“‘— heart.’”
“‘— heart.’”
Mercedes nods. “That is all. You may go, Anthony.”
The little boy watches as Mercedes turns to walk away with the matron, then he stops her with a question. “Are you the nice lady?”
Mercedes turns back, at a loss. The matron helps. “The nice lady who sent you here and makes sure you have clothes and food? Yes.”
Mercedes remains expressionless. Anthony says, “Thank you, Miss Piper.”
And scoots, tickled and shy, back to the chickens.
“Lovely farm,” says Mercedes to the matron.
“Come, I’ll show you the school section.”
Mercedes arranged for Anthony to be sent here before he was born. The first Nova Scotia Home for Coloured Children blew up along with half of Halifax in 1917, but they built another one out on the Preston Road. Mercedes did not expect Anthony to grow up as a charity child, even though this is a charity organization courtesy of the African United Baptist Association — some of the best women you’d ever want to meet on the Ladies’ Auxiliary. There are even music classes. Anthony is learning violin. Mercedes pays for him out of the Lourdes money, asking only that he be raised a Catholic. The Baptist ladies have been as good as their word, as Mercedes ascertained just now.
He is six years old. Mercedes can see there is no devil in him. He has his mother’s eyes.
Armistice Day
Of wicked and most cursèd things to speak I now commence.
Ye daughters and ye parents, all go, get you far from hence;
Or if ye minded be to hear my tale, believe me nought
In this behalf, nor think that such a thing was ever wrought.
James got a letter from “An Anonymous Well-Wisher”. He left that night. Three and a half days later, at 6:05 a.m. on November 11, 1918, he walked out of Grand Central Station. He walked all the way to where she was staying in Greenwich Village because he couldn’t get a cab. There were crowds.
He knocks but no one answers. The apartment door is unlocked, in fact slightly ajar when he arrives. He pushes it open and calls, but no one answers. He enters the little vestibule and listens. “Hello? … Anybody home?” He looks into the old-lady parlour, “Giles? … Kathleen?” Quiet as the grave. He sets down his small black case. Cocks his head to a sound. Giggling. Removes his hat and hangs it on the halltree. A shriek and muffled laughter from … across the parlour, down the hall — the smell of lavender — past the WC, treading softly. A closed door. He hovers. He places his ear to the panel of opaque glass.
It’s Kathleen making those sounds. Impossible to see through the wavy glass. Shadows. He closes a hand over the china knob — pink rosebuds in milk. Turns silently. Opens the width of a human eye. Sees.
Spray of red-gold hair upon the pillow. His daughter’s hands travelling over a black back, disappearing beneath the waistband of a pair of striped trousers moving between his daughter’s bare thighs, his daughter’s voice and not her voice, “Oh, oh-h, ohhh….”
A roar of blood behind his eyes and he’s in the room, yanks the bastard off her with one arm to belt him across the face with the other and fling him into the wall, his daughter leaps naked at his back because he is going to kill her lover with the flat of his foot but no, James would never kill a woman. Arms up to cover herself, bleeding mouth, sliding down the wall, Jesus. James tears the spread from the bed, descends upon the dazed girl, enveloping her as though she were in flames, slings her from the room, down the hall, out into the corridor where he flings her, a mummy-sack of bones. Then he locks the door and slides the safety chain into place.
In the bedroom his daughter is crying, pawing the floor for her clothes.
“Why, Kathleen?” He is not feeling angry.
She looks up, a blind choking mess. He puts a hand down to her, she takes it, legs shaking badly, onto her feet, clutching the floor-mat for cover.
“Why?” — the back of his hand — “Why?” — his speeding palm — “Why?” — closed fist.
Her head comes to rest facing forward, already puffing up. He looks at what he has done. He takes her in his arms. She is racked with shame, just wants some clothes, please —
“Shshsh,” he says, kissing her hair, her injured face. It’s his own fault — I should have never let her go far from home — an ecstasy beneath his hands, “It’s all right, my darling —”
“Don’t,” she says.
He can’t speak just now, he loves her too much — closer — oh so soft —
“Daddy —”
He will tell her after how much he loves her
— her palms against his shoulders, fighting to stay on her feet — Ohh my darling
— falling, fists against his back, enmeshed between his weight, the mushy bed, struggling only shakes the web, the sheet and all its threads conspire, she can no longer find her feet —
The iron taste of her mouth where he’s made it bleed, dreadful sorry, I’ll take you home again — “Be still,” he pleads.
“Stop it.”
I’ll never let anyone hurt you again
“No!”
never let anyone touch you
“NO!”
No one No one No. One. Will ever ever
She has stopped screaming.
Hurt you Ever
she is lying perfectly still now
Again!
He shudders. “Shshshsh. It’s all right now. Hush, my darling. It’s all right.”
James unhooks the safety chain and lets Giles in. “Hello, Giles.”
“Who …? Excuse me —”
“I’m sorry, it’s James.”
“James!”
He takes her net bag of groceries and helps her off with her coat.
“James, why I haven’t seen you since —” A little flustered. “Was I —? Am I forgetting?”
“No, no, I’m here unannounced — thought I’d look in, see how the world-famous singer’s making out.” He smiles and blinks twice in quick succession.
“Does Kathleen know you’re here?” Suddenly alarmed lest —
“Yes, oh yes, we’ve already had a visit,” says James.
Giles starts down the hall, “Kathleen, dear —”
James stops her. “She’s having a bit of a nap — not feeling too spry.”
“Oh.” Giles hesitates. “Oh dear. Was — did you meet Rose?”
“Yes, oh yes.”
Giles strip-searches his face. Then says, “I’ll just look in on the girl.”
“She’s sleeping, really, look, I’ve made myself useful.” There’s a pot of tea and two cups set out in the tiny dining-room.
“Oh. Well. That’s lovely, James, thank you….”
On their way to the table, Giles chats politely, “You know I just popped out to the corner to get some — where did I put my —?”
James holds up the net bag, “Right here.”
“Oh good, thank you, James, yes I just popped out for a jiffy but I was delayed, you know, caught up in the celebration, swept quite out of my way.”
“Oh?”
“Oh yes. Haven’t you heard?”
James gives her a sociably blank look, pours tea, his hand shaking only slightly. Giles breaks into a big papery smile. “Oh James, the war is over. This morning at eleven o’clock. Oh wait till I tell Kathleen it’s over. It’s all over.”
Rose fought her way through the victory crowds and holed up in Central Park till dark, ticker tape in her hair, confetti drying on her bloody face.