“I’m not hungry, Daddy.”
“Eat.”
Frances skims her porridge. It’s still hot underneath but the surface has congealed to a thin skin and a few viscous strands cling to the end of her spoon.
“Don’t play with your food.”
“It’s cold.”
Daddy gestures to Mercedes, who adds another steaming spoonful to Frances’s bowl. Frances grimaces.
“Men in the trenches would have given an arm for what you’re turning your nose up at.”
Frances pictures the severed arm. She sees an apple-cheeked young Tommy; he smilingly detaches one of his arms, sleeve and all, and says in a fetching cockney accent, “No ’arm done mate, can Oy ’ave yo’ gruel now?” Don’t laugh. Just stare down into the glistening grey muck. There are dead men under there.
“I said eat.”
Frances places her spoon in her mouth. Snot.
“Swallow it.”
Who will save Frances? Lily is eating every bite of her own porridge, little brat. Is there any way to sneak some into her bowl? Will Mercedes intervene discreetly? Frances racks her brains for a diversion. She knows her throat will not open again. It will gag and she’ll spew and Daddy will —
“Answer your sister.”
“What?”
Mercedes quietly repeats, “Are you all right, Frances?”
“Yes thanks, it’s really good, Mercedes.”
Who will save Frances?
“That godforsaken cat is in your garden again, Mercedes.”
“That’s okay, Daddy.”
“It’s digging.” He sets down his spoon, “We shouldn’t eat a thing from that garden with that animal around.”
“Trixie never relieves herself there, Daddy.”
Everyone turns and sees Trixie out the window, her tail bobbing around the rock. James tolerates Frances’s cat because Lily is attached to the thing. But he is running out of patience, already composing a kind lie about how Trixie had a long and happy life but cats sometimes just run away. He gets up from the table.
Frances watches him head for the back door — oh thank God, thank Jesus, Mary, Joseph and all the saints, I will never sin again — she waits till he’s halfway across the yard, then jumps up and empties her bowl into the garbage by the stove. Mercedes doesn’t comment, but Lily looks suddenly worried.
“Relax Lily, he’ll never know,” says Frances.
But Lily isn’t worried about the porridge. She’s been watching Daddy bending over the rock in the garden.
He comes back into the kitchen, but does not sit down. He stands at the head of the table with his arms folded and asks quietly, “Who moved the rock?”
Frances feels sick. She knows now that life was easy when there was just porridge. Lily turns bright red.
“I did, Daddy.” Nice try, Lily.
Daddy strokes her hair. Mercedes is at a loss — if she knew what Frances’s crime was, perhaps she could — “Perhaps I dislodged it while gardening, Daddy.” That was pretty lame.
“I did.” Frances speaks clearly.
“When?”
“Last night.”
Silence. How is it possible to feel so cold and yet to be sweating at the same time? How long have we been sitting here? What’s the big deal anyway?
Whack across the side of the head.
“I’ll tell you what the ‘big deal’ is” — oh no, Frances, you said it out loud, you thought you just thought it but you said it — “the big deal is, you had your sister out in the middle of the night and she could have caught her death of pneumonia.”
Frances: “So could I.”
“You have the gift of health. Your sister is delicate.”
“I’m fine Daddy,” says Lily, and sneezes.
Frances almost grins, but Mercedes looks down. She does not believe in accidents. James has not taken his eyes off Frances. “What in God’s name were you doing?”
Frances considers. And answers, “We planted something.”
“What?”
Lily saves Frances. “We planted a tree. For the family.”
Mercedes looks at Frances as the penny drops.
James asks Frances, “Under the rock?”
“It’s a really strong tree.” Thank you Lily.
James looks at Frances. He should pave over the garden plot and park the car on it. But that wouldn’t seem right. He should dig up what’s there and put it elsewhere. But he can’t. And perhaps, after last night, it is no longer there. He looks at Frances. Surely she was too young to remember. But if she does…. What kind of person takes her baby sister out at night to exhume infant remains?
Frances meets James’s eyes and says, “I told Lily that if we dug in the garden we might find treasure. But we didn’t find anything.”
James resumes his seat. He rests his eyes on the tea-leaves at the bottom of his cup. Mercedes pours him some hot. He sips. Frances can’t believe her luck. Mercedes says a prayer of thanks and apologizes to God for being ungrateful about her family. James says to Frances, “Eat.”
“I’ve already finished, Daddy, look.”
“So you have.”
No. She could not possibly remember.
Water Babies
From breakfast on through all the day
at home among my friends I stay,
But every night I go abroad
Afar into the Land of Nod.
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON, “THE LAND OF NOD”
A very young Frances is standing in the creek in the middle of the night staring out. At us. Or at someone behind us. She is holding a bundle in her skinny arms. You can sort of almost see it from the corner of your eye but you can’t see it at all when you look right at it. Like trying to look directly at a dim object in the dark. It’s annoying. What is it? And just when you thought this was a still picture in black and white, the water around Frances’s white nightgown lights up blue. The source of this light is a bright blue fish that’s flicking and swimming about her ankles. It’s beautiful. Lily wakes up screaming.
“Lily, Jesus Christ Almighty!” Frances is blanched and staring at Lily’s shell-shocked form, silent now, and ramrod-straight beside her in the bed.
The overhead bulb goes on — it’s James in a plaid panic. “What’s happened?”
Mercedes appears behind him, a new line hovering at her brow.
“It’s okay, she had a nightmare,” says Frances, petting Lily’s rigid back.
Lily turns and looks at James. He comes to her and picks her up. She wraps her arms and legs around him and lays her head upon his shoulder, eyes wide open. He rocks her gently from side to side, wondering a little at the recent rash of nightmares under his roof.
Lily says, “I dreamt I was a fish.”
Frances shivers. Mercedes smooths her temples.
“In the creek,” Lily continues. “And I couldn’t breathe.”
Mercedes heads down to the kitchen to make hot milk all around. Frances rolls over and rescues Lillian Gish from the icefloe. James leaves the room but returns a few minutes later, just ahead of Mercedes. He has Trixie. Trixie looks terrified but knows enough not to move a muscle when in this particular embrace. He puts Trixie down gently next to Lily, who buries her face in the astonished black fur. When Mercedes passes around the warm milk, James pours a little of his own into his hand and offers it to Trixie. Trixie gives him a look, then bends and laps it up.
“Do you feel better now, sweetie?” James asks.
“Yes,” answers Lily.
Trixie curls up between Frances and Lily; James tucks them in and turns out the light.