by Belva Plain
And yet perhaps it was a grown man’s duty to involve himself?
He thought, I really need to talk to someone. Almost at once, his car turned off the shore road, back up through the foothills, curving leftward toward Eleuthera. He wouldn’t mind, Francis wouldn’t; he might even be pleased to know that someone felt the need of his counsel.
In a state of heightened emotion, he was so intent upon himself that, as he was later to remark, it was a miracle he had observed anything beyond that self and the few feet of road ahead of the car. Indeed, he had actually driven some way past what his eyes had seen before the sight registered in his brain, so that he was not really sure he had seen it; something caused him to stop the car, to back it up over the narrow, twisting road, to find out whether he had imagined what he had seen.
No. It was quite real. Some feet back from the road, a child, a boy of nine or ten years, was standing, slumped and standing, tied by wrists and ankles to a tree. Patrick rubbed his eyes and shook his head. He got out of the car.
“What is it? What happened?” he cried. The boy must long ago have stopped crying. His eyes were dry. His lips were bleeding; he had been trying to gnaw through the coarse, frayed ropes that bound him.
Patrick knelt and, with his pocketknife, cut the ropes. He took the child in his arms. The boy had wet his pants; his tight black curls were sweaty; Patrick held him close.
“Who are you? Where do you live? Who did this?”
The boy struggled, not wanting to be held, perhaps in terror of being held, and Patrick released him.
“Tell me, tell me,” he whispered. “What’s your name?”
“Will. And I’m thirsty. I’m hungry.” Still he did not cry.
“Get in the car there, Will. We’ll find a place down the road and get you something to eat right away.”
The boy climbed in beside Patrick. He sat quite erect and still, with two fists clenched on his knees. It would have seemed more natural if he had been hysterical, Patrick thought, but then, he was no psychologist.
“Who did this to you, Will?” he asked, very quietly.
“Bert did.”
“Who’s Bert?”
“Where I live. Bert.”
“With your mother and”—he hesitated—“father?”
“I got no mother and father.”
“Grandmother, then?” For that, of course, was a normal family pattern.
“No. She died.”
“Brothers? Sisters? Who?”
“I had an uncle, but he went away. Took all my stuff with him, too.”
“He did? What stuff?”
“I had pots. And I had two donkeys my grandma gave me. He stole them. Sold them and went away.”
“I see,” said Patrick. This tale of the abandoned child was not unfamiliar, only a more horrendous version of it than was usual.
“I want to eat, mister.”
“You can call me Mr. Courzon. No,” he said, looking down sideways at the dirty little fists so strangely knotted, as if to challenge the unfeeling world, “no, I’ll tell you what: call me Uncle Patrick. I’ll be your uncle, your good uncle, for today. Here’s a store. I’ll see what I can find to eat.”
The store, actually the front room of a sagging house, had a few shelves of canned goods, some bags of rice and flour and sundries. He bought a chocolate bar, bananas, and a can of soda.
“Not the best lunch in the world,” he said, with a cheerfulness he did not feel, “but it will hold you till we can get something better.”
Will stuffed the food down. When he had finished, Patrick began again.
“Now tell me where you live, Will. I’m going to take you back. I’m going to ask a few questions, too, when we get there,” he said grimly.
“Delicia. That’s the place.”
“Delicia! I ought to have asked before, oughtn’t I?”
They had been traveling in the wrong direction. He wouldn’t get to Eleuthera today, but first things first. He turned the car about and off onto a rutted track, not far from where he had found Will on the main road. I might have figured that out, he thought, irritated with himself.
“We’ll have to put some salve on your arms and legs,” he said. “Does it hurt very badly?”
“Some,” Will said.
He was either too frightened to talk or too tired. My God, Patrick thought, swallowing outrage and pity, quite literally lumped together in his throat.
Delicia, he recalled now, having been there once when he’d got lost, was a remote and meager cluster of shacks in a humid wilderness of bananas. He could have written its history, he thought, stopping now at the place Will pointed out. There would be a core of strong and faithful women who remained to grow old on the estate, caring for the scattered children of the young who went off-island to work and seldom came back to claim them, or perhaps claimed two or three and left the rest or gave them away. There would be the men, the itinerants who stayed just long enough to father a brood and leave it; there would be those who, staying, had only cruel discipline or, at best, neglect for the children whom they or other men had fathered. A beggarly place, this, far removed from a village like Sweet Apple, for poverty, like wealth, had layers and levels: poor, poorer, poorest. Delicia was poorest.
Children, in shirts that left them bare from the belly button down, shared a dusty common yard with dogs and tethered goats. Sitting on the ground around a stone firepit, five or six women were eating breadfruit and salt pork out of a pot. Their heads turned to Patrick as he strode toward them, his footsteps angry on the ground.
“Whose boy is this?” he demanded.
Will had got out to lean, as if for protection, against the fender.
A woman answered, evading the question. “His mother dead. Estelle. She died birthing him.”
“Well, who takes care of him now?”
“He had an uncle. Gone off-island. New York, I think.”
“No, London,” another corrected, “and never coming back.”
“I don’t care about that. Who takes care of him now, I asked?”
“We all do. I feed him sometimes with my kids,” one said.
“Who tied him to a tree?”
No one answered.
Will spoke up himself. “You know. Bert did.”
Patrick raised his voice. “Who’s Bert? Where is he?”
“He not here.”
“I see he isn’t. Where is he?”
“Gone for the day.”
A woman cried out defensively, some vague thought of lurking, imminent punishment having flitted through her head, “That boy there, he dig up yams! He dug up three yams. That why he got beat and tied!”
Will’s roar startled the group. “I was hungry! Damn you, I was hungry!”
Patrick would have liked to cry outrage himself. Instead he put a hand on the boy’s shoulder.
Then a young, pregnant woman went up to Patrick. “You want to take this boy? If he do misbehave again, Bert going to beat him, tie him up again. Bert or somebody.”
She was telling him, asking him, to take the child away! Given her own dire wants, one could not have blamed her if she had simply turned her back indifferently; but no, concern and pity were alive in her, so that she cared enough to plead for this miserable, unwanted boy. As a naked bulb flares white in a dark room, comprehension flashed in Patrick.
Oh, if he had stopped to think further, to consider his own household, or measure the responsibility and problems that might ensue, then surely it would have made more sense to refuse, to drive away with a weary heart and in time to forget little Will Whatever-His-Name! But he did not stop to measure or weigh.
“Has he got any clothes? Anything to take?”
The woman nodded. “I’ll show you.”
They went into a house. In the front room, on the bare earth floor, chickens roosted and coconut oil—from stolen coconuts, I’ll wager, Patrick thought—was boiling on a tin stove. In the other room were a bed and a pile of covers lying on the floor.
“This is his cover,” the woman said. “Sometimes he sleeps in this house, sometimes anywhere, whoever has room that night. He can take these pants. And two shirts. One belongs to my boys, but he can have it.”
“Just give me a pair of pants. He’s wet the ones he’s wearing.”
They went outside. Suddenly it occurred to Patrick that he might be taking too much for granted.
“Tell me, Will, do you want to go with me?
“Where you want to bring me?”
“Home to my house.”
Will raised black unreadable eyes. They bored into Patrick’s. “Do you beat your boys?”
“I have no boys. I have two little girls, and no, I don’t beat them. I don’t believe in beating children, or tying them up.”
“Then I’ll go with you,” Will said.
So casually was the transfer made that, before the car had turned about, the women had gone back to their meal. The car bumped through the sultry shade of the banana forest and came out into the broad afternoon on the main road. It was like leaving some eerie landscape of surrealism—the clump of huts in that vast, dank jungle, the women squatting by the iron pot—to emerge again into such normal light. And Patrick shook himself, as if to make sure he was awake.
Will startled him. “Maybe Bert was hungry, too.”
“What do you mean?”
“He wanted the yams himself. That’s why he got mad and tied me up.”
“You mean to say you’re not angry at him?”
“I hate him. I’d like to kill him.”
Patrick nodded. That was better, a decent rage. Still, what strange insight for a child to possess! Maybe Bert was hungry, too. How fathom the minds of men, or of a child?
“Put your head back,” he said gently. “Or curl up on the seat and sleep a while. I’ll wake you when we get there.”
Oh, I’ve done a damn fool thing! he thought. Désirée will probably be frantic. And why not? Then, arguing with himself, came justification: I’ve wanted a boy, and Désirée won’t have any more children. Her figure, I suppose. The girls are delightful, of course they are, but a man wants a son. Father and son. Do I want that so much because I never had a father? Anyway, a boy … And he glanced over at the sleeping child, a sturdy boy, tall for his age, Patrick guessed, and dark as Désirée. He had straight features, a nice-looking boy. Then the torn and welted skin on the thin, young arms removed the last of his doubts. He was prepared to do whatever battle might be necessary when he reached home.
Some hours later he was on his front porch rocking in the dusk. Clarence had given Will a bath, and he had been put to bed in the spare room. If it had not been for Clarence, who had come over from his house when the news was brought, why then, it would have been a much harder battle, Patrick thought, feeling grateful to the old man.
The screen door swung open and Désirée came out on the porch.
“Are you furious with me?” he asked.
“I was, but I’ve got over it. Anyhow, it wouldn’t do any good. You’ll do what you want to do.”
“Am I such a tyrant, then?”
“Not really. But I hope you know what you’re doing this time, I surely do.”
“I know.”
She said quietly, “I’m the one who’ll have all the work.”
“What work? He’s no infant. It’s another plate on the table and a bit of washing, that’s all.” He put his hand out, drawing her to himself. “I’ve wanted a boy. If I were pious, which I’m not, I could say the Lord sent him. As a matter of fact, I do seem to be feeling a touch of religion now and then. Old age coming on, I guess.”
“You’re shocking!”
“Why? Because I said that about being religious—or not being?”
“Yes, and that about old age, when you’re only thirty-four. And there’s nothing old about you. Especially in bed,” she added.
So he knew he was forgiven. “Nor you. You’ll be young when you’re sixty.” He kissed her hand. “I want to thank you for being so good about this.”
“What did you think I’d do?”
“I was afraid you’d raise hell and I couldn’t have blamed you. Bringing a strange child into the house without a word beforehand! Why, most men wouldn’t bring a puppy home without talking about it first. Still, if you could have seen him there, tied up—by God, you’d have done the same, you know you would!”
“He won’t talk to me.”
“Nor to me, very much. But what do you expect? He must be torn to pieces inside.”
“He took a liking to Pop. Told him this house is beautiful. Like a king’s palace, he told him.”
“Now, what can he have heard about a king’s palace, poor little thing?”
“But Patrick, what are we going to do with him?”
“Do with him? Why raise him, love him. What else?”
He went upstairs to the little room at the end of the hall, passing his daughters’ room without looking in, for they would be sleeping quietly under their pink blankets. It was the unwanted boy who drew him. Discarded, he thought, and but for a good mother, I, too, was discarded. Freshly washed and full of a good supper, Will had fallen asleep. His hands moved, twitching, as if he were dreaming. And Patrick, standing over him, could only hope that whatever dream he might be having was filled with peace and trust.
Suddenly he remembered the morning’s meeting. Yes, he thought now, yes, Nicholas was right! If you wanted a change, if a chance, however slight, were given you to change a world that could permit a life like this child’s, then what right had you, what decent excuse, for refusal? Nicholas was right, and he would join him to do however little or much he could. He would call him now and tell him.
But at the telephone he thought first of someone else and called another number.
“I almost paid you a visit today,” he said to Francis.
“Almost? What prevented you?”
“I’ve got a boy,” he said. “We’ve got a boy in our family.” And he went on jubilantly to tell about Will.
“I marvel at you!” Francis exclaimed, sounding glad.
“Yes, and there’s something more. I’m quitting my job to go to work for Nicholas. He’s going to start a newspaper and I’m to run it.”
“Wonderful! We surely need a good paper around here.”
Patrick hesitated. “Kate Tarbox is going to work on it with me.”
“Is she?”
“Maybe you didn’t know? She’s moved back into town.”
“When did that happen?”
“This week. Just now. She seems to have left her husband.”
“Well,” Francis said. “Well. It’s been a day of news.” His voice moved into a falling cadence. And Patrick understood that he wanted to get off the phone.
“I’ll see you soon,” he said at once. “Good night, then, Francis.”
“Yes, yes, soon. And good luck, Patrick, in everything you do.”
TWELVE
“It’s almost nine o’clock,” Francis said cheerfully. “Aren’t you going to get up?”
He raised the shades. Lemon-colored light splattered the pillow into which Marjorie’s face was buried. Receiving no answer, he repeated the question, careful to keep the cheer in his voice.
“Aren’t you going to get up. I’ve made my rounds, had breakfast, and I’m ready to go.”
“Then, go,” she said, without moving.
The night before, when he had come home late from a meeting of the Agricultural Association, Marjorie had already gone to bed and they had exchanged only a few words, but those had been sufficient for him to recognize one of her moods. Confident, though, that it would pass as usual, that by morning the cloud would have lifted, he had turned out the lamp without more ado and fallen asleep.
Apparently, now, the cloud had not lifted. Inaudibly, he sighed and then, determined to proceed normally, went on, “I’ve a copy of the Trumpet. Want to read it over breakfast in bed?”
“The Trumpet is a rag.”
/> “Oh, but the editorials are strikingly good! There’s one here—it sounds like Kate’s style, although it might be Patrick’s—I’m not sure, anyway, it’s about taxing vacant land, and I thoroughly agree. Why should anybody have the privilege of keeping land out of cultivation when there’s a shortage of food and then be free of taxes on it to boot? It makes no sense, and I’ve said so myself many times.”
Marjorie sat up abruptly. “Yes, you certainly have, haven’t you?”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Oh, nothing, nothing at all. Except that you’re being talked about as a troublemaker all over creation. Women were even talking about you at the club the other day after tennis. When they saw me they stopped.”
“I can’t help what a bunch of silly women who have nothing better to do decide to say about me.”
“It’s not just some ‘silly women,’ as you put it. You know very well they’re quoting their husbands.”
“You’d think I was a fire-eating bomb-thrower. All I care about is elementary decency, a tax structure that’ll help clear up some of the mess you see around you.” He tapped the paper. “These people are one hundred percent right.”
“These people!” she mocked. “Kate Tarbox and your friend Courzon! A great pair! I shouldn’t wonder if the two of them weren’t—”
“Weren’t what?” Francis asked, coldly now.
“Weren’t sleeping together, for all I know.”
“That’s disgusting!”
“Why? Because it would be interracial? I shouldn’t think you’d object to that, you’re so broad-minded!”
“One can be ‘broad-minded’ without having sex with people. I meant that Patrick has a beautiful wife; he’s an honorable man, and you’ve no right—”
“Yes, and Kate Tarbox is living alone in some miserable little house in town, having left her husband who always treated her well and would take her back in a minute. And you tell me there’s nothing fishy there?”
“You can twist things around so I don’t know which end is up! First you start in with editorials, and now we’re on to Kate! Why don’t you ask her, if you’re so interested in her private life?”
“Why don’t you?”
“I haven’t seen her since the day she was here with Patrick and his family a year ago. Moreover, I don’t care.”
