It was after ten o’clock when we finally sat down to dinner that evening. We had parted with the mother and daughter when we changed trains to catch the express into Central Station. From there, we took the bus home, saying barely a word the whole way. The trains and buses were crowded and hardly seemed like the right place for a talk, and we were elated but exhausted from our good fortune at the checkpoint. Even the old man, who was always a tower of strength in a tight situation, seemed almost too tired to sit up.
After we reached the house, we sat, dazed, on the living room sofa for a time, our bags left where we dropped them. We lacked the energy to open them and investigate the contents.
Dinner was little more than a plate of crackers, pickles, and a few slices of an apple that we’d received as thanks from the mother and daughter on the train.
“I’m sorry there’s nothing warm to eat,” I said.
“No, this is perfect,” the old man answered, reaching toward the pickles with his fork. I washed down a dry cracker with a glass of water and stared at the plate without really seeing it. The old man tried several times to skewer a pickle without success, his fork stabbing at the empty air, and just when I thought he had one, he’d miss and hit the plate or the tablecloth instead. Then he tried adjusting his grip on the fork, but that was no better. Finally, he cocked his head and stared at his target with a worried frown, as if trying to swat a nasty insect.
“What’s the matter?” I asked, but he didn’t seem to hear me. “What’s wrong?” I asked again, but he just continued his futile efforts. I could see that his mouth had gone slack and his lips were turning blue. “That’s enough,” I told him. “I’ll get one for you.” I took the fork from his hand, stuck it into a pickle, and lifted it to his mouth.
“Ah, ah, thank you…,” he murmured, as though regaining consciousness.
“Are you feeling ill? Are you dizzy? Numb anywhere?”
I moved closer and rubbed his shoulder, just as he had always done to comfort me.
“No, not at all. I’m just a little tired,” he said, munching on his pickle.
Chapter 24
Two weeks had passed and the old man had finally recovered from the exhaustion of the trip to the cabin and the fright we’d had at the checkpoint. He was his energetic self once again, finishing all the housework while I was away at the office and even going out to help the neighbors shovel snow. His strength and appetite and spirits had all returned to normal.
We decided that we would not tell R what had happened at the station. It would have upset him terribly, and there was nothing he could have done about it, even if he had known. No matter what disappeared next, no matter how close the Memory Police came to finding us, he could do nothing but remain in the secret room.
But he was very anxious to see what was inside the statues we had brought back from the cabin. He urged us to hurry, as though he were waiting to meet old friends he had not heard from in decades. For the old man and me, however, the job of breaking open the statues and revealing their contents was far less exciting—not to mention the fact that we were not sure how best to go about it. We knew beforehand that no matter how precious the discoveries we were making, our hearts would remain frozen in the face of them, and it was terribly sad to see R’s futile attempts to thaw us, to move us with these objects. For us, the more pressing concerns were whether we would be able to find something for the three of us to have for dinner or when the Memory Police would make their next visit.
Still, since we could not leave the backpacks and suitcase sitting out forever, we decided to set to work on the statues on the following Sunday. First, we carried them to the basement, lined them up on the worktable, and tapped each one with a hammer. The trick was knowing how hard to hit them. For some, a light tap was enough to break the statue neatly in two, but for most of them it was not nearly so simple. We were afraid that striking too hard would destroy the contents along with the statue, and we also worried about making too much noise. Not many people took the path that ran between the house and the river, but there was nothing to prevent the Memory Police from passing through on patrol and hearing suspicious noises.
We took turns with the hammer, one of us trying various angles and degrees of force, while the other kept watch out the door that led to the laundry platform. If anyone passed by, a quick signal halted the work for a moment.
In the end, we found that each statue concealed a single object, different from the others. One was so tiny we almost failed to notice it, another was wrapped in oiled paper, a third had a complicated shape. There was a black one, a sharp one, a fuzzy one, a thin one, a sparkly one, a soft one…
The old man and I were completely disoriented. If we held them too tightly, would they break? Should we pick them up with tweezers or some other tool? Would we leave fingerprints? We had no idea. We could do nothing more than stare at each object in silence.
“It’s hard to believe they’ve been hidden away for fifteen years. They seem so new and untouched,” said the old man.
“You’re right,” I agreed.
There were more objects than could have been held in the drawers of the chest under the stairs. My mother must have had other secret hiding places. As I continued to study them, I began to be able to distinguish the objects I’d seen long ago in the basement and dimly recall some of the stories my mother had told me. But that was the extent of it. The swamp of my memory was shallow and still.
When we brought the objects up to R arrayed on a tray, he greeted us from the bottom of the ladder, a grin on his face.
“We were worried they’d break if we put them in a bag, so we brought them like this,” I told him.
“You didn’t need to be that careful,” he said, running his eyes over the assortment.
The hidden room was too small to set out everything in one place, so we put some on the shelves and others down on the floor. Being careful not to tread on them, the three of us made our way to the bed and sat down.
“I feel as though I’m dreaming,” R said. “I never thought there would be so many of them… Oh! This brings back memories! I had one just like it, but when the disappearance came my father burned it. And this! It’s worth a fortune. We should take good care of it—though I suppose we’re not likely to find any buyers even if we did want to sell… But look, just touch this one. Don’t be afraid. It feels wonderful.”
All this came out in a rush, and then he continued more slowly. “Your mother hid everything away with such care! We should be grateful to her.” He picked up one object after another and told us what it was used for, or the memories he associated with it. The old man and I could only listen, barely able to get a word in.
“I’m glad they please you so much,” I said when at last he had finished his explanations and paused to take a deep breath.