Hollow Chest

by Brita Sandstrom

  “Mum! That’s terrible!”

  “I agree that it was a bit of an overreaction on their parts, but some families are just naturally prone to dramatics. But you’ll be relieved to know that the bearskin soldier was happy and generous the rest of his days, and he gave most of his money to others to better their lives, and lived simply and was much beloved by the whole town.”

  “That’s good,” Charlie agreed. “Did he ever get to get married?”

  “No, he decided that marriage wasn’t for him. But he did find a lovely, sleek cat curled up in his bearskin cloak one night and she and all her children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren loved him and kept him company all of his days.”

  “I like that ending better,” Charlie said into Mum’s shoulder. He felt heavy all over. Like he was wearing a bearskin cloak, maybe.

  “I thought you might.”

  It was a good story, but Charlie had been worrying a thought like a splinter since the beginning of it. “Mum . . . how could the soldier’s brothers have sent him away like that?”

  Mum smiled a little and brushed his hair out of his face. Those thin etched lines from before were back on her face. Abruptly, she sat up and pulled the covers back, tapping Charlie on the knee.

  “You and Miss Biscuits head off to bed now, and I forbid you to dream of anything that isn’t lovely, understand?”

  “But, Mum—”

  “Bed, Charles.”

  “Okay,” Charlie said, crawling out from Mum’s warm bed. “Good night, Mum.”

  “Good night, sweet boy. I love you. And remember: only lovely dreams tonight.”

  “Okay,” Charlie said again, and closed the door behind him.

  It was only after he had burrowed deep under his own covers with Biscuits curled up next to his pillow that he remembered he hadn’t said “I love you” back.

  “I love you, too,” he whispered to the dark room. Only Biscuits was there to hear it, but he fancied that maybe she purred a little louder in response.

  6

  THE NEXT FIVE DAYS PASSED BY IN A BLUR OF frantic chores that each bled into the next as all three of them stumbled over themselves to get the house ready for Theo. Linens had to be washed and then, somehow, dried on long laundry lines that stretched across the kitchen like an inconvenient field hospital. Dishes had to be scrubbed, rugs had to be beaten so great clouds of dirt puffed out of them and promptly onto Charlie’s clothes, which then also had to be washed. Floors were swept and mopped with heavy buckets that Charlie kept overfilling and spilling onto himself and Biscuits. As carefully as if they were made of glass, making note of exactly which drawer or hanger they had come from, Charlie took out all of Theo’s clothes and aired them so they would be fresh, and waiting for him like open arms. And every day, Mum apologized that she couldn’t help more before she left for work, fretting and wringing her hands, which only hardened Charlie’s resolve to make everything perfect.

  He did not think it would be possible for Theo’s homecoming day to sneak up on him, but one morning he went to cross the day off the calendar and, with a shock like missing a stair in the dark, he saw that “Theo Comes Home!” was the next day.

  The house was toasty warm and Charlie was light and bouncy as a soap bubble as he danced Biscuits around the room, fizzy with anticipation. Grandpa Fitz was already set up at the table with yesterday’s newspaper, reading glasses perched delicately on his nose.

  “Morning,” Charlie called over his shoulder, setting Biscuits down on the tabletop so he could get the teakettle started. Grandpa Fitz waved his fingers a bit in greeting but didn’t look up from his paper. Biscuits slithered over his gnarled wrist and shoved herself in front of the paper.

  “Shoo, tiny hellion,” Grandpa Fitz said, but he dropped the paper and scratched her under her chin. Biscuits purred loudly enough that Charlie could hear her across the kitchen by the stove. He fetched clean cups for tea off the draining board and carefully spooned a portion of yesterday’s tea ration into each cup. There was something nice about being good at a job.

  When he’d first started making morning tea for himself and Grandpa Fitz while Mum was at work, he had either dumped far too much into each cup so that they ran out of tea after three days, or he’d put so little in that the tea didn’t taste like anything but hot water. He’d had to stand on a stool to reach the sink and have Grandpa Fitz fetch things from the cupboard. Now he knew the exact right amount of tea to use, how long to let it steep—Mum liked her tea very strong, as did Grandpa Fitz. Charlie liked his a bit less aggressive. He took the kettle off the stovetop just as it was thinking about letting out a shriek, and poured the hot water into each cup.

  He nudged Biscuits away from the cup he set down for Grandpa Fitz and she chattered at them in disapproval.

  “Thank you, my lad, as always.” Grandpa Fitz breathed in the steam rising off his cup and let out a loud, happy sigh. “Nothing better than a good cup of tea, is there?”

  Charlie thought there were several things that were better than a good cup of tea—cakes and chocolate and films, for example—but he decided it wouldn’t be polite to say so. Charlie took a gulp of tea rather than answering and scalded his tongue for his trouble.

  “Have you ever heard that story about the man with the bearskin?” he asked when his tongue didn’t smart quite so much. “The fairy tale? Mum told it to me the other night.”

  “I’ve heard of just about every story,” said Grandpa Fitz.

  “Would you wear a bearskin and never wash for seven years if it meant you’d always be rich?”

  Grandpa Fitz scoffed into his teacup. “I already went for three years without washing during the first world war and I certainly didn’t get rich from it.”

  “I know, but if you could?”

  “What has rich ever done for anyone, anyway? I’ve had most of the good things a body can have in my life and I never needed rich to get them.”

  “Well, what if you could get something else that you really wanted? Like, like—like what if you could get your arm back?” Charlie was instantly ashamed of himself, but Grandpa Fitz just laughed.

  “I never needed Old Lefty to get any of the best things, either. Why, I think it was my asymmetrical charm that first caught your grandma Lily’s eye.”

  “But if—”

  “Listen, Charlie boy, there’s not a thing on God’s earth that could tempt this old man into voluntarily not washing for seven weeks, let alone seven years. Why do you ask, anyway? Trying to work a way out of scrubbing behind your ears?”

  “No, I was just thinking. You know. Of what would be worth wearing a bearskin for seven years for.” Like your brother coming home safe when you hadn’t heard from him for months. Or your dad tucked into his side of the bed. Or your mum, lit up by sunlight, laughing and laughing in the summer heat.

  He reached out to shoo Biscuits away from his breakfast; she slithered away from his touch and poured herself into Grandpa Fitz’s lap and began purring in a very loud, pointed way. Grandpa Fitz set down his tea to stroke her and Biscuits made a strange little motion with her head, as if she was butting it up against his missing left hand.

  Grandpa Fitz had once told Charlie that people like him who had lost an arm or a leg or a foot could sometimes still feel it, even though it had long since disappeared. Maybe cats could, too. It warranted considering.

  “I’m going out for a bit,” Charlie announced into the quiet. Grandpa Fitz just made a noise into his tea. “Mum and me are making biscuits for Theo later.”

  “Mind the street and don’t spit into the wind,” Grandpa Fitz called after him, which Charlie thought was a rather odd sort of send-off, but then Grandpa Fitz was a rather odd sort of grandfather. Charlie just pulled on his Sunday jacket over his jumper and waved a mitten in reply.

  Biscuits had somehow magicked herself into his bicycle basket by the time he got outside. She chattered at him for dawdling as he wheeled them out onto the street, then squinted in pleasure as the breeze
ruffled her whiskers.

  It did feel good to be outside. Every room in the house felt like it was the wrong size lately, as if Charlie was always taking up too much room, or not enough. His mind wandered as he pedaled down the street, dodging stray bits and pieces of glass without thinking.

  The sun was out for the first time in days, and it lit up the dingy street like a fancy iced cake. Everything looked bright white, and sweet. The thought of iced cakes made Charlie’s mouth water and his stomach gurgle, but sugar had been on strict ration since the war started. Mum had asked him up front if he’d rather save up their sugar rations for something special, like an iced birthday cake, or use them up on everyday treats like tea and biscuits. She had told him to take a good long time to think on it, even though he knew right away that he’d rather have simple biscuits dusted with a bit of sugar every Sunday than a fancy cake he’d only get to taste maybe once or twice a year.

  “I think that’s both very practical and very wise, Charles,” Mum had said. “There’s something to be said for delaying your pleasure of something, but I think we’ve had more than our fair share of that already. There’s also something to be said for having something nice up front, too.” And she had kissed the top of his head and they’d spent the afternoon making the biscuit dough and rolling it out flat on the countertop and cutting it into neat circles. It had rained all day and he got to pop one of the biscuits hot and sweet into his mouth right out of the oven. It had been a good day.

  All he needed from the grocer’s was an orange, and even though fresh fruits were rationed along with everything else, Charlie didn’t feel the same heavy pressure that came with buying a regular week’s worth of groceries. Orange drop biscuits didn’t need any sugar. They used honey instead, from good sturdy English bees, and the juice and rind of the orange. They didn’t taste quite the same, and they were soft and melty instead of crispy and crumbly. But they weren’t bad. And after five years, he had gotten used to them. He had gotten used to a lot of things. You could get used to anything, really, if you found a way not to think about it too much.

  He put the orange on the counter, and Mr. Short went through the now-familiar ritual of checking the ration book. The grocer was making idle talk, but Charlie couldn’t bring himself to do more than nod and smile in return. He felt strange, for some reason. He was excited to make the biscuits. He didn’t know why he felt almost angry looking at the small orange rolling slightly on the counter. Outside, Biscuits pawed at the glass, her mouth opening wide in a silent meow of reproach.

  “Now, now, Miss Biscuits, we’re almost done,” Mr. Short said, waving at her.

  Charlie realized, now that he thought about it, that in his mind the idea of sugar and the idea of his brother had gotten all tangled together, that some part of him had assumed that when one came back, so would the other. But Theo would be home tomorrow, and sugar was still gold-dust precious. That was all right, though, he thought, tucking the orange under his arm and heading back out to his bicycle, waving to Mr. Short through the glass. There were other kinds of sweetness in the world.

  He tapped the wicker basket between his handlebars, and Biscuits leaped up into it with an impatient chirp. He felt a bit ridiculous, cycling back from the grocer’s with a single orange rolling around in his basket. But it left enough room for Biscuits to ride as well, one of her back feet braced precariously against the fruit.

  Charlie was stretching his arms in a wide arc when an enormous black rat scuttled across the street just as Charlie rounded the corner, something that looked terribly like a piece of bird wing clutched in its sharp teeth, and Charlie swerved to avoid it. Biscuits screamed bloody red death at him or the rat or both, and it was all Charlie could do to keep from flattening poor old Mad Mellie where she was examining something in the street.

  He wrenched the bicycle to the side to avoid the old woman and crashed right into her pram, knocking it over and sending the odds and ends she had collected flying in all directions.

  “I’m sorry! Are you all right? I’m so sorry!”

  “You keep your beast away from my pigeons,” Mad Mellie snapped, quite calmly, from where she was, nary an inch from the middle of the street. Charlie looked down to find his basket empty save the orange, and Biscuits slinking towards the flock of blue-and-gray birds. He could tell that her intentions were not noble.

  “Biscuits!” he shouted, dropping his bike to chase after her. “You leave those pigeons alone! They’re not for eating!” Biscuits flicked an ear backwards towards his voice, but otherwise ignored him. Charlie had to run to grab her by the scruff of her neck right before she pounced at a particularly fat and vacant-looking pigeon. Biscuits hissed at him in betrayal and twisted out of his grip, streaking away from him to sulk by his overturned bicycle.

  “Think on your sins,” Mellie said to Biscuits as she passed by on her way to her bench. Biscuits scornfully ignored her. Mellie held up her find from the street so Charlie could see. “A shilling,” she said proudly, twisting it so it glinted in the light. “Tonight you feast, my lovelies.” Charlie thought the last bit was probably intended for her pigeons.

  Pocketing the coin, Mellie began the business of gathering up the contents of her upended pram. Charlie hurried over to help her, but she slapped his hand away when he went to reach for a chipped blue vase. “No, no, no, you’ll just put them back all out of order. You tend to my birds while I set this mess to rights.” And she fished a small bag of very stale bread crumbs out of the depths of her jumpers and shoved it into Charlie’s limp hands. “Go!”

  Charlie jumped, his hands snapping closed around the bread crumbs. The pigeons instantly swarmed him. The fluttering of their countless wings against his ankles made him feel equal parts squirmy and happy. They were sort of funny, once you got past the hungry look in their beady eyes.

  Charlie, keeping a careful eye on Biscuits and the twitching tip of her tail, dropped a few bread crumbs on the ground and immediately caused a kind of pigeon riot, coos and feathers flying violently. Charlie yelped and clutched the bag to his chest, which didn’t help.

  “If you’re going to feed them, you have to feed them all, or the little ones will starve,” Mellie said without looking up from her hunt in the bushes for something that had flown there during the collision. Charlie quickly threw another handful of bread crumbs to the other side of the pigeon swarm. Feathers, gray and black and green and lavender, roiled like a tiny, chirping sea.

  He looked up to ask Mellie if he was doing it right and saw her lifting the chipped vase up to the light. He realized that it wasn’t plain and gray like he’d thought, but a very dark blue, covered in a layer of dust. With the sunlight pouring through it, it shone a lovely inky blue, the color thrown onto Mellie’s face and making her, just for a moment, lovely, and faintly magical. Then she brought it back down again and the vase was just a dirty, dusty vase with a chip in it, and Mellie was just strange, unkempt Mad Mellie in her three mismatched jumpers and men’s boots. He thought, suddenly, of the soldier from Mum’s story, forced to wear a bearskin for seven years because nobody wanted to take care of him. She carefully placed the vase in her pram and hobbled over to the edge of the sidewalk to gather up some jam jars than had rolled near a drain. She was singing under her breath in a surprisingly strong, clear alto.

  Charlie sprinkled some more bread on the ground, this time leaving a larger pile for the big bully pigeons to fight over, and quickly tossing more for the straggler pigeons while the bullies were distracted. A particularly slow pigeon with a wing that stuck out at a slightly odd, wrong angle still missed the crumbs and Charlie had to repeat the process, practically dumping some bread on the vacant-eyed pigeon’s head to make sure it got its share. It cooed obliviously, then gulped down bread, happy as a clam. The clumsy pigeon had rather lovely feathers, once you actually looked at it, Charlie realized. Its green neck shimmered in the light.

  “I think . . . I think I like your pigeons, Mellie,” said Charlie. Almost as soon as the w
ords were out of his mouth, the pigeon suddenly launched itself into the air and tried to land on Charlie’s head. Perhaps he might have spoken too soon. Charlie batted it back towards the ground before it could relieve itself on his coat, but it was already swooping unevenly towards the ground again.

  “Pudge can’t fly anymore,” said Mellie, tossing a pair of rusted gardening shears in the far back of the pram. “But Bertie looks out for him.” Charlie was about to ask who Bertie was when a gray-lavender pigeon dive-bombed him like the Red Baron and snatched a chunk of bread crumb out of his hand. The fighter plane pigeon landed dramatically next to the glazed-over-looking pigeon, and delicately shoved the piece of bread at Pudge’s beak. The other pigeon happily pecked the bread and ate it up, leaving a bit of it for its benefactor.

  “They’re friends?” Charlie asked, tossing some crumbs to the other side of the bench so the flock would leave Bertie and Pudge alone while they ate.

  “Mmm,” Mellie agreed. “Pudge is special, and Bertie’s smart. A good combination, that. Makes all sorts of things possible.”

  “How’s Pudge special?” Pudge was nice enough, Charlie thought, but “special” was perhaps stretching it a bit.

  “Pudge,” said Mellie proudly, straightening up, “is a veteran.”

  “Come again?”

  “Pudge was a carrier pigeon in the war. He brought key intelligence back from the front. They stuck him and all the other pigeons in little boxes on a plane and dropped them over the French border. Most of them died or were eaten, but Pudge came back with a secret message from French Resistance fighters, even though a Nazi hawk mangled his wing. He made it all the way home. All the way back to England, can you imagine? He never lost the message.”

  “How did he know where to go?” Charlie asked, staring, incredulous, as Pudge attempted to eat a small rock.

  “All homing pigeons are geniuses at exactly one thing: finding their way home. It has something to with magnets or ice caps or something. Drop them anywhere in the world and they still know where their roost is.”