When the Bough Breaks Read online

  “Talk things out, Millie” is what Mother would say and that's what I'll do. I'll begin with Hamish this very minute.

  I creep downstairs and take an apple from the bowl to bring to him – he must be starved. I open the door to his room as quietly as I can, so as not to wake Father. Hamish is asleep, curled up on his side, his face dirty and streaked with tears, and he's still wearing his overalls. Father never did get round to cutting my brother's hair on that awful day.

  Suppose I were to let him keep all his paper-route money this week, instead of putting his share into the “boot fund”? Suggest he go to the barber for a big boy's haircut? Not as a bribe, but to make him feel more grown-up.

  I need him to know that he's not being pushed out. I remember Mother explaining all that to me, on the morning before she died. It's hard for us to find our place in this different kind of family. Hamish says he hates me and Eddie, and I hate being forced to be this different person. How can I be expected to turn into a mother and a housekeeper overnight? I'm not ready; I won't even be thirteen till fall.

  If only Mother had not said that I'm the strong one. I'm not strong at all. If only everything could be the way it was before. But that's not going to happen. Nothing will ever be the same again, but, somehow, I have to find a way to get along with Hamish. We need to be friends, not enemies.

  Hamish stirs and opens his eyes. How unfair for a boy to have such long eyelashes and hair that deep shade of golden blond! He puts an arm across his face, and I push the apple into his hand.

  He sits up groggy with sleep, and bites into the fruit. “What did you wake me up for?” he asks.

  “I came to tell you what the doctor told me the day Mother died, Hamish, while you were taking care of the forge for Father. He said her heart was tired. It gave out, and it wasn't anyone's fault.” Hamish doesn't say anything and I wait a moment, choosing my words carefully. I ask him, “Hamish, will you tell me something special you remember about Mother – something I don't know?”

  He speaks with his mouth full of apple, and I listen intently. “She always said to me, ‘I don't know how anyone can get his clothes into such a state!’ But I always knew she wasn't really mad at me, like when she read my report card, and said, ‘Whatever am I going to do with a boy who won't listen to his teachers and talks in class? I know you can do better.’ When I asked her why I should, when all I want to do is work with horses like Pa, she hugged me tight and said, ‘Because l love you, and expect you to do better.’ And once she told me, ‘I swear you are the fastest and smartest paperboy this town has ever seen.’ And she always saved a bit of the pie dough for me, because I like to eat it raw.”

  “Thanks for telling me, Hamish. Those are things I've never heard before, and I think you are pretty smart too. I'll try to remember about the dough.”

  Hamish mutters, “I'm sorry for what I said. I don't really hate you – it's because you aren't her. Ma knew all about me. You're awful bossy, you know.”

  “Well, I have to be, I'm the oldest.”

  “Then I'll get to boss Eddie,” Hamish says, with a grin. My brother always has an answer for everything.

  “Eddie will never remember Mother the way we do. You and Father and I are all the family that little baby has. We must love him, to make up for not having a mother.” I manage not to cry. “You are his big brother. I want you to look out for him. I wish I had a sister to look out for me.” I smile at the grimace on his face at the very mention of another girl.

  After a minute, he says, “Eddie can move into my room, if you want. I don't mind reading to him. He's pretty good most of the time.”

  “Thanks, Hamish, I'll get Father to move his crib in next week. A boy shouldn't have to share with his sister. You will take care of him, won't you? Don't let anyone hurt him. You remember that woman who came to the door? She's been here before. Her name is Elsie Bates and I don't trust her. If you see her again, let me know.”

  “I never meant what I said at supper. I'd never tell the Gypsies to take my brother.” The apple has disappeared. He lies down again. I'm tempted to ask him to take off his dirty clothes, but decide not to.

  “If you could choose anything you like for breakfast tomorrow, instead of my ‘lumpy’ oatmeal, what would it be?”

  “A boiled egg and bread cut in fingers, a whole egg just for me – a Sunday egg.”

  I tell him he's got a deal, if he collects the eggs for me before he goes on his route.

  Hamish smiles. His eyes are closing. “Thanks for the apple, Millie.”

  “Good night, Hamish. And mind what I told you: never let any strangers into the house.”

  “I won't, and I won't let Farmer Price take Eddie or me home with him.” Hamish is asleep before I have even left the room. What is he talking about? What would the Prices want with either of them? They have three grown children of their own.

  I lie in bed and look out at the almost-full moon shining through the window – a thunder moon. The heat has not let up for days, so we are due for a storm. A gentle breeze fans my hot cheeks. My room smells of lavender. I can hear Mother's voice, from a long way off– “I knew you'd hold them together.”

  I have managed to patch things up with Hamish today but how do I manage every other day in all the weeks and months and years ahead? I can't think about it anymore tonight. I close my eyes and drift off to sleep….

  “SHE WANTS THE BABY”

  It is Saturday, and Father is keeping his promise to close the forge. He and Hamish will spend a whole day out, fishing. It is Father's birthday present to Hamish, who, yesterday, August 16, turned ten years old. This is an important birthday for him, reaching the double digits. I did my best to make the day as festive and special as Mother would have done.

  The night before the big day, I baked Hamish's favorite chocolate cake. I was up very early next morning, before the kitchen got too hot, to decorate the cake with chocolate frosting. It turned out pretty well … not runny, as I was afraid it would be.

  My own gift to Hamish was two twists of barley sugar. After breakfast, Hamish went swimming with the neighborhood boys, and I said he could bring two of them back for cake and lemonade in the afternoon, after I had finished work at the drugstore. Somehow, I managed to save a slice of cake for Grace.

  Hamish finishes delivering his papers in record time. I've made bacon sandwiches for his and Father's expedition, and filled a big bottle with tea. I do not take my eyes off the oatmeal, so as not to be accused of making lumpy porridge. It's only Hamish who still complains. Father doesn't tease me anymore, just looks at me in that concerned way. I wish he'd joke, the way he used to.

  I hope they bring home lots of fish. I'm running out of ideas for supper and I need something easy to cook because I'm working at the drugstore all morning.

  This is supposed to be ideal weather for fishing, and the tourists have arrived in town. Mainly, they sit patiently by the river under the bridges, or by the lake, and complain of mosquito bites. Mr. Mercer says onion juice takes away the itch. Last summer Father made screens to cover our windows and doors, but those pesky creatures still find ways to get in and torment me.

  As soon as Father and Hamish leave, I run out to water the lettuce. Mother always insisted that if you water it first thing in the morning, it helps keep the slugs away. She used to save the eggshells for me and Hamish to crush and put round the vegetables. That worked just fine, but now I often forget to save the shells. I have too many things to remember; sometimes I think my brain will burst.

  Eddie takes up a lot of time. The health nurse says I have to boil every drop of water for him and sterilize his bottles for a few more weeks, until the worst of the heat goes.

  My hens, normally excellent layers, have not been producing well these past few weeks. Everything is out of sorts without Mother around. I wonder if the hens are jealous … I don't talk to them as much and maybe this is their way of complaining.

  After I sold a dozen eggs to Mrs. Morgan, Sadie's mother, and u
sed two for the birthday cake, we have only three left. But that's plenty to make an omelette with vegetables and the remains of the bacon, which I get cheap from the butcher's at closing time.

  Mrs. Morgan paid me fifteen cents and asked, “Is that alright, dear?” And I didn't like to say I can get more for them, as much as twenty cents sometimes, if I sell them at the market. Sadie's a good friend, and with her father having to work out of town, she and her mother have their hands full. Sadie says she's always terrified she'll scorch the silk blouses her mother asks her to iron, and she dreads meeting Denise and Francine while making deliveries, because she's often had to put up with their sly comments about the contents of the packages she's carrying.

  People say youth is the best time of our lives. I guess they forget what it's really like to be young, or maybe they didn't have our problems….

  Hamish and Eddie have settled down nicely together in the last week or two. Mercifully Eddie mostly sleeps through the night now. After all, he's six weeks old! Not that anything disturbs Hamish once he's asleep, though he complains he can hear me come in the night to give Eddie his bottle.

  He's invented a game to make Eddie laugh: he holds up the comic section of the paper, so that his face is hidden, and then lowers it again and says boo. Yesterday Eddie laughed till he got hiccups. Hamish has never had such an appreciative audience.

  I do wish Father would take some notice of the baby. All he ever does is ask, “Was everything alright today Millie?” He barely glances at Eddie. If only he'd pick him up … talk to him a bit … hold him once in a while. The baby looks so much like Mother – he has her smile and the hint of a dimple in his cheek.

  I'm waiting for the right moment to speak to Father about finding someone to look after Eddie when school starts. I don't know where the money will come from, but the truant officer is not going to let me stay home, that's for sure. I'll wait a few more days, and then we'll have to get it settled. I can't very well bring an infant to class!

  I don't know why I keep putting off this talk when it's so important. I have a hunch that Father doesn't want to hear anything about Eddie that might be a problem. So I try to keep Eddie out of Father's way when the baby is fretful. I've avoided the subject of school, but I can't do that forever. Eddie is a sweet little baby so much of the time, I wish Father could just see him then.

  I'm due at the drugstore in less than an hour. I am forever in a hurry these days, and never catch up with my chores. I have not had a spare minute to read a book since Mother died. I run upstairs to get Eddie, so I can leave him with Grace. Luckily she lives close by, on Peel Street, right on my way to work.

  There's not a sound from the boys' room. Surely Eddie can't still be sleeping? It's half past seven. He doesn't stir as I come in, but when I stand beside his crib, I see that he's wide-awake, staring at the window, his arm reaching out as though to catch a shaft of sunlight. When I speak to him, he turns his head and sighs, which makes me smile because anyone would think I have interrupted an important conversation. There is the smell of lavender from the shrubs Mother planted below the window, and it is surprising how strong the scent is up here. How Mother loved lavender – she used it everywhere.

  I change and dress the baby, give him his breakfast (I just started him on a bit of oatmeal and half a teaspoon of applesauce once a day), lock up, and hide the key under the middle flowerpot outside the back door.

  Grace is waiting for me on her front porch. She's always pleased to see us. “What a lovely big piece of cake, Millie. I'll share it with the twins, before we go to the bakery. That way they won't be begging for cookies … not that they'd ever get some. Don't you remember, when we were small, how shopkeepers were always handing out apples or candy? I guess times are too difficult now, though how the baker can resist the twins' pleading looks is more than I'll ever understand.”

  “Me, too. I'm sorry, Grace, I mustn't stop to chat now, or I'll be late. Thanks again, I'll see you both at noon.” I rush down the street. I like being at the drugstore a few minutes early and, of course, I'm trying to show Mr. Mercer that he hasn't made a mistake taking me back. I'm sure that if I don't measure up, Denise will be stepping into my shoes in the blink of an eye.

  Saturday mornings are the busiest time of the week. Just about everyone in town looks in. I sweep the sidewalk outside the entrance and dust the window displays, careful not to alter anything. Mr. Mercer would notice that immediately, sigh, and tell me to put things back exactly as I found them. I sweep inside the store, rub the wooden counter with beeswax, and turn the closed sign to open after Mr. Mercer checks the big ornate clock in the store with the fob watch he wears on his waistcoat. I watch him for the nod he gives that we are open for business.

  Today, Denise and Francine are the first customers. They look at hairpins and toilet water. Francine confides to Mr. Horace that she has ten cents to buy her mother a birthday gift. Denise pointedly ignores me, until Mr. Mercer smiles cordially at her and says good morning.

  Denise says, “Oh, thank you, Mr. Horace, you have been so helpful. Would you mind very much if we ask Mr. Mercer for his advice?” She finally condescends to acknowledge me, speaking in that syrupy voice of hers, “Why, Millie, I didn't notice you. Have you only just come in?”

  I smile as sweetly as she does, and reply in the same tone, “Why, Denise, I've been here for at least half an hour. You must excuse me, I have a great deal to do.”

  I retreat into the back room without giving her another glance. I'm glad to be out of the way … I cannot stand her phony ways. There are new boxes of supplies to be sorted and shelved, and Mr. Horace says that Mr. Mercer wants me to make a note of the items we're running low on, so he can reorder before he runs out.

  I overhear Francine and Denise thanking Mr. Mercer, saying they'll come in later, when Francine finds out which hand soap her mother prefers – rosewater or honeysuckle. I don't believe she intends to buy anything. I bet Denise just used Francine as an excuse to remind Mr. Mercer that she is still available.

  Mr. Mercer is dispensing advice to customers. I learn a lot by listening to him; he always seems to know some remedy and as his advice is free, people often consult him before they go to the doctor. A little boy is brought in by his mother; he's been stung by a wasp. Mr. Mercer tells her to rub the arm with lemon juice or vinegar. I file the information away to use if my brothers ever get stung.

  After I've helped Mrs. Osbourne carry her purchases to her car, Mr. Mercer checks the time and says I may go. He pays me my fifty cents and, wonder of wonders, tells me I've earned it and to be sure to remember him to Father. Too bad Denise isn't around to hear him! Maybe, everything will turn out alright after all.

  Grace and the baby are sitting on the swing seat, waiting. She hands Eddie over to me to put in the buggy, saying, “He's been as good as gold – he even smiled at Mrs. Price when she came round to bring Mother some duck eggs. Mrs. Price asked to hold him, and you could tell right off how much she likes babies. I think she misses her son and daughter. I heard her tell Mother the house is too quiet.”

  I suddenly feel a bit uneasy. Is it jealousy? I give Grace her quarter and tell her she's a wonderful baby-sitter.

  Eddie falls asleep on the way home, so I wheel the buggy under the apple tree, where it's shady. I unlock the door and go inside to make a cheese sandwich, then bring it out to eat.

  I've a thousand things to do, but I'm so tired. After I've eaten, I stretch out on the grass and look up into the cool green canopy of leaves, dappled with flecks of sunshine. I could stay like this forever. The bright blue of the sky looks like paper cutouts in between the branches of the tree. The low, droning hum of the bees are all it takes to lull me to sleep.

  I don't know how long I must have dozed, there in the soft grass. I wake up to see Eddie reaching for his toes, crowing in delight. Someone is there, someone who is standing perfectly still, watching us. I scramble to my feet, rubbing my eyes, and hastily pick up my brother, holding him tightly against me
.

  The traveling woman has come back. Her familiar, unmistakable husky voice says, “I didn't mean to wake you.”

  “What are you doing here? What do you want?” I say, not caring if I sound rude.

  “The back door was open. I knocked, but no one answered,” the woman says. She comes a step closer and puts out her arms for Eddie. “May I hold him?” She brings her face close to his.

  Eddie begins to fuss – he obviously doesn't like her.

  “Eddie is not used to strangers holding him, so please leave him alone.”

  She does not stir. “Your mother was kind,” she says. “She offered me tea from a china cup, a chair at her table, a share of her food. She'd not mind me holding the baby, I'm sure.”

  I refuse to step back. I will not go on talking to this person with her dark darting eyes, her hands that are never still, twisting and gesturing. What can she possibly know about what my mother would, or would not, mind?

  “Please don't talk about my mother,” I say.

  She looks around at the garden, the house, the flowers, the hens scratching in their piece of yard. And always her eyes turn back to Eddie, as if she wants to memorize every feature … every hair on his head. “You have so much,” she says.

  Except the most important thing: we don't have a mother anymore. I can't help thinking that if this traveling woman had not come into our kitchen, Mother would still be with us. I don't want her here – she frightens me. I'm glad she can't read my thoughts, or can she?

  Elsie Bates says, “Once I had a home too, and a garden, hens, a milk cow. They're all gone now – we lost them one by one. First the grasshoppers stripped every living, growing thing, then the drought came, and we waited and hoped for crops that never grew again. We prayed for rain, but not a drop fell. Dust was all we saw and felt and tasted, but you can't eat or drink or sell dust.

  “I had a baby, a good quiet little baby … pretty, like this one here. But there was no food, no milk, and no money to buy medicine when he got sick. My sister wrote for us to come to her with the baby. But he died, blown away like the dust … everything blown away.”