by Sophie Jaff
“Wait, so it’s on you?”
“Yes, whatever you desire, and again, please accept our apologies. Kenny!”
Kenny appears at the table and presents a huge wine list. He gets right to business as the manager leaves, even nailing his employer’s soothing, flattering tone.
“May I recommend the Cabernet? It pairs excellently with the steak.”
Katherine doesn’t care about the Cabernet. The waitress’s manic grin is still seared in her mind. Her stomach is balled into a fist and her temples throb. “What happened to our waitress?”
Kenny also doesn’t hesitate. The master has taught him well and his reply is prompt. “Unfortunately, Candice had to go home.”
“Is that it?” Michelle pounces. “Is she sick or something, touching our food?”
“No, no!” He sounds shocked, appalled that they could even think such a thing. “It was a personal matter. She received a phone call, bad news.”
“Oh.” There’s not much Michelle can say against bad news and free food. Whatever happened has happened, and an expensive wine has been suggested. “Well, I hope this doesn’t run late.” She nods at Katherine. “It’s a school night for some of us. Along with my steak frites, I’d also like a green salad and a French onion soup.” She turns to Katherine. “You?”
Katherine’s about to say no, how could she think about eating, when she realizes what she could bring home. “I guess the soup as well, and along with the steak frites I’d also like the BLT sandwich to go.”
To Kenny’s credit, he doesn’t flinch. “Of course.”
Michelle is all business now. “You’ll have to give me a minute with the wine. How long will this take?”
“It will be out quickly, I promise.”
And it is, with the help of a solicitous Kenny presiding. There’s even dessert. Michelle has the lemon tart, and Katherine has the chocolate brownie. She has a thing for chocolate these days. I need chocolate the way a crackhead needs a fix. One bite, she promises herself, and I’m taking the rest for Lucas. We’ll eat like kings for days.
Finally, they’re heading home. Michelle is getting up to go to the bathroom. Not surprising—she had four full glasses of wine.
“Here’s our stub.” She hands it over to Katherine, who hands it over to a tired hostess, who goes off to get the coats.
Katherine waits. It seems to take a long time. The other hostess smiles at her. She’s in her early twenties and impossibly thin. Her smile gives Katherine confidence. “Do you know what happened with the waitress tonight? Candice?”
The hostess plays dumb. Or maybe she is dumb. She shakes her exquisite head. “Sorry, I wouldn’t know.”
Right.
Michelle reappears, swaying a little.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m good,” she says. “I’m just peachy keen. Peachy keen! Although we shouldn’t have had the bottle—I can’t believe you made me drink all of that!”
“I’m on antibiotics.”
“Nothing like a beautiful glass of red to help you over whatever ails.”
“Right,” Katherine agrees as they head outside into the bite of an early October evening.
“All right, honey. It was so great to see you and hear all your news. Also nice work on getting the meal for free.” Michelle’s cheeks are flushed—she’s not quite sloppy, but she’s close.
“They don’t call me a cheap date for nothing.”
“Damn straight.”
“Well . . .”
“Don’t be a stranger. Let’s talk this weekend.” She suddenly hugs Katherine fiercely. “It will be okay.”
Her reassurance brings tears to Katherine’s eyes. For all her tough-girl bluster, Michelle is amazingly kind.
“Love ya.”
“Love ya too.”
Michelle hails a cab and Katherine heads off to the subway. Cabs are a luxury she really can’t afford these days.
The wind picks up, she jams her hands into her pockets, and encounters a small crunch of paper. She removes the scrap. Her heart sinks. She strains to read the spidery writing, but it’s too dark outside.
In the fluorescent light of the subway car, she tries again.
Le puso vidrio en la comida. Que Dios la acompañe.
Katherine translates it in Google when she gets home.
She put glass in the food. May God go with you.
She doesn’t let herself think about it until she’s finally lying in her bed. Then there’s nothing for it. What happened tonight will have to be faced.
Katherine remembers the waitress’s jerky, puppet-like movements, her flat voice, her unnerving rictus grin. Her eyes, she realizes. They were like the construction worker’s eyes.
She has tried her best not to think about what happened with the construction worker either, but now in the dark it floods back.
She had been walking past a group of construction workers, on her way home from work, dreading their catcalls—or, worse, no catcalls. She was almost at the end of the block when she heard one of the men cry.
“Miss!”
Great, she’d groaned, but deep down there was a tiny surge of relief. I still have something. But she kept walking.
“Miss! Miss!”
The shout was louder, more urgent. Whoever was calling out to her was directly behind her now. He must have run to catch up.
“Excuse me, miss?”
Katherine swung around to confront him as he stood before her in worn jeans and boots. Not her type, but his face was definitely appealing: surprisingly pale skin; short, close-cropped dark hair; and the kind of inadvertent designer stubble many metrosexuals would pay serious money for. But there was something about his eyes, a fixed, robotic look and it made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. He had taken off his hard hat, and was gripping it in his hands.
“Miss?”
“What do you want?” She kept her voice cold. It’s broad daylight, she’d reminded herself. People will help me.
“I’m sorry, miss, I’m sorry, but . . .”
“Yes? What?”
With great effort he manages “It’s my sister.”
“Your sister?”
“Please, she’s got cancer. It’s bad.”
He bit his lip, and Katherine, glancing down, could see that his nails were white from the pressure of his grip on his hard hat. She looked back up to his face to see that his eyes with their fixed blankness were swimmy with tears. “My mom, she just called to tell me. Holy Christ. It came back. She can’t do chemo again, and she’s got a little boy, Donny, he’s only seven, God help him. Her husband’s in the military, and he doesn’t get leave for two months at least. Please.”
“What?”
Lying in her bed, Katherine remembers the feeling of a weight upon her chest, pressing her flat.
The sky was unquestionably blue, and the cheerful sunlight beat down on the crown of her head. Her feet were pressed firmly on the pavement. A taxi hooted, then another. She tried to clear the rubble lodged in her throat, tried to breath, tried to shade her eyes with her hand, although her limbs were filled with concrete.
“I don’t understand. Why are you telling me this? What do you want me to do?”
Her question seemed to throw him. He shook his head, like a dog trying to shake off water.
“I dunno, I just . . . I just needed you to know.”
Katherine swallowed.
The man’s face slackened as he stared at her still-flat stomach. “I just thought maybe . . .”
His outstretched hand inched toward her.
She couldn’t move.
It was like a nightmare. One where someone is chasing you but you can’t run.
And then another man had come up to them, calling, “Mickey, Mickey, what the hell you doing?”
He is bald, a year or two older than Mickey, not fat but huge, with a friendly bulldog’s face. A guy who would be the life and soul of the bar. He caught hold of his friend, seeming more mystified than annoy
ed.
“What’s wrong with you, man?”
Mickey was shaking his head again, his hand frozen midair.
The second guy turned to her.
“Ma’am, I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s going on with him.” He was holding Mickey firmly, but not angrily, by the arm. “Come on, Mickey, stop bothering the lady, c’mon.”
Mickey stood transfixed still staring at Katherine’s stomach.
“Jesus Christ, what’s going on, Mickey?” He tried to steer his friend away, but Mickey wouldn’t move.
“Please help her,” Mickey said to Katherine, his voice suddenly clear and strong. “I know you can. Please.”
“Seriously, dude. Come on! What are you, drunk? Are you high? What the fuck, man?”
“I’m sorry.” Pity for Mickey, for his sick sister, had welled up inside Katherine. He must have been desperate to approach her. “I don’t know how to help you.”
Mickey just stared at her.
Then, the words had come. She had never uttered them before, but she knew they were the right ones. “I’ll pray for her,” Katherine promised. “And for her son, and for you.”
“You will?”
“Yes.”
Now she remembers him folding her hand in his large, damp one. He was so young, so young. Younger than Lucas is, in a way. Like a child.
“God bless you.”
“God bless you too.” She no longer felt afraid.
Mickey wiped his eyes with the back of one hand, smearing sweat and dust across his cheek. His other hand still held the hard hat. “Thank you. His voice was husky with gratitude. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart.”
“Jesus,” said his friend. “Jesus.” He turned to Katherine. “I don’t know, his sister, he found out some bad news . . .”
“I heard,” she murmured. “You better help him.”
“Yes, come on, man, let’s go.”
The guy looked far more shaken than Mickey. Mickey who had offered no resistance when his friend had put one huge arm around his shoulders to lead him away.
Katherine pictures the other construction workers. How they had stared at her as if Mickey’s breakdown were her fault. It must have been the trick of the sun but she could have sworn one worker’s eyes flashed silver. She turned away abruptly, wanting to get as far from them as possible. Almost running.
Dear God, she wonders, what is going on?
8
Margaret
I stare into the boy’s swollen eyes. He is covered with bruises and cuts so that it hurts to look at him. He seems familiar, but I cannot place him.
“Rudd?” I stammer. “Who is Rudd? Who has him?”
“It’s all my fault. I left him there!” With this confession, the boy folds over in a fit of grief, his thin frame wracked with sobs. He is not capable of telling me anything yet.
“Come,” I say. I try to take his arm but, still howling, he pulls away. I murmur over and over, hushed and soft, as I would to any frightened animal. “Come. Come with me.”
Eventually it works, I am able to lead him through the green tangle of ferns and bushes to the brook.
“Drink slowly,” I warn as he frantically scoops up handfuls of water, but I doubt he can hear me.
At last he begins to slow down, his thirst quenched. He makes as if to rise.
“Sit,” I tell him, grasping his upper arm and wincing at how thin it is. I point to the wounds upon his face. “Let me tend to these at least.”
He sinks down again to the damp edge of the brook, but twists under my grip.
“Be still.” I am stern. “Do you want these to fester? You must be brave!”
This seems to do the trick. He flinches a little but does not turn away as I rinse his cuts and scratches with the clear, cool water. Luckily they all seem shallow enough. Soon I have washed away enough grime to tell from where I know him. He was the boy in the marketplace who fought Old Warren.
Sharp red marks wrap around his wrists.
He notices me looking at them and lowers his eyes.
“From the rope,” he mutters.
I nod as if I understand.
When I have tended all his wounds as best as I can and pressed dock leaves upon his nettle stings, I guide him back to my tree. There, I offer him mushrooms and some leaves of wild sage. With a little moan of hunger, he falls upon them.
“You must go slowly,” I remind him again, “lest you sick it all back up and waste this good food.”
He tries, but it is clear that he is starving. While he eats, I set about gathering comfrey leaves to make a poultice. I tear some strips of cloth from the hem of my skirt, then crumble the leaves into fine pieces. I trickle a little of my stored brook water upon the pieces and mash them into a paste. It would be easier if the water were warm, but I dare not light a fire. The smoke could draw the bandits’ attention.
By the time I am done he has eaten his fill, and some color has blossomed in his cheeks.
“Here.” I show him one of the poultices.
He looks doubtful, wrinkles his nose.
“It will help,” I assure him, and his eyes widen with relief when I apply them to his arms and legs. “Now, let me hear your story. From the beginning.”
And at last he tells me
His name is Thomas. His father died of fever, and his mother, a widow with a small holding, married Old Warren three years ago. She did not live long at the hands of her new husband, who drank and beat and starved her. Remembering how the old bastard acted when in his cups, I’m not surprised. Rudd was not Old Warren’s son. Thomas thinks he bought him from a couple who had too many mouths to feed with the intention of setting him to work on the small holding. The two grew close, despite Rudd’s lack of wits and the years between them. In Rudd, Thomas found the only other person in the world who would be kind to him and they became like brothers. After his mother’s death, he took care of Rudd as best he could.
When Old Warren finally finished drinking away what little money they had, Thomas was forced to steal. Theft turned out to be his dubious talent and thanks to him, they were all able to survive the bitter winter. Of course, all the boy stole flowed right into Old Warren’s tankard, and when he could not lay hold of Thomas, who was becoming as slippery as a fish, he would beat Rudd all the harder.
Thomas began to plan their escape, managing to hide a pocketed coin or two in a secret crack in the cottage’s wall. Then my father banned Old Warren from our tavern, and the old man grew more violent. The scene I witnessed at the market was a near-everyday occurrence.
One night soon after that public fight, Old Warren discovered Thomas’s hoard. He had taken Thomas by surprise, his huge hands nearly choking the life out of the boy, until Rudd pried him off and pushed him away. Old Warren’s head hit the stone wall of their cottage with a sickening crunch, and he had crumpled lifeless to the ground.
There had been nothing for it but to seize the stolen coins and flee. As hated as Old Warren had been in the village, he would still be missed, and the sheriff was sure to try and bring his killers to justice. Thomas told me how he and Rudd had run into the woods and right into the hands of the bandits. The men stripped them of all they owned but their nightmare had only begun.
After realizing that Rudd was a fool, they had roped and staked him to the ground like a dog, marveling at his size. There was much argument as to what was to be done with him until their leader decreed that he would train Rudd to fight, pitting him against dogs or other men for money. He would do it by force if needed, with pokers and sticks, feeding him only raw meat and scraps until he begged. They had little use for Thomas. Some wanted to slit his throat, but then one shouted that it had been too long since they had had a woman, and what else was the lad good for?
Thomas’s voice sinks lower, and he begins to tremble. I do not want him to dwell on this memory. There is a danger he will not be able to continue if he does.
“Go on,” I encourage him as kindly as I can manage. “How did you e
scape?”
Thomas describes how he worked the ropes that bound him, twisting and turning at them, trying not to scream. Finally he managed to slip one bleeding, chafed wrist free. And then, at last, the other. He ran and ran blindly through the woods, nearing exhaustion, until he almost fell upon a sleeping figure.
“And I woke you,” he says.
Now he is desperate to rescue Rudd, poor Rudd, who sits weeping in pain, bewildered and helpless.
It has taken Thomas much to tell his tale, and now he gnaws at his thumb, thinking of Rudd. “We will go tonight?”
“No,” I say. “We would be caught.” I catch at the whisper of an idea, faint as the hum of a bee.
He leaps up. “I cannot leave him!”
“Sit down.” My mind is stirring furiously. “We will not abandon him, but we must use our wits. What good will we be to Rudd if we are caught too?”
He slowly sags, the fight draining out of him, his face crumples.
“Thomas, look at me.”
He drags his eyes reluctantly to meet mine.
“I give you my word, we will save him.”
Still, he cannot believe me.
“Why would you help us? What could you gain from it?”
It is an honest question. I will only be putting myself in more danger by helping two strangers, and yet . . .
I remember a small girl lost in the woods, the only person who loved her brutally ripped away. “I was once in need of help. I was once like you.”
Something in my face must have convinced him.
“It is a debt we can never repay” he says. We will owe you our lives.” He swallows. “What should we do?”
“For the present there is nothing more we can do.”
In truth there is already a plan brewing, a dangerous plan, but I can think of no other way. I will let it ferment overnight, and visit it anew in the morning.
“All you can do is sleep.”
Even as he protests, his head is falling, his eyes drooping, and soon he has surrendered.
I lie awake, looking out into the darkness.
