Alone Together
Danelaw Strong stands on a step ladder at the kitchen counter, fenced in by its safety rails. A sweet, swishing feeling around his knees because his legs are bare and he’s wearing a (skirt).
Helen stands behind him and her hands are soft in his hair, fingernails scratching along his scalp and sending rivers of goosebumps all over his arms. “Shh,” she whispers. “This is secret.”
Dane and Helen have been living in the kitchen.
It’s the best kitchen because it has a fireplace at one end and a big couch in front of the fireplace where Dane takes naps.
After Marizabet’s bedroom, this is his favorite room in the house.
Helen lets him help with cooking, teaches him to properly use knives and chop vegetables.
She sings songs. Tells stories. Listens to everything Dane tells her.
Takes him seriously. Asks serious questions.
He loves her terribly.
The last day of 4 BC, Dane is in the kitchen with Helen, helping her cook.
He stands on the stepladder with the safety rails, chopping vegetables with his special knife.
It’s plastic, but its edge can really cut things.
After many knicks and scratches on his fingers, he’s learned to be careful with it.
White lights line the kitchen windows. Paper snowflakes dangle on invisible black threads.
Cold outside, but warm within because a fire is burning in the fireplace.
Stockings hang from the mantel, which is festooned with pine branches and oranges.
The air is spicy and festive. Dane’s hair is pulled into a little tail and he’s wearing clothes that are against the law when Sir is home.
A green (skirt) with sequined candy canes around the waist. It swishes loose and lovely around his bare knees.
His head is warm and snug inside his favorite fur hat with the rabbit ears.
They’re white and silky soft and the most perfect eggshell pink inside—the exact pink of the walls in Marizabet’s room.
Dane and Helen are singing Christmas carols. Loud. Helen’s favorite album is playing at high volume, and the two of them are singing at the top of their lungs, which is one of Dane’s favorite expressions.
“I love you at the top of my lungs,” he shouts in between verses.
Helen laughs and laughs. “I love you so much, I have to scream.”
This competitive hullabaloo is a mistake. They are screaming and singing and laughing so loud, they don’t hear the sound of helicopter rotors outside.
Sir comes into the kitchen.
This is bad.
Sir is not alone.
Marizabet is with him.
This is strange, because she is supposed to be Away at School.
Sir has her hair wrapped around his hand and is dragging her in a way that makes Dane’s hand go to the back of his own head, horrified.
His throat drops to the top of his lungs, then to the bottom of his lungs.
His lungs drop into his stomach and his fingers reach to pluck at the skirt around his waist. He is wearing all the clothes that are against the law.
This is bad.
Dane has been very, very bad.
Things happen quickly, and already Dane’s memory is putting hands over his eyes, telling him not to look. Not to listen. Not to remember.
But he can peek between fingers. He can remember a few things from the first day of 5 BC.
Marizabet doesn’t look like a princess anymore. She’s crying, her clothes are torn and her nose and mouth are bloody.
Helen turns from the counter. Dane sees her eyes go wide and narrow into slits. He will remember this all his days—how his mother’s eyes turn to sideways windows of fury.
She takes the plastic cutting knife away from Dane and pushes him behind the couch. She throws herself at Sir.
The hand with the white knife comes down and Sir bellows like a lion as Helen cries, “Marie, run…”
Dane pushes his face into the cushioned couch frame. He shuts his eyes, puts hands over his ears, and bites his tongue hard, the way he does when Sir hits him with the belt.
Memory, wanting to be helpful, grabs a cloth and starts scrubbing things away in Dane’s head.
No, no, this isn’t important.
You’re not really here.
This isn’t happening.
It’s just a dream.
Don’t worry. Pay no attention. You’ll forget this soon.
All the while, the Christmas music has played at the top of its lungs. The end of the record is reached and the kitchen goes eerily quiet.
Dane peeks around the back of the couch, one of the ears from his rabbit hat folding across his eyebrows.
Marizabet is gone.
Helen is lying down on the floor.
Sir is getting to his feet, a hand at his back. He looks at the hand, shakes his head, then he kicks Helen.
Dane’s eyes narrow to slits.
A new sound fills the kitchen: helicopter rotors. Sir’s chopper is taking off again.
This is strange.
Sir hauls Helen to her feet and drags her, stumbling and moaning, to the windows. He looks out, craning his neck. His hands shake Helen’s body in short, sharp jerks. A hand wraps around her hair and pulls.
The sideways windows of Dane’s two-colored eyes fall on the kitchen counter, where he and Helen had been chopping vegetables. He with his white plastic knife. Helen with the big silver knife Dane wasn’t allowed to touch.
But Dane isn’t allowed to wear a (skirt) either.
Or wear his hair long.
Or be in Marizabet’s room.
Or not say sir when addressing Sir.
He looks at his mother, remembering how her arm went up high and came down.
Sir always did the hitting.
Today, Helen hit back.
Dane didn’t know such a thing was possible.
Helen half-twisted in Sir’s grip and looked back at Dane. Her mouth shaped a word—Run—and her eyes rolled. Toward, Dane was sure, the stepladder at the counter.
Run.
Moving at the bottom of his lungs, Dane darted across the kitchen floor. His hand closed around silver, heavy and forbidden in his young hand. He gathered Boy-me, Girl-me and Mom-me close. He ran toward Sir at the windows, arm high.
And he hit back.