Chapter Twenty-Nine Donny #2
They practically tumbled down the hill and into town. Halfway to Main Street, they were intercepted by Sam and Isaiah. The dog licked at Donny’s fingers. Sam had been looking after him in Patrick’s absence, the two of them like orphans left to roam directionless without him.
“I can take him,” Sam said, and Donny felt Gunner’s weight leave his shoulders.
“Mrs. McCallister wants to know why she can’t open her shop.
She’s requested a meetin’ with you and Mrs. Colson.
And Briggs said to tell you the trolley’s righted.
He can have it runnin’ again by tomorrow, but there was a gas leak reported on the east side, near the brewery.
He said the street ought to be evacuated while he takes a look. ”
Donny heard it as a barrage. But he nodded, swallowed. “Right. Yeah.”
“Stop blatherin’ and get me inside my pub,” Gunner groaned. “I need a fuckin’ drink.”
Tess was waiting for them when they returned. Donny heard her pacing behind the bar, the crinkle of parchment. Sam deposited Gunner into a chair and departed with a feeble “Mornin’, Mrs. Colson.”
“Go do somethin’ useful, lad,” she said in response.
Donny bent his head to his chest for a moment before sitting. Patrick had done that a lot, conceded to the weight of his head for a moment before proceeding, as though needing a second of surrender.
“Well, they took the guns,” Gunner started. “Not that they had much choice—”
“There’s been a scribble,” Tess interrupted.
Donny lifted his feet to a chair and stretched. “Ah, from one of my many lovers abroad, no doubt.”
“No. No, it’s…” This was a tone Donny had rarely heard her use. Tess Colson’s voice was a deep river water, forcing over stones and overpowering the flight of fish, a great relentless push. But here, it had reduced itself. The words seemed to bank on her tongue.
Donny sat upright. “Who?”
In answer, Tess read aloud. “Escaped and fled into the brink. John is alive. There’s a lead on rock keeping us from home. Know that I’m finding a way back. Everythin’ has its fix.”
A cavern seemed to open up inside him, swelling the jacket of his rib cage. “Patty,” he said, then stood and laughed aloud, his hand searching for Gunner’s shoulder. “What’d I tell you!”
“It ain’t signed,” Tess said carefully, never daring to hope. “And I don’t recognize the Scribbler’s handwritin’.”
“It’s him, Ma!” Donny insisted. Between them, they’d referred to terranium as rock near untrusted ears.
A code word. And he’d said, Everythin’ has its fix.
How many times had they all heard that in their household?
Their father always singing it out when the problems shuffled in.
He’d say it while patting Donny’s shoulder, pushing yet another pair of makeshift spectacles over his deteriorating eyes.
He’d said it until the problem of his sight was no longer a problem, but a conclusion.
“Dad,” Gunner said, the same way he’d said it as a boy. “He’s with him?”
Tess’s teeth sucked at the edge of her lip. “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know.”
“That’s what it says, Ma!”
“That don’t mean it’s true.” She sounded close to the edge of her control. “We can’t pin our hopes on it.”
Bubbling up inside Donny, however, was a geyser of relief. “He’s goin’ after terranium,” he said on an expelled breath. He slumped back in his chair and dashed his hands over his face, felt his eyes wheel in their sockets. “Thank fuckin’ Idia.”
“Goddamn Patty,” Gunner was saying in wonderment. He coughed out a laugh. “That slippery little fucker.”
Donny wondered, in a detached way, which Gunner longed for more, their brother or the bluff he’d surely bring with him. “And Dad,” Donny said. “Holy god, Patty was right after all!”
“If that ain’t cause for a drink, I don’t know what else is!” Gunner brayed, slapping the table.
Tess slapped back in response, the reverberations of her hand sending quakes through their limbs.
She heaved breaths like a thoroughbred, like a steam train.
“We have the surroundin’ parishes breathin’ down our necks!
” she said, a river churning up the bed once more.
“We’ve got not nearly enough food in the market, houses to repair.
It’s not yet the middle of winter, and the Coal Works ain’t got its foreman.
” Here, Donny felt Gunner shift, felt the air thin.
“Everyone knows where we are now. Everyone. If you think those Dunnitch men will be the last headin’ down the tunnel, you’ve got gas in your heads.
We can’t let ’em know we’ve run dry, or we’re cut off.
And for as long as we can convince ’em we’ve got bluff on the way, they’ll come knockin’ for it. ”
The parchment of the scribble crackled in her fist. “This ain’t the fuckin’ time to celebrate,” she said slowly and clearly, as if they were both simple.
“None o’ that until Pat returns. If he returns.
Until then, we’re weak. Soon, everyone’ll believe we’re weak enough that they can kick in the door, take what they want—”
“Just let ’em fuckin’ try,” said Gunner.
“—and if we lift our boots off their necks now, more of ’em will come.”
Her words hung in the air, and Donny swallowed them. That cavern of hope in his chest caved inward. But as always, he lifted his chin and fashioned himself a cocky smile. “He’s comin’ home, Ma. He’s too stubborn not to,” he said. “Dad, too.”
But Tess was righting herself, pulling the parchment into the pocket of her apron.
“Patty will do whatever’s necessary,” she said.
“But if your father lives, Donny, I doubt we’ll see him anytime soon.
” He heard her turn on her heel, heading for the kitchen.
“He’ll know better than to show his sorry face round these parts, unless he wants me breakin’ it. ”