Hollow Chest

by Brita Sandstrom

  Mum’s face didn’t change, but something about her seemed to sink in on itself, her shoulders drooping. And Charlie, to his great surprise, felt . . . almost triumphant at that, the piece of coal compressing tighter and tighter, being forced into a new shape, something jagged and angry and sharp as any knife.

  “Careful now,” said Grandpa Fitz, his voice very low and calm.

  “Beth, I think perhaps young Thomas and I ought to go,” Mr. Cleaver said, his words coming out in a weirdly cheerful rush that seemed to get caught up in his mustache before freeing themselves.

  “Yes, I think that’s for the best, Stuart.”

  “D’you fancy a spot of cricket next week, Charlie?” Tommy asked as he pulled on his scarf and mittens. Grandpa Fitz’s hand closed over Charlie mouth before he could reply, but Theo’s voice carried past them.

  “I’m sure Charlie would love nothing more,” Theo drawled.

  “Theodore,” Mum hissed, but the Cleavers were already pulling on their coats, oblivious.

  Charlie forced himself to hold still and endure a hug from Tommy, who did a great deal of hearty slapping at Charlie’s shoulders. Charlie, whose arms were pinned, could only pat his fingers weakly in the general vicinity of Tommy’s pockets.

  Then Mr. Cleaver ruffled Charlie’s hair, which gave Charlie fresh insight into what Biscuits felt like when her fur was rubbed the wrong direction. When he kissed Mum on the cheek, Charlie understood Biscuits’s general willingness to bite people.

  In a quiet voice, he excused himself to his room, and waited.

  Once he was sure everyone had gone to their rooms for the night, he sneaked back outside—easy, it was so easy now—and into the alleyway behind the houses. He shivered, despite the heft of his dad’s coat, scanning the shadows for what he knew would be there, somewhere.

  Even knowing he was looking for it, he still went rigid when he saw a pale shape that might almost have been a skull hovering in the darkness. The vague skull coalesced into Wrath’s gray-sprinkled face, his eyes brighter, somehow, than they had been in the sunlight, the yellow deep and opaque. He said nothing, looking as patient as stone. Gingerly, Charlie reached into his pocket and pulled out what was hidden inside.

  Tommy’s knife gleamed bright in the dim light.

  “Is this . . . is this what you meant? Is this what you wanted?”

  “Open it,” Wrath suggested, his voice silky, gentle almost.

  The gleam of the light off the knife was somehow entrancing, and Charlie flicked it open. There was nothing special about it, really, except that it was Tommy’s, and Charlie had taken it from him, right out from under his ridiculous, oblivious nose. Maybe he would realize as soon as he got home that it was gone, or maybe he was too clueless to even notice for days or weeks. A family heirloom. Ridiculous. If it was so important, he should have looked after it better, he should have just kept his obnoxious mouth shut about what a pleasant, relaxing war he’d had—

  Shame flooded Charlie in a wave.

  “There it is,” Wrath whispered.

  Charlie’s mouth felt cottony and sour. Tommy was annoying, infuriating even, but he wasn’t bad, he wasn’t cruel. He had tried to be friendly in his blundering way. Charlie was the one who was bad. Charlie was the only one who had done something just for the sake of meanness, because he’d been angry, so angry, because he had wanted Tommy to feel it, a little jagged piece of the loss that was always following him around.

  He snapped the knife closed, and pain flashed bright across his palm. He dropped the pocketknife with a yelp, clutching his hand. He’d cut himself on the stupid, stupid stolen pocketknife. He hissed as blood seeped sluggishly in between his fingers.

  Without a sound, Wrath padded forward, his head snapping out like a snake, making Charlie yell in surprise. But he didn’t bite. There was only a soft splash of tongue as Wrath licked the trickle of blood off Charlie’s smarting palm, which went numb at the touch, then started to burn worse than before.

  Charlie snatched his hand away, Wrath’s eyes following its every move.

  The gray-masked war wolf drew back and pawed at his face, so hard Charlie almost told him to stop before he scratched his eye and hurt himself. But then he remembered that he didn’t care if Wrath hurt himself, and clenched his hands into tight fists until the pawing stopped. Wrath shook himself violently, and something fell to the ground with a heavy metallic chime.

  Charlie was too horrified—with Wrath, with himself—to say anything.

  “Thank you,” said Wrath, inclining his head towards the house. “And you’re welcome.”

  Charlie didn’t touch the key for a long time. Wrath had long since disappeared, but Charlie couldn’t make himself reach down and pick it up. It was bigger than the key Remorse had given him—thicker than his thumb and longer, too. It was iron, maybe, dark and a little rusted at the edges.

  Only when it started snowing did he slip his twine necklace over his head and untie it, threading the large key onto the cord next to its smaller cousin. He made to slip the loop of twine over his head, but found he couldn’t bear the thought of the keys so close to his heartbeat.

  He shoved both keys into one pocket and Tommy’s pocketknife into the other and walked inside without looking back. He didn’t want to know who or what might still be watching, but deep inside him, a wild anticipation was unfurling.

  There had been three locks on the door. Three locks, then, would need three keys. And now he had two. Just one more to go. One more war wolf, one more key, and then it would be over. One more key and he could open the door. One more key, and he could enter the War Room and get his brother’s heart back. Somehow. It wouldn’t be easy, he knew that. The wolves would try to trick him, almost certainly. They wouldn’t give up the heart without a fight.

  But neither would Charlie. He was ready.

  Mum opened her bedroom door on the second soft knock.

  “Charles? Oh, darling, are you all right?”

  The thrill he had felt at the second key popped like a soap bubble.

  “I’m so sorry, Mum.” His voice was a whisper. It was the only sound that he found he could make. “I’m sorry I was horrible at dinner. And I’m sorry I—Tommy left his knife here, and I should have told him, I should have given it back, but I didn’t, because I was angry with Tommy and I didn’t want to do something nice for him. I’m sorry.”

  “Oh, Charlie.” And Mum swept him into her arms and wrapped her housecoat around him like a blanket, and she smelled like clean laundry and lavender soap and, underneath that, just a bit like shoe polish. She smelled exactly the way a mother ought to smell, but her arms felt just a little less substantial than they should have around Charlie’s shoulders. His face pressed into her ribs instead of her hip. He didn’t fit into her arms quite right anymore.

  Charlie was ashamed when he started to cry.

  “My sweet boy,” Mum said into Charlie’s hair, rubbing one hand up and down his back and making little crooning humming sounds. “My poor, sweet boy. My littlest one, it’s all right. Hush. It’s all right.”

  Mum pulled him under the covers with her and hugged him close so his snuffling was somewhat muffled by her shoulder.

  “I’m sorry I was so awful to everyone. I just—nothing’s the way it’s supposed to be.”

  “I know, darling. I know it hasn’t been for a long time.”

  “I know I could fix things if, if they would just hold still long enough.”

  Mum sighed into his hair. “Nothing ever holds still, I’m afraid. I would hold it still for you if I could.”

  Mum’s heart beat a strong, steady rhythm in Charlie’s ear where it was pressed against Mum’s side. For the first time he could hear the scars on her heart scraping and rasping against the bony cage of her ribs.

  “Tommy didn’t leave his knife,” he said into her shirt. “I took it.”

  “I know,” Mum said, and stroked his hair. “But I also know that you’re sorry, and that you’ll make it right.” Ch
arlie gave a snuffly nod.

  “I could learn to like Mr. Cleaver. If you really like him, I mean. I could find a way.”

  “Good Lord, Charles. That’s not something you need to worry about, nor is it something I feel inclined to discuss with you. All right?”

  “All right.” After a moment, he added, “You’re always careful at your job, aren’t you, Mum?”

  “Whatever do you mean, sweetheart? It’s a switchboard center, there’s really not much uncareful to get into.”

  “But, I mean, walking there? You’re always careful? And you never—never take bad roads or anything?”

  “Bad roads? The bus stops at that same corner every day and it takes me the same twenty steps to get from that corner to this door. The walk’s a bit slick in winter, but it’s hardly dangerous, Charles.”

  “I know, but—” Charlie was horrified to realize he was about to cry again.

  “Oh, Charlie.” Mum brushed his hair back away from his eyes and cupped his wet, snotty face in her warm hands. “What can I do, my love?”

  “Is Grandpa Fitz going to die?”

  “We’re all going to die someday, darling. But not today. Not for a good long while. Your granddad will outlast all of us, you wait.”

  “But not you?”

  “Not me what?”

  “He’s not going to outlast you, is he?” Charlie’s breath came in a shaky rattle. If he couldn’t do it, if he couldn’t fix Theo, if Grandpa Fitz got bad and didn’t get better, if Mum—he’d be alone. He’d be all alone. “You’re never going to die, are you? Promise me you’ll never die.”

  Mum crushed him tight into her arms and hummed quiet nonsense songs to him until they both fell asleep.

  But she never promised.

  24

  A DAY WENT BY AND CHARLIE WAITED, BUT A wolf did not appear. The wolves up until now had made themselves known. Dishonor had materialized when summoned. Remorse had simply been there, waiting and prepared, and with instructions about how to find Wrath. And Wrath had been waiting, just where she had said. But Wrath hadn’t said where to find the next wolf—the last wolf, with the last key.

  So Charlie waited more. The day went by with exaggerated slowness, honey dripping off a spoon, each minute dragging out into hours. No wolf outside. No eyes flashing in the darkness. No paw prints pressed into the snow. The minutes dripped off the hands off the clock. Nothing.

  One day became two days. Three. On the third day, Charlie started walking and did not stop. He left right after Mum and Theo went to work in the morning, the sharp chill of the morning giving way to the blunted cool of the afternoon as he walked down street after street, looking down each alley as he passed, under each bench, behind each tree. Five times he stopped and pressed a pin into a tender fingertip, and called for the war wolves. At the end of the day, each finger on his left hand stung and his voice was hoarse.

  Nothing.

  On the fourth day, he started walking in the opposite direction. He came home with the fingers of his right hand scabbed over.

  Nothing.

  By the fifth day he was not sleeping, couldn’t make himself eat, and the confusion at the wolves’ absence and the anxiety at his inability to find them had coalesced into a panic from which Charlie could not extricate himself, not even for a moment. He ate breakfast and his heart pounded. He helped Grandpa Fitz get dressed and his hands shook. He buttoned his coat and his breath came in a gasp. He saw himself do it again—take a breath and hold it as if he were underwater, until his lungs burned—and was unable to stop it.

  Just breathe normally, it’s not that hard, you do it every day, he ordered himself, and it would work for a few minutes, a few streets, until he tried to call for the war wolves again and he had no breath with which to speak.

  And still, nothing.

  On the sixth day he had a plan.

  Charlie set out after breakfast, an extra piece of toast for Mellie clutched in one lobster-claw mitten—it was not really an extra piece of toast, it was Charlie’s breakfast, but if Mellie asked, that’s what he would say. Charlie was wearing Dad’s coat again; Mum had given him a long look when he’d pulled it on, but hadn’t said anything. He hoped that meant she didn’t mind. It really was the warmest thing he’d ever worn. Not even the sharp north-blowing wind could get through the thick navy wool.

  Mellie grinned when she caught sight of him, and Charlie could see pink gums where some of her teeth were missing. She was wearing his Sunday jacket—although it was her Sunday jacket now, he supposed—and had a lumpy knitted thing that could maybe be a hat, if you screwed up your eyes, tugged down over her ears.

  Charlie gave Mellie her toast. She carefully tore off the crusts, which she tossed to her pigeons, and ate the rest in small, efficient bites in a few seconds. As she did, Charlie sat on his hands to keep himself still and silent. He was about to upset her, he was pretty sure, and he didn’t have to be impatient in addition to being rude.

  When she was finished, he made himself look at her. “Mellie, I need to ask you something, and you’re not going to like it, and I’m sorry, but I need to know.”

  Mellie looked at her pigeons for a long minute, and the space between her and Charlie stretched and filled with the quiet sounds of contented pigeons. It was peaceful. Charlie was sorry to ruin it.

  Finally, Mellie looked at him.

  “You’ve seen the wolves before,” he said, his voice going thin and reedy. It came out like a question, but it wasn’t one. Mellie didn’t answer; she just stared at him with her dark blue eyes and waited him out. “I need to know where you saw them.”

  She didn’t say anything at first. She didn’t sigh or grumble, but something in her face closed itself off from him. It felt like walking down a street in the night and being able to see inside an illuminated window, to see a flash of the hidden life inside, and then the light being turned off.

  “I saw them everywhere, at first,” she said, looking at the ground. “After . . . I lost my boy. David. I saw them outside, I saw them inside buildings, peeking out of windows like house cats. I saw them at the cemetery. Everywhere. People didn’t like that, of course, a woman saying she saw wolves behind every corner. No one wanted me around for too long. But then I started feeding the pigeons and . . . and I saw them less, after that. By the time I could tell the pigeons apart, by the time they each had names, I only saw the wolves now and again, and I had learned to pretend, by then. That I couldn’t see them. I learned how not to react. It’s a rule, I think. Once you can see them, then you’re in danger, because they can convince you to give them your heart. But if you can’t see them, then you can’t bargain. I think I tricked them, eventually. Or they got bored. Or my heart’s just not good eating anymore.”

  She reached down and scooped up a pigeon Charlie didn’t recognize, and stroked its soft wings with a fingertip.

  When he realized she was done talking, Charlie spoke.

  “So there was . . . nowhere in particular they went? Nowhere you saw them more often?”

  “No.”

  Charlie sagged on the bench. He’d upset Mellie for nothing, then. “I guess I’ll have to try talking to Reggie, then.” Another person he didn’t want to upset, but was going to anyway. He kept causing all this damage, and hoping it would be worth it in the end.

  “Who?” Mellie was distracted, agitated, and the pigeons were picking up on it. Around her the pigeons cooed and flapped their wings, fretful.

  “Reggie. He’s a soldier I met at the hospital. He told me about the war rats, that’s how we—the pigeons were with me, you remember—that’s how we found the War Room. And Remorse.”

  “Don’t say their names,” Mellie hissed.

  “Sorry,” Charlie said in a whisper, wincing.

  “Right,” Mellie said, seeming to gather herself. “Hold this.” She pushed the pigeon into Charlie’s hands and began to gather up her things and stuff them into her pram with great purpose.

  Charlie and the unknown pigeon blink
ed at each other. “Er, Mellie. Where are you going?” The pigeon trilled, too, its tone demanding answers.

  “To the hospital, of course. I’ve had enough watching you scour this wretched neighborhood for—creatures. It’s exhausting to watch you. You’re going to make yourself sick if you don’t stop, and you’re not going to stop until you’ve found the things, so. The hospital.”

  “You want to come with me?” Charlie asked, dumbfounded. The pigeon cooed and he petted it, distracted.

  “Right you are,” she said, checking around the bench for any misplaced essentials. “We’ve got a fox in our henhouse.”

  “It’s a wolf,” said Charlie.

  “It’s a figure of speech and don’t interrupt your elders. Hmm.” Mellie sucked on a piece of her gray hair thoughtfully. “You need allies. That’s how we won the war, isn’t it? Allied forces? So we’ll go to the hospital and talk to your soldier and then—then—”

  Here she broke off, and she snatched the pigeon out of Charlie’s hands and placed it with infinite gentleness on the ground with its family. “I need to leave my things somewhere. They won’t let me bring them inside. I know they won’t.” It was the first time Charlie had ever seen Mellie timid. Her eyes kept skipping back and forth between the pigeons and the pram.

  Charlie reach out and took hold of her gnarled hand in his mittened one. “We can leave your pram at my house, don’t worry.” He paused, worrying a scab on his lip between his teeth. “You know . . . you don’t have to come, Mellie. I wouldn’t think any less of you.” He squeezed her hand. She squeezed it back, hard.