She knew that something was wrong with him and that nothing could be done. Seeing the rapt expression he turned towards her, she knew they were closer than brother and sister. They were as close as husband and wife. They were parent and child. And taking care of him, she knew they would be bound forever.
When the war came they ran, carried along with the crowd, hiding from soldiers who would execute her idiot brother. In the DP camp the officials saw only Dobilas’ sturdy body and strong capable hands. No one expected him to speak. No one could tell he was slow. And they were booked for passage to Canada.
They sought out a distant relation who had left before they were born. Finding him in a rooming house in Hamilton, they saw an old drunk, his undershirt sagging, his brown pants stained, his face covered with grey stubble, the stink of alcohol on his breath. Don’t ask me for money, he said sweeping his arm over a room filled with nothing. And offering them Peak Freans from an open packet, he sent them on their way.
They walked from house to house looking for a room, their faces falling at the muttered word, foreign. Holding her brother’s hand she glanced at his flat round face and bowlcut blonde hair. Their parents were gone. How lucky they were to have one another. And glimpsing once again her parents’ love, she understood how it might be harder to live than to die.
Maryte knew they were luckier still when they found Mrs. Moynahan. Hand on one hefty hip, the Irish woman’s look was quick and understanding. Come on in, she had said opening the door wide. And reaching for their suitcase, she had taken them in.
They would sit on the front porch in summer, the three of them, Maryte, Dobilas and Mrs. Moynahan. Bringing out a cool pitcher of lemonade, Mrs. Moynahan would settle in to listen to their stories of escape. No! she would exclaim bringing a hand to her mouth. You don’t say. And befriended by this benevolent woman who had kicked out her no-good drunk of a husband, Maryte knew just how lucky they were.
Sometimes she would remember the pull of her mother’s hand drawing her close, the stiff brush of her father’s moustache as he leaned into them. Whispering that soon she might have a little brother, their eyes rested upon one another with delight and love. We will name him Dobilas, they had said. Clover. For the sweet scented field in which he was conceived. And heart aching, she would remember love.
She bent down in the hallway, removing the boots she had received in the DP camp. Placing them on the newspaper, she let her fingers linger on this luck which had arrived in a parcel from Amerika. They were trim little boots, ankle boots with laces. Fur trim ran along the top. And trying to imagine a woman who would send off such stylish scarcelyworn boots, she straightened to see Mrs. Moynahan waiting in the kitchen doorway.
“There’s been a little trouble,” Mrs. Moynahan said, arms crossed. “Dobilas used my bread. I had to go out for more. In this snow. Look at me. My hair’s a mess. And I have company coming tonight.”
Maryte looked past her landlady into the lit kitchen beyond. A white tablecloth covered the black speckled Formica table with thick chrome legs. Two places were set, two pretty rose flowered plates with rippled edges, and two wine glasses. Mrs. Moynahan was entertaining.
“He just helped himself. He shouldn’t do that. He should stay out of my kitchen.”
Maryte had impressed upon her brother never, ever, to go into Mrs. Moynahan’s kitchen. Going up and down the stairs they might see their landlady sitting at her kitchen table, leafing through a magazine and smoking a cigarette. She would wave. They would wave back. But she never invited them in and they never entered her part of the house.
“He wanted to feed the birds. He said they were hungry.”
Maryte could see it now. Dobilas watching Mrs. Moynahan shovelling snow. Dobilas going downstairs to help. Dobilas passing Mrs. Moynahan’s kitchen. His eye falling on the bread on the counter. His hand drawn by the shiny blue and white foil packaging. Dobilas rescuing the poor birds.
“Sorry Mrs. I tell him. I fix.”
“Good. I’m happy to help you people but I have my limits.”
Maryte looked again at the kitchen table set for two. First there would be muted laughter from behind the closed double-doors to the front room, then the clink of cutlery from the kitchen, then the silence from the bedroom. It was not Maryte’s business. She pretended not to see.
“Well, no harm done. He did make me a sandwich first. He left it on the kitchen table for when I came in. It was very sweet actually. ”
I am forgiven, Maryte thought, her chest releasing with relief.
Maryte did not understand the ways here, learning only too late from a cold look that she had transgressed. Waiting as Mrs. Moynahan hovered about to say more, she hoped for information. The moment passed. Having drawn the line between tenancy and friendship, Mrs. Moynahan became once again benevolent.
“Go on. Go on up to your brother. He’s been waiting for you all day.”
Maryte put her hand on the bannister, readying to mount the stairs. Turning to her landlady in gratitude, she glanced again at the kitchen table. Two plates, two wine glasses. Two chairs waiting for occupants. And Mrs. Moynahan hoping for companionship and perhaps love.
Dobilas had stood at the second floor window, watching Mrs. Moynahan shovelling snow. She was nice, not like the two old people who looked after him when Maryte took the tablecloths to Vilnius. The widow Ponia Pauliene had lead pellet eyes and a shrivelled hand still strong enough to grip. Cranky Ponas Baliunas swiped at children with his cane, shouting at them to be quiet as they ran past. They were in Lithuania and far away.
Idiot. He knew that’s what they called him. He was not as stupid as they thought. He knew for example that his mother had died while he was being born and that his father had hanged himself. He knew they were gone forever. He knew that Maryte was the only person he had in the world. He knew that she loved him and would always take care of him.
She told him their parents were in heaven but he was not fooled. He knew they were in the cemetery. When Maryte was in Vilnius and Ponia Pauliene’s back was turned, testing her rising bread dough or smacking a grandchild sneaking a sip from the cherry syrup fermenting on the windowsill, he would slip away. He would go visit them.
Why did you leave, Mama and Papa, he would ask of the two dead people lying under the ground.
I had to leave, his mother would say.
And I had to go with her, his father said.
Maryte was always talking about how their parents were waiting for them in heaven but he didn’t believe it. They were not living in another world where he would see them again. They were dead. They would stay dead. But not wanting to upset her, he said nothing.
Mrs. Moynahan was sending the snow flying with brisk vigorous strokes. Wearing her husband’s old parka, she looked like a babushka. You’re going to leave me something even if it’s only this coat, you old sod, she had said, telling Dobilas and Maryte the story with a laugh. But putting her arms into the sleeves of the capacious brown coat, she would pull it close and inhale the smell.
Once, Ponas Baliunas and Ponia Pauliene had come upon him playing in the meadow. They stopped to watch, leaning on a bridge over a brook. They prodded one another. They laughed. And he had heard both their laughter and their words.