by Dan Walsh
Darkness. Nothing but deep, black darkness. A stairway leading to nowhere, he thought. Who knew if it still even went to the attic? Anything could be up there, just waiting for a little boy to come up without an adult. Or maybe everything was fine, and he would be perfectly safe. That’s the problem with darkness, you never knew until it was too late.
How many times had he and his mother talked about his fear of the dark? It was all his imagination, she’d said. There really wasn’t anything to be afraid of. God sees in the darkness, just as easily as the light.
But God wouldn’t help him with what he was about to do now.
The switch was just at the top of the stairway, he reminded himself. Just a few more steps to go.
Finally he made it, almost out of breath, and hit the switch. The attic was still there. Everything was the same. He looked to the right, by the soldier’s uniform. There it was. He started to hurry but became aware of the sound of his footsteps. He quietly snatched the wooden soldier, then made his way back downstairs after flipping the light switch. He never looked back as he gently closed the door.
Once inside his bedroom, he was glad to find the soldier did fit snugly in the suitcase, just like he thought. This could work. Something like this soldier was meant to be enjoyed, not shoved up in the corner of an old dark attic. Someday when he was older he would finish carving the bottom, maybe even paint it. His dad could help him. He was about to close the lid when he looked up at his parents’ picture. He couldn’t look at their picture straight on and quickly turned away. He started toward the door but paused as he reached for the knob. He could almost feel his mother’s disapproving gaze.
“But it was just sitting up there,” he whispered, still facing the door. “He doesn’t even care about it. He’d never let me have it; he’s way too mean.”
“That doesn’t matter,” she would have said. “And you know it. The point is—it’s not yours. It’s stealing. You’re breaking one of the Ten Commandments.”
He turned to face her, his heart sick with disappointment. “But if I ask, he’ll never give it to me.” He walked over and lifted the suitcase lid. He sighed as he pulled the soldier out, the bayonet catching the corner of his gray sweater. He sat on the edge of the bed, holding it in front of him. He knew what he had to do.
He looked into his mother’s eyes, straight on, and said, “I’m sorry.”
He walked to the door and opened it quietly. All kinds of sounds were still going on downstairs. He could put it back before his grandfather ever knew what happened. He walked across the dark hallway when a new idea suddenly came to him. He stopped for a moment as it sunk in, then turned toward the stairway.
It could work, he thought. And it wasn’t a sin. He’d never know unless he tried.
Collins took another sip of whiskey as he stirred a simmering pot of vegetable soup. He hoped Ida couldn’t see him from heaven like this, the looks she’d be giving him. But he needed something to put distance between him and his emotions. He could feel them pressing in, just waiting for a weak moment to burst through again. He had to keep it together. Couldn’t let the boy see. Couldn’t let the boy know his father was probably dead. No, stop that, he thought. Don’t go there. The telegram said missing. Hold on to that. No, don’t hold on to that. Don’t even think about the whole stinking mess.
Think about vegetable soup.
He looked at the bottle of whiskey sitting on the counter to his right, emptier now. He’d brought it in from the living room. He was sure he had another bottle somewhere. Couldn’t go out and fetch a new one tonight, not in this storm. He looked back at the pantry, then down at the broken bottle of cooking oil. He’d forgotten to clean up the spill. Probably going to leave a terrible stain, he thought, forever sealing the memory of this night.
He had known no good would come of bringing a little seven-year-old boy to this house. He had dreaded it the instant he’d said yes to that Townsend woman.
Just doing his duty, he thought.
Look what it got his boy Shawn.
Twenty-Six
Katherine pushed her tiny dinette table two feet closer to the radiator. She was still wearing her gloves and heavy sweater. Not only was her apartment cold, the light wasn’t very good, either. She bent down and picked her pen off the floor; it had a nasty habit of rolling off the table due to the sag in the floor. For the last hour, she’d been working on her report, developing the reasons why Patrick should be removed from his grandfather’s custody as soon as possible. First thing in the morning she would head into the office and type it up.
Presently, the words were not flowing from her pen. It had been easy to write about Collins’s unworthiness to be the parental custodian, to detail his nasty disposition, his inability to offer Patrick any comfort or affection, his total inexperience with small children, and now, add to all that, the telegram and Collins’s drunken condition.
The problem was convincing the agency that Patrick should be allowed to live with her.
She looked up from her paper and surveyed the room, imagining what might be said about her accommodations. Her government check afforded her a chilly, one-bedroom, third-floor tenement. Yellowing doilies covered the armrests on the couch and chair hiding the stuffing that stuck out here and there. Her radio didn’t work; she hadn’t had the time or money to get it repaired. She laughed as she looked at her ridiculous excuse for a Christmas tree standing on a cardboard box in the corner. She had no lights. It was half dead from lack of water. No presents underneath.
Merry Christmas, she thought. God bless us, everyone.
They would never approve of her place, any more than they’d approve of her. She was a single woman. But whatever happened to love? she thought. Doesn’t love matter? Her mind began to assemble paragraphs that would express what had been developing in her heart since the moment she’d laid eyes on Patrick.
But instantly she knew such a tack would never work. If anything, her report would have to play down any emotional attachments. She needed logic, not emotion. Somehow she’d have to make Patrick living with her as the most logical choice of all the possible options.
She got up from her chair and grabbed a small blanket from the back of the sofa, wrapped it around her feet, and stared back down at her report.
Logical thoughts were the farthest thing from her mind.
Patrick sat on the top step, clutching the wooden soldier tightly. For the last few minutes, he’d been working up the nerve to ask his grandfather if he could buy it.
That was the new idea, the great master plan.
He had saved over five dollars doing odd jobs back home, like running telephone messages from the grocer to people without phones and shoveling snow from sidewalks. He had been saving to buy his mother a hat for Christmas, one she’d admired every time they walked past Mitchell’s Haberdashery.
He quickly shut the memory down before it went any further.
So, five dollars should be more than enough for something somebody just left sitting in their attic. Two dollars was probably enough, but Patrick had decided to offer the entire five. Just to make sure.
There were no longer any sounds coming from the kitchen. His grandfather had been fixing something for dinner judging by the smell. I better go now, Patrick thought, before he starts coming up to call me. If he sees this in my hand before I get to make my offer—
He hurried down the stairs, rounded the banister, almost tripping over that big box that had been delivered the other day. He’d forgotten all about it. He centered the wooden soldier on the coffee table, then stood blocking its view from the dining room. Waiting.
He reached in his pocket, fingering the dollar bills, just to make sure he could pull them out quickly.
The soup was ready. The table set. He had poured a fresh shot of whiskey for himself, cold milk for the boy. Had only managed to burn himself once on the stew pot. Hardly felt a thing. He was just bringing out the salt and pepper when he noticed a glimmer of light on the floor, reflecting off a sp
ot of cooking oil he must have missed when he’d cleaned up the spill. Better at least get a rag and soak it up, he thought. He’d mop the whole thing in the morning if he wasn’t too hung over.
He turned back to the kitchen to get the rag when he saw the boy standing in the living room, as though at attention. “There you are. Saved me the trouble. Just going to yell up for you. You wash your hands?”
Patrick didn’t reply.
“Did you wash your hands? You hear me talking to you?”
“I washed them.”
“All right, then. Take your seat, and I’ll dish out the soup. Watch out for that puddle of oil.”
“Okay . . . Grandfather. But there’s something I’d like to ask you about first.”
Collins stood there, waiting for him to go on. “Well?”
“Remember the other day when I was in the attic?”
Collins nodded, unable to hide the impatience on his face.
“I know my father will be coming home soon. I saw Miss Townsend’s car driving away.”
Collins felt the next swallow inch down his throat like a jagged rock.
“So that doesn’t give me much time. I saw something up there that I kinda want real bad. But I know you didn’t want me to play with it just then—”
“What are you going on about?” he asked, the edge returning as he anticipated what was coming next. There was only one thing the boy had been messing with in the attic, as he recalled.
“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. My friend Billy said people put stuff in the attic because they can’t sell it or don’t want to. I’m not sure which one this is, but—”
“Would you just say what you’re trying to say, and get it over with?” He took a step in Patrick’s direction. Patrick backed up in response, his legs now right up against the coffee table.
“I’ve got five dollars saved up.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out a handful of dollars. Some coins bounced on the rug. One began to roll on its side toward Collins. “I’ll get it.”
The boy bent over in pursuit. Collins couldn’t believe his eyes. Centered on the coffee table behind him was the handcarved soldier he’d made for Shawn. “You’ve been back up in the attic,” he snapped. “Haven’t you?”
Patrick stood up straight. “Yes, sir, I have. But I wanted to—”
Collins’s rage needed no help to find its way to the surface. He lunged toward Patrick and grabbed him by the shoulders. “I told you to leave that soldier alone, didn’t I?”
“Yes, but—”
“You went up in the attic without even asking permission. At nighttime, no less. And you deliberately took the very thing I told you to never touch again. Didn’t you?” Collins was too drunk to see the terror in Patrick’s face. “Didn’t you!” he screamed.
“But I didn’t take it, I was—”
“You didn’t take it? Did it walk down here all by itself?”
“That’s not what I meant. I . . . I—”
“You don’t listen, do you? Got no respect at all, do you? Do whatever you darn well please.” He was shaking Patrick with each phrase.
“You’re hurting me,” Patrick cried.
“Hurting you? I ought to hurt you but good.” With that, he tossed Patrick toward the living room. He landed with a thump, half on the throw rug, half on the wooden floor. “Now you put that thing back up there where you found it, you hear? And don’t you ever, ever touch it again.” His index finger was stabbing the air like a dagger. “And while you’re up there, you can just stay up there. No soup for little boys that got no respect.”
“Yes, sir,” Patrick said through his tears.
Collins waited for one long, tense moment, then said, “Well, go on . . . get!”
Patrick picked himself off the floor, quickly turning away from his grandfather’s angry glare. Tears were pouring down his face. But these weren’t just sad tears; angry tears were mixed in. He didn’t want any of his stupid old soup. The only thing he wanted in this house he couldn’t have. He hated this place. He hated everything about it. He picked up the wooden soldier and walked toward the stairs.
Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a piece of paper teetering on the ledge of the end table next to his grandfather’s favorite chair, yellow and wrinkled. The only word visible from where he stood was the word “Telegram.” He looked up. His grandfather had already gone back in the kitchen.
Maybe it was a telegram about his father. A ray of hope burst through his grief. He tiptoed to the end table and picked it up.
He began to read. At first it was very confusing, but as he read, he felt terrible feelings starting to form inside.
He couldn’t understand every word he read.
But he understood enough.
Twenty-Seven
Collins shuffled into the living room, almost tripping over the lip of the throw rug. He had just spent the last thirty minutes sitting at the dining room table, trying to eat the soup he’d made. It had grown cold before he’d finally given up. He’d left the spoon sitting in the bowl, the pot sitting on the stove, a mess sitting on the counter.
He hadn’t noticed any of it.
The balance of the whiskey bottle had shaved several degrees from his depression. A soothing numbness had settled over him. He stood at the foot of the stairs, listening for the boy. After several moments of silence, he figured he must have fallen asleep. What nerve, thought Collins. He’d hated sending the boy to bed without supper, but he needed to be taught some respect. It was outright disobedience on the boy’s part, almost defiance. He had half a mind to throw out that stupid wooden soldier. Why had he kept it all these years anyway?
Then he remembered the day he had almost thrown it out. It was the day he’d finally accepted that Shawn and he were through for good. He’d stormed up to his bedroom, grabbed the wooden soldier on the floor beside his dresser, then marched it right past Ida, who was knitting something or another on the sofa.
“Where do you think you’re going?” she had said, her voice sharp as steel.
“To be done with this!” Collins yelled, holding up the soldier. “Once and for all.”
“Think so? You think throwing that soldier out will punish Shawn somehow?”
“I don’t care what Shawn thinks.”
“You never did.”
“What?”
“You never did care what Shawn thinks. That’s half the problem.”
“So you’re taking his side now?”
“No, I’m just telling the truth. There are no sides to the truth. It’s just the way it is. It’s not like I haven’t seen it all and heard it all for myself. I’ve been sitting here watching you these last several years. You can’t get along with—won’t get along with—Shawn, our only son, our only child, and now I’m deprived of his company as well.”
“What do you want me to do, woman? You’ve heard the way he’s talked to me, the things he’s said.”
“Yes, I have, and I’ve heard you too. Which means I’ve heard both sides . . . quite fully, I might add. And you’ve never once asked for my observations or advice.”
“So what do you want me to do?”
“Do whatever you want to do, Ian. That’s all you’ve ever done. Don’t stop now on my account.” Then she turned back to her knitting, filling the room and Collins’s heart with a guilt so heavy he felt it in his bones.
The guilt of that moment remained alive to this day. It was the reason he had stashed the soldier in the attic instead of the trash. Collins sighed heavily as he sat in his chair. There was no hope now. Shawn was gone. Ida was gone. He had not kept his promise to her, to reconcile with Shawn.
“I am so sorry, Ida. Shawn, I am so sorry.” The room was suddenly a blur.
At that moment, his loneliness and despair were complete. They broke through the barriers of the whiskey, and he was overcome by his grief.
He cried like he had never cried before in his life.
It was so cold.
The wind b
lew right through his coat, scarf, and hat like they weren’t even there. The snow trickled into his boots with every step, freezing his feet and toes. And it was still coming down. His arms felt like they were going to fall off carrying this suitcase. Good thing he had decided to bring just the small one. Right now, it was his left arm’s turn to drag it behind him in the snow.
He tried not to, but he couldn’t stop thinking about the telegram. He knew what “missing in action” meant.
He had suppressed the urge to scream out what he felt after reading those words back in the living room. But he couldn’t. Instead, he went up the stairs and cried into his pillow. He couldn’t pray. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t even look at the picture of his mom and dad.
All he knew was he couldn’t stay in that house with that old man one minute more.
His father wasn’t coming home to get him any day now. The army didn’t even know where he was. He realized now that the telegram must have been the real reason Miss Townsend had come to his grandfather’s house. In his mind, he had imagined the fight that must have taken place between them. Miss Townsend had driven all that way in the snow to come rescue him, but somehow his grandfather had chased her off. He remembered the card she had given him the first night she had dropped him off, and her words: “Now, you remember, Patrick, I gave you my card. If you need to call me for any reason, you just call. You don’t need your grandfather’s permission.”
That’s what his mission was now, to find a telephone.
He couldn’t use the one at his grandfather’s house; it was in the kitchen, in plain view of his grandfather sitting at the dining room table. He couldn’t go to Mrs. Fortini; she might bring him back to his grandfather. He couldn’t take that risk. He remembered seeing a telephone at Hodgins’s Grocery and was sure he remembered how to get there.
The intersection joining the neighborhood to Clifton Avenue was in sight. If he could just hold out a little longer. He’d call Miss Townsend, and she’d come get him. Tonight he’d be safe and warm with her, with someone who seemed to love him. Her hugs had been the closest to his mom’s of anyone he had met.
