Three words spray-painted like splattered blood on the wall, the floor, the fridge.
He felt Ruth Rose’s hand on his arm. He slapped it away and turned on her, breathing hard, dizzy with rage.
Ruth Rose met his gaze, her mouth gaping.
“Thought you’d steal his car,” shouted Jim.
“What are you talking about?”
His arm flung out and pointed behind him to the kitchen. His eyes blazed with betrayal. “Hid in the barn,” he shouted. “Waited him out.”
Her eyes retreated into angry slits. “You think I did this?”
He didn’t speak. His face said it all.
Neither of them moved. Then Ruth Rose stepped into the room and looked around at the ugly lettering, the ugly revelation scrawled everywhere, the empty spray tins, the derangement of what had once been a spotless country kitchen, and she laughed. It was the laughter of a mad person.
“Shut up!” yelled Jim, his face burning, his neck muscles standing out like cables. “Shut up!” he screamed, his voice shattering into a thousand pieces.
“You don’t get it, do you,” she spat at him.
“Oh, I get it, all right!”
“No, you don’t. You can’t. He’s brilliant, Jim.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
She stared at him, shaking her head. Then she scanned the room, looking for something. She marched through the kitchen and into the parlour, barely limping now. Behind the couch, where they had hidden the night before, she found her sneakers and her jacket. She kicked off Billy Bones’ boots. The knife tumbled out of its paper wrapping. She tore off her makeshift bandage, pulled on her shoes, her jacket, and then marched back through the kitchen.
Jim grabbed her as she passed; she shook him off.
“You’re staying,” he growled, his voice gravel.
“Oh, sure!” she said spitefully, thwacking his hand away. She looked around. “Hey, Jim, you’ve gotta admit. This is a great idea.”
“You’re a lunatic!” he shouted. He grabbed at her again, cuffed her, and she cuffed him back.
“Come on, Jimbo!” she spat. “It’s just perfect.” She pounded him on the chest with both fists. “Perfect, perfect, perfect!”
He wanted to kill her, but, even wounded, she was way too strong for him. She flung him to the floor. Then she fled. He clambered to his feet, took off after her, but as he stepped through the doorway, a rotten apple smashed on the wall beside him.
“Thanks for nothing, idiot!” she bellowed from the garden. She hurled another apple, which didn’t make it as far as the porch. Then she took off through the orchard. She wasn’t limping anymore.
19
Jim didn’t move. He stood in the centre of the kitchen until the room stopped spinning. The anger in him subsided, but it did not go away. It dispersed into every limb, every cell, every part of him now.
Looking down, he saw that he was standing on his father’s name. Huge sobs burst from him. The tears coursed down his face and he made no attempt to wipe them away.
He took a deep breath and headed towards the counter, walking like a zombie. In the cupboard under the sink he found some scouring pads. He found a bucket and filled it. On his knees, he started scrubbing away at FATHER, at KILLED, at HUB. But the paint, as viscous as drying blood, only smeared horribly. He sobbed and scrubbed and the tears fell again, but not enough tears to wipe away the mess Ruth Rose had left behind.
He was still on his knees when his mother arrived home. She dropped what she was carrying. In a flash, she was on the floor beside him, cradling him in her arms as if he were a small child. She smelled of soap. She had spent the night stirring it or cutting it into bars or whatever it was she did. But for once the heavy perfume wafting off her skin and clothes didn’t make him sick. Her own tears joined his. She looked around at the mayhem, the gory graffiti and leaned on him for support as much as he leaned on her.
Finally he pulled away, rubbed his eyes on his sleeve, sniffed and crawled to his feet. His mother picked up a chair and set it at the table. She led him there, then found the kettle — it had been hurled into the wood box. She filled it at the sink. Sniffing, she put the kettle on the stove, turned it on, found the teapot — mercifully unbroken — and went about making tea.
The comforting sounds helped to bring Jim around.
“I’m so sorry,” he said.
“It isn’t your fault.”
“It is so! I brought her here.”
“You took her in,” said his mother. “That was the right thing to do.”
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “It was stupid, stupid, stupid. I hate her. Hate her.”
He heard the intake of breath, but the rebuke didn’t come. She brought him tea with extra sugar, instead. They sat for a long time, letting the drink calm them down.
When his mother spoke again, there was only hurt in her voice.
“Why would she do this?”
Jim shook his head pathetically. “I don’t know. I just don’t get it.”
After another moment she went to use the phone. It was dead. The line had been torn from the wall. She glanced at the blackboard. Nancy Fisher’s phone number in Tweed had been erased.
Iris sighed. “Where is she now?”
“She’s gone,” said Jim.
“You only did what you thought was right. I should have known better.”
Jim sat up. He suddenly realized that his mother knew nothing of what had happened during the night.
“It was because he came back. Father, I mean.”
Iris looked startled. “Last night?”
Jim nodded. “Around three. He knew she was here. When he talked to you, he knew it. Mom, he came inside. I locked the door, like always. He just got the key from the porch and walked in.”
Iris looked aghast. “Did he hurt her?”
“He didn’t get a chance,” said Jim. “We split.”
Iris looked around at the devastation. “Where were you when this happened?”
Jim’s face fell. “We got separated,” he said. “We climbed out a window and took off. I went to Billy’s place. I didn’t see her for…I don’t know…hours, I guess.” He shook his head, trying to kick-start his brain. He looked up again, looked around him, his eyes opened wide. “I can’t believe it.”
His mother sat back in her chair, her arms hanging limply by her side. “Jim,” she said, “Ruth Rose is a sick girl.”
He nodded and hated himself for agreeing with her. But what could he do? She was sick. Twisted. Deranged.
Hey, Jim, you gotta admit. This is a great idea.
“She was right about one thing,” he said. “I’m an idiot.”
“Jim, stop blaming yourself. Bringing her home was the Christian thing to do.”
“What does that mean anymore?” he said. “Was it Christian of Father Fisher to come here at three in the morning and scare us to death? Was it Christian of him to drive me out of my own house? Ruth Rose is crazy — okay, I know that now for sure. But I know what made her that way. Him. He’s just as crazy and I hate him,” he said. “I hate them both.”
With what patience she could muster, his mother spoke. “You know you are not to use that word in this house.”
“Why not!” said Jim darkly. “I’m supposed to tell the truth, aren’t I?”
“Jim Hawkins, please.”
But Jim couldn’t stop. “Right, I forgot. Because Dad hated someone and regretted it, I’m not allowed to hate anyone. Great. That’s really fair.”
His mother’s face went ashen, then grew stern. “Did she tell you that?”
“No,” he said. “But it’s true, isn’t it? Dad hated Wilfred Fisher. Well, I hate his son. Maybe it’s hereditary.”