Hollow Chest

by Brita Sandstrom

  How could they do that? Charlie wondered. What did it feel like? Was it like a bright trail of light only they could see? A machine hum they followed to its source, a vibration in their tiny bones? Or was it more like an invisible thread, tugging them through the air towards home? He imagined a bright, golden string stretching from the house all the way across the ocean to Theo, and Theo following it like a mountaineer.

  “How do you know all this?” Mad Mellie did not seem the sort, in Charlie’s admittedly inexpert opinion, to be privy to communication tactics from the Allied forces.

  “My boy, David, trained him. He trained them all. He was so proud of Pudge that he wanted to give him a well-deserved retirement.”

  “I didn’t know you had a son,” said Charlie, and he was surprised to find that he was quite angry with David, wherever he was, for letting his mother live as she was.

  “He died right after,” she said flatly. “The Blitz. You know how it was then. Lots of people gone, all at once. Lots of people’s sons.”

  Charlie did not know what to say to this. What was there to say? He looked at Mellie with her three sweaters and her pram full of junk, and he thought that she was terribly brave to keep trying to find lovely things, worthy things, where everybody else just saw trash, and pests. Things that only glowed if you made the effort to hold them up to the light. He felt infinitely worse for knocking over the pram, but he still stood by his decision to crash into it and not her.

  “I’m sorry about your son, Mellie,” said Charlie, and he was. My dad died in the Blitz, too, he almost said. Millie didn’t look at him, but she nodded as if she had heard him, although she didn’t pause in her collection.

  “Still, at least death was instant for him. The wolves didn’t get him, did they? His heart was safe, at the end.”

  “Wolves?” Charlie said. He’d heard Grandpa Fitz and his old soldier friends talking at one of the church meetings about how sometimes the stray dogs and rats and foxes around the battlegrounds had grown to frightening size feasting on all the dead bodies that didn’t get buried fast enough. But he’d never heard them mention wolves. And besides, he wasn’t supposed to eavesdrop on Grandpa and his friends anyway—he’d overheard them back when he was smaller and used to hide under the refreshments table with Biscuits. And he had tried very hard to forget that particular story. It was too horrible.

  Now, Mellie was squinting at him as if he’d just spoken in tongues. “What was that?”

  “You said something about wolves.”

  “No, I didn’t.” Mellie began gathering blankets and pigeons into her pram.

  “You did, you said you were glad—”

  But Mellie just glared daggers at him from under her shapeless wooly hat and scuttled down the street like an offended crab.

  Just because Charlie felt bad that people called her Mad Mellie didn’t mean it wasn’t somewhat warranted, he thought. He grabbed Biscuits and deposited her in her basket before she could get any more ideas about Pudge, and turned his bicycle towards home.

  “Have a nice day, Mellie,” he said over his shoulder as he started to pedal off.

  “Guard your heart, boy,” Mellie called after him. “And lock that cat in an attic somewhere!”

  Charlie ignored her, but the whole way back, he imagined he was following the tug of an invisible silken thread, thin as a spider’s web, pulling him home.

  Grandpa Fitz was worn out from all the extra chores, though he blamed it on not sleeping well the night before and went to bed early, as soon as dinner was over. Charlie and Mum listened to his shuffling footsteps in his room overhead until they eventually stopped, and the house filled with warm, close quiet of being the only ones awake. When Mum took out the ingredients for orange drops biscuits, it felt somehow like the two of them were sharing a secret.

  Mum was in charge of the dry ingredients, which she assembled in front of her in neat little regiments according to their corresponding measurement for how much was needed. Charlie was in charge of the orange, cradle to grave, and he ran the cheese grater along its sides until his arm ached and there was a fat pile of orange rind shavings in the bowl. Then he sliced open the pale, naked orange (he was very careful with the big kitchen knife) and squeezed each half until the juice slid down his hand and into a little glass bowl, where he carefully picked out the pips so he could pour the juice into the big mixing bowl with the butter, egg, zest, and salt that Mum had assembled.

  Mum hefted up a heaping bowl of flour to put into the sifter to carefully sprinkle the flour into the dough in a light, steady dusting so it wouldn’t form clumps and bubbles—and the bottom of the sifter simply fell out into the bowl in a puff of flour and faint pwuh! sound, like someone getting the air knocked out of them.

  “Oh my.” Mum stood staring uncomprehendingly at the remaining piece of sifter in her hand. Charlie laughed, and swatted at the little cloud of flour on his shirt, which simply smeared, and reached for the next ingredient so Mum could deal with the errant flour.

  He opened the jar of honey Mum had bought specially from one of the neighbors whose sister lived in the country and kept bees. It was a surprisingly dark amber color, almost brown, but it caught the firelight and seemed to glow a churning, molten gold. Charlie remembered, out of nowhere, that when he was very little he used to believe with perfect certainty that Mum’s dangly amber earrings were made from frozen honey, and he was forever afraid that they would melt when Mum stood in the sun.

  Charlie turned to tell Mum, only to find she was facing the wall, her hand pressed tight against her mouth, her eyes closed.

  He opened his mouth, his hand reaching out, to say—something, anything. Mum, it’s okay, it’s only biscuits, they’ll be fine, it doesn’t matter, Theo won’t mind, I don’t mind, it’s all right, everything will be all right. But he found he couldn’t. It was as if in that moment he had become too tired to even hold his hand up, as if he hadn’t slept for days, he didn’t want to, he was so tired. He just wanted someone else to be in charge, someone else to take care of things.

  And then, sweeter and more precious than sugar: Theo. Theo would be home tomorrow, and Theo would fix it. For the first time, the realization didn’t bring excitement but relief. Relief as acute and straightforward as standing still and guzzling cold water after running very fast for a very long time on a very hot day. Theo will be home tomorrow. The cool, crisp clarity of it unfroze him, shook off the exhaustion that had settled into his limbs as suddenly as it had come.

  Charlie gently took the broken sifter out of her loose fingers and set it aside and began to stir in the mound of flour, the wooden spoon knocking softly against the side of the bowl. In a minute, the flour was mixed in the rest of the batter. In two, the crumbs and pockets of floury air were smooth, the dough thick and sticky with honey, studded through with shavings of orange peel like speckles on an egg.

  “There, Mum, see?” Charlie said, touching her elbow with one hand, careful not to get flour on her sleeve. “It’s perfect. Everything’s fine.”

  Mum let out a shaky breath, but when she turned to him, her eyes were dry and her smile was just as it always was, the same little crinkles at the corners of her eyes.

  “So it is, darling. Let’s put them on the tray, shall we?” And they let a spoonful’s worth of dough drop off the tip of the spoon onto the baking tray until it was full, and then Mum slid it into the oven, whispering, “In you go, boys” and winking at Charlie.

  Charlie started to wash the bowl, even though he did not want to, because he knew Mum liked doing the washing-up even less than he did. But Mum came up behind him and slipped an arm around his shoulders and left a lingering kiss on the top of his head, and whispered, “I’ll take care of that, Charles. You go to bed. You’ve done more than enough for one day.”

  7

  THE TRAIN STATION WAS HOT, DESPITE THE WINTER, so crowded was it with people, all of them packed in along the edges of the platform, all of them holding one great breath. There was a stri
ng of bunting hanging above the platforms, limp as a dead thing. Hand-drawn Union Jacks were stuck to every surface like limpets. A picture of King George that someone had painted for the occasion had gotten stuck somehow up in the rafters, and he almost appeared to be waving down at the gathered crowd, which was heartening in an odd sort of way. Charlie noticed all of this as he tried to calm the vibration in his center. Still, his leg would not stop bouncing.

  A girl a ways off from Charlie hefted up a sign that had “Welcome Home!” painted on it in big red letters so the soldiers could see it from the train. Charlie could have made a sign, but really the biscuits he and Mum had made were much better. Theo would see that when they got home. He would see how much they had missed him, and how many rations they had saved, and he would know that Charlie had taken care of Mum and Grandpa Fitz for him. He would know that Charlie hadn’t let him down.

  Charlie tasted blood, and looked down at the thumbnail he hadn’t known he was gnawing at. He stuffed his hand in his pocket. He tasted blood again. He put his hand back in his pocket again. Beside him, Mum, too, was fiddling, with her necklace, twisting it back and forth between her fingers, her eyes watching the hands of the clock sweep slowly from twelve to one. Grandpa Fitz alone seemed relaxed, his cap tilted down over his eyes so he could drowse up against the station wall if the mood took him. Charlie had wanted to smuggle Biscuits into the station in a picnic basket—she would have known how to unknot the hard, tight ball of ice that was lodged like a fist in the bones of his chest—but Mum had said in no uncertain terms that cats and train tracks were not meant to become acquainted.

  Charlie tasted blood again. Grandpa Fitz’s big hand came down to rest on his shoulder, and Charlie let his thumb fall away from his teeth, flushing.

  “Now, you remember what I said, Charlie boy,” Grandpa Fitz said, tucking his cap under his good arm. Charlie nodded, and clenched his fist tight in his jacket pocket, worrying the ragged edge of the nail. People come back different than they were. He felt the tackiness of blood under the nail and wished again for Biscuits. And then, as if summoned by the thought, a shape that was definitely an animal appeared just at the edge of Charlie’s vision.

  As he twisted to see it, a hum of whispered chatter spread through the whole station in a ripple and for a moment Charlie thought they were all as surprised as he was to see a stray animal, whatever it was, on the platform. Then he felt it: the unmistakable vibration rising up through the soles of his feet. The very first promise of a train coming down the track.

  Charlie was distracted from the noise by the creature, slinking into view again, a shadow, low to the ground. He could see now it was a dog of some kind, very big and very dark, and it was snaking between people’s legs without any kind of lead. It was there and gone and there again, and Charlie’s gaze followed it in and out of view. The sight of the loose dog so near the tracks, which were beginning to tremble in time with a steam engine’s wail, made his heart stutter with worry. Soft, living creatures shouldn’t be that close to churning steel.

  The buzzing noise of the engine and the crowd built and built and built into a continuous drone. Charlie slid out of Grandpa Fitz’s grip and started towards the dark shape.

  “Charlie—”

  He could see the shape of the train now, the flat round face of the engine. He was close enough to see the dog’s tail swish between a set of knees. He started forward, but the train wailed again and the dog darted away. What if it was someone’s pet that had gotten off its lead? It could be lost here forever in this crowd.

  The train had slowed and was overflowing with soldiers—they were half out of the car windows, pressed flat up against the doors, their pale faces crowded like apple blossoms on a branch. Charlie thought he heard Grandpa Fitz call for him again, but if he looked up, he would lose sight of the dog, and the train wasn’t all the way stopped, even though soldiers were already squirming off the train, running to people waiting on the platform.

  The train made a full stop and the doors opened with an audible whoosh. Charlie could see the dark fur of the dog’s back, it was so big.

  Men poured onto the platform, everyone bumping into each other, all rank and file abandoned and forgotten.

  Charlie made a grab for the scruff of its neck, but it ducked around someone’s cane, and Charlie bumped into the soldier the cane was attached to.

  “Watch it,” the soldier said in a snarl, his body trying to bow in around his stiff, bandaged leg.

  “I’m so sorry,” Charlie said, looking up past the nondescript wool uniform at the man’s haggard, whiskered face. “I was just—Theo! Theo, it’s you!”

  And so it was. Charlie’s brother’s hair was cut short, and he was thinner, and he looked somehow pale and sunburnt at the same time. But it was so obviously his brother that Charlie couldn’t believe that he hadn’t seen him the moment he stepped off the train, like a beacon.

  Charlie forgot about the dog, forgot about Mr. Cleaver, forgot about the lines on Mum’s face and the blank absence in Grandpa Fitz’s eyes and launched himself at his big brother, his arms wrapping themselves tight around Theo’s ribs. Charlie’s heart was louder in his ears than the train, drowning out Theo’s own heartbeat, even with Charlie’s ear pressed up against his chest.

  Theo is home, his heart proclaimed with every thump, Theo is home, Theo is home.

  “I knew you’d be back, I knew you’d always find—”

  “Charlie.” Theo pried at Charlie’s grip, his hands strong as iron as they yanked him off. “Charlie, get off.” He shook himself free of Charlie’s embrace, sending Charlie spinning into Grandpa Fitz, who had finally caught up to them.

  Theo shouldered his bag and limped away towards where Mum and the rest of the crowd were waiting with their banners and signs. His left leg dragged behind him a bit as he walked, stiff and unbending. THUMP-drag. THUMP-drag. THUMP-drag. Theo didn’t look back at them as he went.

  “What have we got to remember, Charlie?” Grandpa Fitz said, his hand on Charlie’s shoulder anchoring them both to the earth, even as the ground seemed to go all topsy-turvy under Charlie’s feet.

  “Sometimes you can’t see what’s missing right away,” Charlie intoned. But it didn’t matter, Charlie said to himself, the thought tight and fierce in this throat.

  Even if there was something missing, Charlie would find it.

  In addition to the biscuits, Mum had prepared a special welcome-home feast with carefully saved-up rations.

  Theo, however, bolted from the table to retch into the sink after just a few bites of potato.

  “Of course, it’s too rich for you after the nonsense they’ve had you eating,” Mum said, brushing his hair off his forehead with a damp cloth as he clutched the counter. “I’m sorry, my love, I didn’t think.”

  Theo shrugged her off, but his cheeks were burning crimson under his clammy skin, and he wouldn’t look at any of them afterwards. Charlie had eaten his portion of potato when Mum said it was all right, but it didn’t taste as good, and his chewing was too noisy in the embarrassed silence.

  Charlie was brimming with things he wanted to say to Theo but couldn’t. He kept stuffing food in his mouth to keep from speaking in front of Mum and Grandpa Fitz. They were just for Theo’s ears. He couldn’t let Mum know that he knew she was worried and exhausted all the time. That he knew why Mr. Cleaver kept sniffing around like a stray dog. That he knew Grandpa Fitz was only going to get worse, not better.

  He hadn’t thought to imagine this part, the part where he couldn’t talk to Theo yet, really talk, get to work fixing everything.

  “Do you remember that time I threw potatoes at you, Theo?” was all he could think to say, and then words were spewing out of Charlie’s mouth like he was ill with them. “But I missed and hit Grandpa Fitz right in the eye? And it was like he had an eye patch made of mashed spuds?” Charlie had half a mind to try it again now, just to make Theo laugh, but Mum fixed him with a hawk look across the table and shook her head once,
eyebrow raised.

  “I remember,” Theo said, moving his carrots about with his fork without actually eating them. “It seems like such a waste now.” He stabbed a carrot so hard the tines of his fork screeched against the plate like blackboard chalk. “Almost as bad as throwing it all up.”

  “Oh, love,” Mum said, and reached out to touch his hand. He let her leave it there for a moment before drawing his hand away and hiding it under the table. The four of them sat in the silence that followed for a long minute, then there was a soft tread near Charlie’s feet and he looked down to find Biscuits staring up at him, her eyes enormous in the dim light.

  Biscuits was right. Sometimes the only thing for it was a cat.

  Charlie scooped her up, pushed himself away from the table and up onto his feet, and walked over to carefully deposit Biscuits in Theo’s lap. Theo looked at her uncomprehendingly. But Biscuits was used to working around the inadequacies of humans and shoved her head against his limp hand over and over until he lifted it and began to pet her as if trying to remind him how. His hands, always so steady and so sure, seemed enormous and clumsy as they patted at her. He was still looking at her as if he had no idea what she was or how she had gotten there.

  Grandpa Fitz picked his fork back up and began to eat in a particularly deliberate way, his face smooth and impassive. After a moment, Charlie and Mum followed suit. Biscuits’s loud, performative purrs were enough to drown out the scraping of their fork and knives. When the rest of their plates were empty, Theo set Biscuits down on the ground, a little too hard, where she proceeded to situate herself with great precision in front of the fire and began to clean her face.

  “I think I might just go to bed,” Theo said, pushing away from the table. Charlie and Mum both rose with him.

  “We put clean sheets and blankets on this morning, so it’ll be nice and fresh for you,” Mum reassured him.