Specimen Days - Michael Cunningham 5 стр.

He said, I promise. What exactly was he meant for? He couldnt bring himself to ask.

Its hard, she said.

And you? Were you all right at work today?

I was. I sewed and sewed. It was a relief, really, to work.

Were you

She waited. What did he mean to ask her?

He asked, Were you careful?

She laughed. His face burned. Had it been a ridiculous question? She seemed always so available to harm, as if someone as kind as she, as sweet-smelling, could only be hurt, either now or later.

I was, she said. Do you worry about me?

Yes, he said. He hoped it was not a foolish assertion. He waited nervously to see if shed laugh again.

You mustnt, she said. You must think only of yourself. Promise me.

He said, Every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

Thank you, my dear, she answered, and she said no more.

He took her to her door, on Fifth Street. They stood together on the stoop that was specked with brightness.

You will go home now, she said, and have your supper.

May I ask you something? he said.

Ask me anything.

I wonder what it is Im making at the works.

Well, the works produces many things, I think.

What things?

Parts of larger things. Gears and bolts and other parts.

They told me I make housings.

There you are, then. Thats what you make.

I see, he said. He didnt see, but it seemed better to let the subject pass. It seemed better to be someone who knew what a housing was.

I see, he said. He didnt see, but it seemed better to let the subject pass. It seemed better to be someone who knew what a housing was.

Catherine looked at him tenderly. Would she kiss him again?

She said, I want to give you something.

He trembled. He kept his jaws clamped shut. He would not speak, not as the book or as himself.

She unfastened the collar of her dress and reached inside. She drew out the locket. She pulled its chain up over her head, held locket and chain in her palm.

She said, I want you to wear this.

I cant, he said.

It has a lock of your brothers hair inside.

I know. I know that.

Do you know, she said, that Simon wore its twin, with my picture inside?

Yes.

I was not allowed to see him, she said.

None of us was.

But the undertaker told me the locket was with him still. He said Simon wore it in his casket.

Simon had Catherine with him, then. He had something of Catherine in the box across the river. Did that make her an honorary member of the dead?

Catherine said, Ill feel better if you wear it when you go to the works.

Its yours, he said.

Call it ours. Yours and mine. Will you do it, to please me?

He couldnt protest, then. How could he refuse to do anything that would please her?

He said, If you like.

She put the chain over his head. The locket hung on his chest, a little golden orb. She had worn it next to her skin.

Good night, she said. Have your supper and go straight to bed.

Goodnight.

She kissed him then, not on his lips but on his cheek. She turned away, put her key in the lock. He felt the kiss still on his skin after shed withdrawn.

Good night, he said. Good night, good night.

Go, she commanded him. Do what you must for your mother and father, and rest.

He said, I ascend from the moon I ascend from the night.

She glanced at him from her doorway. She had been someone who laughed easily, who was always the first to dance. She looked at him now with such sorrow. Had he disappointed her? Had he deepened her sadness? He stood helplessly, pinned by her gaze. She turned and went inside.

At home, he fixed what supper he could for himself and his father. There were bits, still, from what had been brought for after the burial. A scrap of fatty ham, a jelly, the last of the bread. He laid it before his father, who blinked, said, Thank you, and ate. Between mouthfuls, he breathed from the machine.

Lucass mother was still in bed. How would they manage about food if she didnt rise soon?

As his father ate and breathed, Lucas went to his parents bedroom. Softly, uncertainly, he pushed open the door. The bedroom was dark, full of its varnish and wool. Over the bed the crucifix hung, black in the sable air.

He said, Mother?

He heard the bedclothes stirring. He heard the whisper of her breath.

She said, Whos there?

Its only me, he answered. Only Lucas.

Lucas. Mlove.

His heart shivered. It seemed for a moment that he could abide with his mother in the sweet, warm darkness. He could stay here with her and tell her the book.

Did I wake you? he asked. Im ever awake. Come.

He sat on the edge of the mattress. He could see the sprawl of her hair on the pillow. He could see her nose and chin, the dark places where her eyes were. He touched her face. It was hot and powdery, dry as chalk.

Are you thirsty, are you hungry? he asked. Can I bring you something?

She said, Whats happened to ye? How have they darkened ye so?

Ive been to work, Mother. Its only dust.

Wheres Lucas, then?

Im here, Mother.

Of course you are. Im not quite right, am I?

Let me bring you some water.

The hens need looking after. Have ye seen to the hens?

The hens, Mother?

Yes, child. Its gone late, hasnt it? I think its very late indeed.

We havent any hens.

We havent?

No.

Forgive me. We did have hens.

Dont worry, Mother.

Oh, its fine to say dont worry, with the hens gone and the potatoes, too.

Lucas stroked her hair. He said, Divine am I inside and out, and I make holy whatever I touch or am touchd from.

Thats right, mdear.

Lucas sat quietly with her, stroking her hair. She had been nervous and quick, prone to argument, easily angered and slow to laugh. (Only Simon could make her laugh.) Shed been vanishing gradually for a year or longer, always more eager to be done with her work and off to bed, but still herself, still dutiful and fitfully affectionate, still alert to slights and hidden insults. Now that Simon was dead shed turned into this, a face on a pillow, asking after hens.

He said, Should I bring you the music box?

Thatd be nice.

He went to the parlor and returned with the box. He held it up for her to see.

Ah, yes, she said. Did she know that the box had ruined them? She never spoke of it. She seemed to love the music box as dearly as she would have if it had caused no damage at all.

Lucas turned the crank. Within the confines of the box, the brass spool revolved under the tiny hammers. It played Forget Not the Field in its little way, bright metallic notes that spangled in the close air of the bedroom. Lucas sang along with the tune.

His mother put a hand over his. Thats enough, she said.

Its only the first verse.

Its enough, Lucas. Take it away.

He did as she asked. He returned the music box to its place on the parlor table, where it continued playing Forget Not the Field. Once wound, it would not stop except by its own accord.

His father had moved from his place at the table to his chair by the window. He nodded gravely, as if agreeing with something the music said.

Do you like the music? Lucas asked him.

Cant be stopped, his father said in his new voice, which was all but indistinguishable from his breathing, as if his machines bellows were whispering language as they blew.

Itll stop soon.

Thats good.

Lucas said, Good night, Father, because he could not think of anything else to say.

His father nodded. Could he get himself to bed? Lucas thought he could. He hoped so.

He went to his own room, his and Simons. Emilys window was lit. She was faithfully eating her candy, just as Lucas faithfully read his book.

He undressed. He did not remove the locket. If he removed the locket, if he ever removed the locket, it would no longer be something Catherine had put on him. It would become something he put upon himself.

Carefully, he found the lockets catch and opened it. Here was the black curl of Simons hair, tied with a piece of purple thread. Here, under the curl, was Simons face, obscured by the hair. Lucas knew the picture: Simon two years ago, frowning for the photographer, his eyes narrow and his jaw set. Simons face in the locket was pale brown, like turned cream. His eyes (one was partially visible through the strands of hair) were black. It was like seeing Simon in his casket, which no one had been allowed to do. What the machine had done had rendered him too extraordinary. Now, in the quiet of the room, the Simon who was with them still met the Simon who was in the locket, and here he was, doubled; here was the smell and heft of him; here his habit, on the drinking nights, of slapping Lucas playfully. Lucas closed the locket. It made a small metallic snap.

He got into bed, on his own side. He read the evenings passage.

When he had finished it he put out the lamp. He could feel Simon in the locket and Simon in the box in the earth, so changed that the lid had been nailed shut. Lucas determined never to open the locket again. He would wear it always but keep it forever sealed.

He slept, and woke again. He rose to dress for work and get breakfast for his father, feeling the lockets unfamiliar weight on his neck, the circle of it bouncing gently on his breastbone. Here was the memento of Simons ongoing death for him to wear close to his heart, because Catherine had put it on him.

He gave his father the last of the jelly for breakfast. There was no food after that.

As his father ate, Lucas paused beside the door to his parents bedroom. He heard no sound from within. What would happen if his mother never came out again? He got the music box from the table and crept into the room with it, as quietly as he could. His mother was a shape, snoring softly. He set the music box on the table at her bedside. She might want to listen to it when she awoke. If she didnt want to listen to it, shed still know Lucas had thought of her by putting it there.