Chapter 24 Samson
Wind buffets the boat and hail comes down in artillery barrages, rattling off the roof, pausing, waiting, then tapping against the windows.
I sit with my cheek against the glass. To feel the ice, and the vibrations.
Dad says she’s in a different hospital now. One farther outside the town. When we lived in the bungalow our neighbor’s niece spent some time inside there. He says Mom is sick but they can help her. He says she’ll likely be there for a while.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
I had people in my life before. I never thought about it at the time, but I always knew they were there.
Grandma and Grandpa died before I was born, so did Nanna Ruth, but I always had people.
Mr. Turner and little Amber. I had them.
Mr. Turner’s drawer stuffed full of KitKats.
He always let me keep the change because he knew I needed it and asked me about history lessons and whether I’d reached the World Wars yet.
The thing is: We’ll study them next year.
Mr. Turner died before we got that far. And in the bungalow we had people all around us.
Not people I loved or even knew that well, but other kids, other dads, other moms who’d ask me what I was doing out so late, checking up on me, asking after us.
We had Mr. Jameson in the convenience store near the intersection.
He was impatient and suspicious, but we had him close by.
I had a bedroom back then. A bed that stayed a bed all day and all night.
And I had Mom.
Dad is setting the fire. I’ve emptied the ashes and washed the dishes and swept the dirt off the deck. I’ve done what he asked me to do.
When I was sweeping I heard a train in the far distance. Going north, maybe. Delivering commuters and mail and lovers meeting up after weeks apart. I heard it thunder along the rain-slick tracks.
Dad says the new hospital won’t allow visits. He says they want her doing all the talking therapies and group therapies with no interruptions or distractions. When I lowered my head he said, “You want her better, boy? You want your mother better?”
He is streamlining things. His word. Streamlining. As if we need any more damn streamlining. He expects me to use less water. Less coal. Eat less food. He wants us to live more simply until she gets out. He says, Just us boys now. No females. No nonsense. We’ll be fine, eh?
How scared is she right this instant? How are the other people on her ward? Does she have her own room? Can she stay warm enough? She was so cold that night.
Dad points to the folding Walmart camp chair so I walk over and sit down heavily in it.
“Pork and beans tonight, young man.”
I nod.
“One of your favorites.”
I nod again.
“You could show some enthusiasm. I don’t have to cook, you know.”
“I’m thinking about Mom.”
He runs his lower teeth against his lip, dragging it sideways.
“Best place if you’re sick.”
He toasts bread on forks in front of the fire until the edges are singed black, and then he places the can of pork and beans on top to warm through.
“Not wasting pans when it’s just us, no point. I have to make the most of this writing time before your mother gets back and I have distractions again. Anyway, beans don’t need cooking, just need warming through, anyone’ll tell you that. Open the can and heat them up.”
“Mom cooks them.”
“Your mother isn’t here.”
The hail stops tapping.
“When does she get out, Dad?”
“Don’t know.”
“Can I visit her, just a quick visit?”
He half burns the next piece of toast. He grunts at it and takes it from the heat.
“They said no.”
He upends the hot can of beans and we eat, plates on our knees, by the heat of the fire. Dad says we don’t need drinks because the bean liquid is the same thing. It’s all liquid. He chooses to eat the burnt piece of toast.
“After school tomorrow the boat will be farther down the canal, I expect. Might even take her on the river for a change.”
Not this again. “How much farther?”
“You got legs, haven’t you? Walk and you’ll find it.”
“But how will Mom find us?”
He chews.
Swallows.
“She’ll not be out for a long while, mark my words. She won’t need to find us.”
My heart starts to cool. I stiffen. What if she breaks out or they let her go? We have no address, no phone. How will she ever find her way back to me?
“Do you ever miss the bungalow, Dad?”
“Your nanna chose it, was never us. Didn’t feel like my own home. All those bills, one after the other. No, I don’t miss your nanna’s bungalow. I’d rather be out here in nature, the wild, free, living on my own terms. We’re luckier than most.”
He finishes his toast and starts cleaning his nails with the short blade of his pocketknife.
“School again tomorrow?”
I look up at him. Brown slivers are falling from his fingernail.
“That’ll be good for you. Not stuck here with me all day. Out with your buddies getting up to no good. Classes and football practice. You’ll be glad to be back in that school.”
The fire in the woodburner flares with the wind.
I can’t catch my breath.