forgive him.
Mark was working at a post depot in London, and we wrote to each other every day. Sometimes I went down to visit. He joked that he handled my letters in the bin at work while he was sorting and, being a postman, took the liberty to deliver his own post to himself.
Sometimes I wrote to Jim. Constance would not hear a word about him and refused to ask after him. I thought he might’ve enlisted, but he said he had a factory job making guns in Birmingham and that he had a flat there. I thought maybe I would go see him one day. He never forgave his mother for sending him away and she never forgave him for leaving school. Both were too stubborn to make amends, but Jim and I had always been close, and I hoped someday things would change between mother and son.
I couldn’t believe he was grown already. Every day I felt myself becoming an old woman. I rose in the morning stiff and cold, seeing in the mirror the silver strands of hair that appeared suddenly at my temple. The years were passing so quickly. First, I’d come to Leamington Spa for Constance, then I became a young wife, and, unable to have children of my own, I helped raise Luther and Jim. I do not believe I succeeded.
I approached every day with the gentle step of a kindly granny, half out of the fear that I was becoming old and needed to act the part, half out of the guilt that comes with making it this far when so many others had paid a higher price during the war—or paid the ultimate price.
I thought to myself, I will write again to Jim. I will ask him to come home. And if he says no, I will go visit him, too.
~ CONSTANCE BAKER ~
The lights were out in Baker’s Sweets. Fingerprints smeared the toffee jars. The pink wallpaper and cherry-stained shelves had aged grey with dust and scuff marks; they hadn’t been scrubbed in weeks. The ledger book sat on the counter next to a cup of cold coffee.
Today’s Sales:
A single period sat on the line where I had pressed pencil to paper, paused, and then put the pencil back in the drawer.
Upstairs, I got getting ready for bed. Still wearing the day’s clothes, I sat heavily on the mattress. The springs squeaked. I untied my apron strings, flung the flour-stained garment over the end of the bed post and watched it float to the ground, where it landed on top of a pile of dirty clothes littering the floor. An old book on business management lay half buried under last week’s cardigans, a book James had loved. I'd always meant to read it; I had begun to read it a dozen times. Perhaps I could do a bit of reading before turning out the light. But then, like every other night for the past few months, I decided against it. I glanced at the drawn curtains and entertained the idea of looking down on the street before bed—maybe the rain had finally turned to snow—but decided against that, too. I leaned back on my pillow and stared up at the ceiling. Where are you, Luther? Please be safe. Please, God, let him be safe.
Knock! Knock! Knock!
My eyes flew open. Somebody’s at the door. Something’s happened to Luther!
Knock! Knock! Knock!
No. They wouldn’t come to deliver bad news this time of night. If I ignore it, they’ll bugger off. I shut my eyes again.
Knock! Knock! Knock!
Yawning, I pulled my cardigan off of the floor and descended the steps, bare feet on cold wood.
Knock! Knock! Knock!
A man was at the door, cap down over his forehead, cupping his hands around his eyes to see through the glass panes, nostril fumes fogging the glass.
“Mum!” the man called, “Mum!”
“Luther,” I breathed.
I fumbled with the jingling keys, threw open the door, and pulled him in for a hug before anyone could take him away again. And then I stopped. Luther should’ve been taller than me.
“You’re not my son.” I tightened my grip on his hands. The cricket bat was at the other end of the room—too far away to grab. My words seemed to shut him up. He was unshaven—a woolen brown fuzz softened his chin and jaw.
“Oh, come, now, Mum. You know me.” He gave a weak smile and reached out to finish the hug. I held up an arm, stopping him. By the yellow light of the electrical street lamps that glared through the shop window, I noticed his knuckles were red and blotchy. I touched them. He knit his brow.
“How?”
“Factory laid me off—roughhousing during work hours or something like that—but it’s not important. Lavinia wrote and told me what happened to Luther.”
Lavinia. He used to call her Auntie Lavinia. Now he calls her Lavinia.
“You’re three months late.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“You’ve been getting drunk and street brawling, that’s what you’ve been busy with. You’re an irresponsible child.”
He rolled his eyes and laughed. “I don’t even get a hug?”
He said it like it was a joke, like I was required to hug my son after he dropped out of school, wasting my hard-earned money so he could wallow from slum to slum
and job to job.
“No.”
He looked at the ground, and the smile left him.
“You’re here for a job, aren’t you? You have nowhere else to turn, so you’re back here as a last resort.”
Jim’s eyes roved around the shop taking in the empty display cases, the unswept floor, the unopened mail. Judging it, like he had a right to judge anything. With his shoe, he toed today’s mail, still on the floor where it had fallen through the slot. He raised his brow at me when he saw a letter from the government that I refused to open.
“I’ve not been good to you, Mum,” he muttered. “I know I wasted your money with school and all—”
“I worked myself raw for that tuition,” I whispered, voice shaking. “I put all my hopes and dreams in you and you couldn’t even—”
“Lavinia tells me you could use some help around here.”
“Not from you. Never from you.”
He opened his mouth.
“Get out,” my voice cracked, and I was afraid I’d start yelling. Or weeping. “Just get out. I won’t put my faith in you again.”
Some valve inside him must’ve broke because his face flushed red and hot. I didn’t care. I shut the door in my son’s face, locked it, then wandered to the kitchen, stepping over a pile of newspapers. I cleared an empty sack—not sure what it was doing there—off of my chair at the kitchen table and sat. Propping my face on my palm, I stared at the table while the soft rain whispered on the siding and the wood beams creaked overhead. Those beams were from the 1700s when the Baker family built the house—three stories of Georgian terrace that had seen plenty of happiness and plenty of sadness in its time. Especially sadness. And loss.
Jim. Jim. He thought that I needed his help. Thought that since he was grown man, he could take care of himself, while I was some weak old lady. But all he knew how to do was mess up. And refuse. Refuse everything I’d ever offered him. He couldn’t tell me a single thing in this world he actually wanted, yet was so quick to refuse a life, a family, this house, the whole shop. Jesus Christ, he was still the same six-year-old boy who fought—and lost to—just about every other boy in town. He made it his duty to retaliate against everyone who made fun of Luther until the only thing the boy knew was fighting, playing at fighting, and being angry. I thought sending him away to school would put him on the right path, but I was wrong. Seems like with Jim, I was always wrong.
I sat that way most of the night, my thoughts running in circles, always coming back to my youngest son. My chest tightened until it hurt, and I wanted to hit something, to break something. But I didn’t. Eventually, I fell asleep. It was an angry, hot-blooded kind of sleep. I dreamed Jim died of a heart attack, and I went to his funeral with Lavinia and the Prime Minister, and we laid him down in the earth next to his father and Luther, who was already dead and gone. An unusual dream, no doubt; some might think it disturbing, even. I cried in it, cried till I had no more tears left, but when I woke, my eyes were dry.
~ JIM BAKER ~
It’s alright. It’s alright; doesn’t bother me a bit. I’m fine. When people wrong me, I get back at them. I always did, and I always will. That was me—calm, cold, and savvy, witty even, when the whole world was on fire. What was she thinking, refusing my help? She was proud, too proud. Couldn’t admit she was a wreck and had been a wreck ever since Luther left. God damn Stoker, thinking he could fool Luther like that. I took a piss on their front door sometime around midnight, hoped he’d enjoy that.
Then I tried for Lavinia’s house, where I was pretty sure I’d get a warmer greeting. I knocked on the door, but no one answered. Sleeping, no doubt. I kept knocking, rap rap rap rap rapping on the wood for about a minute. I knocked with varying intensity, trying to avoid periodic sounds a sleeping person might mistake for beams creaking in the wind. Finally, footsteps sounded inside. I pressed my face to the glass and looked through the cracks between the curtains. Inside was the floral sofa, the coffee table, the radio, and the kitchen table through the doorway in the far back of the house. I gave a rapid-fire knocking. Finally, a lightbulb flashed in one of the upstairs windows. I stepped back from the door, smoothed my hair, and cleared my throat.
The doorknob clicked, and the door swung inward. I started to smile but then frowned when I didn’t see Lavinia there.
“Hey, Mark.”
“Jim? That you? You in trouble? It’s late.”
Mark yawned, setting down his cricket bat.
“So tell me, does everyone in Leamington Spa answer the door with a cricket bat?” I chuckled.
He tilted his head, confused.
“Can I come in?”
“Is it just you?”
“Yeah, of course.”
What kind of question is that?
I stepped inside, out of the rain. An orange ember sat in the hearth under the ashes, and I smelled coal. Mark motioned toward the couch, and I took a seat on the cushions I had napped on so many times in my youth.
“You home for good?”
I nodded. “Heard you’ve been at work in London for a while.”
“Still am.” He rubbed his neck. “Every once in a while, I get a day or two off to visit home. They’re decent folk.”
“I haven’t met too many of those.”
I noticed Mark was wearing a woman’s bathrobe—satin, pastel green. Must’ve been so tired he grabbed Lavinia’s on the way down.
“You’re too hard on folks, Jim. Especially yourself,” Mark said. “Did you lose another job?”
“Lavinia suggested I come home and help out Mum.” Then, in a quieter tone, “And yes, I’m also out of a job.”
“Well, I’m sure Lavinia will be happy to see you.”
“Is she not here?”
“No, she’s here.”
“Well, I’m anxious to see her, too.” I looked around.
“Please, Jim, it’s,” he squinted at the clock over the mantle, “a quarter after midnight.”
“Oh yeah, of course. My mistake. I’m sorry.”
“You can sleep on the sofa for tonight. She’ll see you in the morning. Hungry? Thirsty?”
“Yeah, have anything to drink?”
“Water.”
“No thanks.”
“But you just said you were thirsty.”
“Changed my mind.”
Mark shrugged. He went to the linen closet, pulled out a few blankets, set them down for me on the sofa, and tiptoed back up the stairs. He left the cricket bat beside the door.
So that’s it? A fine welcome for the prodigal son.
Popping my shoes off, I lay down on the sofa. The springs squeaked under me. It was nice, really, like when I was kid. I looked around the room at the familiar pictures—etchings of great-grandparents, blotchy wedding photographs that had been colorized with fake rosy cheeks and a blue sky. I found myself standing in the background, a dark-eyed five-year-old standing next to … Ethyl Brand? Wow. I looked pretty good as a five-year-old. And so did she.
When I opened my eyes, the light shined gold over the Georgian eaves. The little row houses on the cobblestone were darkened by last night’s shower.
“Jim? Jim?” A familiar voice came from the top of the stairs, and I heard rushed footsteps on the wood steps.
There was Aunt Lavinia in her satin bathrobe, arms stretched out. She rushed over and covered me in a hug, warm and soft.
“My prodigal nephew has returned!” She kissed my forehead. “Slaughter the fatted calf.”
She took me into the kitchen, where Mark soon joined us. Together, they made a quick breakfast by cracking three eggs on the pan, throwing in sliced tomato, and putting on a kettle for coffee. The plates and forks and cups clacked as we pulled open drawers and cupboards, and soon we were at the table. Mark ate quickly, swallowing his whole coffee in two takes.
“Have to get to the station for an early train. Got to be in London by noon. Sorry I can’t stay too long, Jim.”
“It’s alright. Thanks for letting me sleep on th
e couch.”
“So what are your plans for today?” Lavinia asked me. “Have you spoken with your mother yet?”
“Eeh, I’ll tell you about that later. Right now, I’m just looking for work, I guess.”
“Shouldn’t be too hard,” Mark mumbled. “Plenty of factory jobs nowadays for making bombs and bullets.”
I shrugged. Bombs and bullets were not my favorite things.
“What kind of job do you want?” Lavinia asked, picking a forkful of egg from Mark’s plate. He smiled at her and touched her hand. Still fond of each other after all these years. Amazing.
“What kind of job? Hmm … how about high pay, low hours, where I don’t have to talk to anyone, yet I get lots of credit.”
“Doesn’t sound like any job I know,” Mark laughed. “How about the REPS?”
“The what?”
“The Royal Engineers Postal Service. We handle all the mail to and from the front. They’re always hiring, and plenty of local mailmen get picked up by them. I’d put in a word for you.”
“I’d have to work with people?”
“It takes lots of people to sort the volume of mail we handle. It’s often solitary work, but yes, there are lots of us on the job.”
“That’s alright.”
Mark shifted in his seat and looked at me. “Why not? I’m basically guaranteeing you a job.”
“I can’t explain it. I just don’t like people.”
“Alright, then,” Mark said, leaning back in his chair.
We returned to eating in quiet. I had just finished my egg when Mark piped up again.
“Forgive me if I’m wrong, but—”
“You’re wrong.”
He continued. “I think you want people to turn up their noses at you.”
Who is this guy—Sigmund Freud?
I ignored him and continued eating. Pretty soon he checked the clock.
