Butterfly's Shadow (11 page)

Nancy called up to Joey to tell him breakfast was ready, waiting for the familiar noise as he jumped down the stairs, satchel bumping behind him.

He looked around the appliance-filled room,

‘So I’m having an electric breakfast.’

‘Be grateful,’ Ben remarked. ‘Not everyone can afford the latest equipment.’

‘Does it make the food taste better?’

Nancy dropped a square of golden toast on his plate.

‘Probably not.’

‘Then why do we have it?’

‘To make life easier.’

‘And because,’ Ben said, not looking up from his newspaper, ‘it’s the future. Electricity is the future.’

‘Dad, you said the automobile was the future.’

‘Well. Maybe both.’

‘You should invent an electric automobile.’

‘I’ll bear it in mind.’

She told herself they were lucky to have this bright, enquiring boy. Had she remained a teacher, she would have prized such a pupil. She touched his hair, lightly, as she passed his chair.
She caught her husband’s eye and rewarded him with a smile, nose briefly wrinkling.

When Joey had left for school, running off to join their neighbour, the two boys hopping and skipping, Ben lingered over a second cup of coffee. Nancy reached for the newspaper.

‘I’m talking to Daniels at the bank this afternoon. About the loan.’

‘You’ve decided then? You didn’t say.’

‘I thought about it. Now I’m sure. I need bigger premises, a proper workshop.’

Nancy said, ‘Ben? Are we speculating?’

‘We’re investing. Why do you ask?’

She tapped the paper and read aloud: ‘“Hoover warns of the dangers of rampant speculation.” I just thought: does the President know something we don’t know?’

‘Well now, “rampant”. D’you call a garage expansion rampant? Me neither. The bank’s looked at the books; it’s a safe bet, pay for itself in five years. Honey, now is the right time to expand.’

Later, recalling that decision, he would bleakly remind Nancy of her father’s old joke: ‘How do you make God laugh? Tell Him your plans.’

At first, the problem seemed a faraway affair: something that affected the big boys. The stock market might be rocky for a week or two, but everyday life must go on and small businesses were part of that. The newspapers ran encouraging stories and the local press was quick to offer reassurance to readers. Pinkerton took to reading aloud the optimistic headlines for Nancy’s benefit.

‘Listen to this, Irving Fisher in the
New York Times
: “There may be a recession in stock prices, but not anything in the nature of a crash”.’

‘The guy’s a leading economist, I guess he should know. Here’s another.’

But suddenly Wall Street ceased to be some distant place located in the financial pages of the newspaper; it criss-crossed the country on railroad tracks and telegraph wires. Wall Street was right here in the neighbourhood, it was next door, it was tapping on the window at night as Pinkerton drew the blanket close around him, and recalled a time when he had no trouble sleeping.

‘Dad? Where’s the crash?’ Joey asked. ‘One of the kids at school’s dad says there’s been a crash.’

‘That’s just wild talk. There’s no crash.’

And he read out from the newspaper what Arthur Reynolds, Chairman of the Continental Illinois Bank of Chicago was quoted as saying.

‘He says it won’t have much effect on business.’

That was 24 October. Five days later the Dow Jones Industrial Average lost 11.73 per cent of its value.

‘Ben?’ Nancy said that evening, ‘Is this going to affect us?’

‘Stocks and shares? I don’t see why. We’re not playing the market.’

People who knew the family said there had always been something of the golden boy about Ben Pinkerton. At high school and college the star swimmer, glittering like the water that won him prizes. In the navy he shone in white and brass buttons. When he opened the automobile garage – one of the first in town – he glowed with the sheen of steel and spray-paint. Like the business, he expanded. But now he dimmed, the gold dull, like neglected brass.

When the bank called him there seemed little sense of urgency. Could Mr Pinkerton drop by at his convenience? Mr Daniels would like to have a chat.

The chat was more formal than he expected. Not at first; Gerry Daniels, who had always been so friendly and helpful was still friendly:

‘How’s Nancy? And the boy? Good, fine little feller . . .’ But when he moved on, discussing the economic situation, the problems the government was facing, words like contract cancellations, falling values and crisis floated across his desk. He pulled a rueful face.

‘Some finance houses have actually collapsed, Ben. Unwise use of investors’ funds.’

‘Come on, you’re not telling me banks are going bust! Am I supposed to feel sorry for the rich guys?’ Ben laughed. Daniels did not.

‘It’s not just the big boys; we’re all in the same boat. Difficult times, money tight all round.’

‘What are you saying?’

Daniels shifted his inkwell, blotter and a framed photograph of his wife from one place on his desk to another an inch to left or right. He looked up and smiled, still friendly, but suddenly less helpful.

‘The loan, Ben. It’s payback time.’

‘Hey, we’ve had ups and downs before this. I can come through, the automobile is the future.’

‘Ben, if I had a dollar for every time someone has said the automobile is the future I’d be a rich man today.’

‘Actually Gerry, I don’t think you would. How many people in this town can have said that to you? Ten? Twenty? A hundred? But it’s the truth. The garage was doing fine; it’ll recover. Just give me a little time.’

Daniels gave one of his helpless shrugs. ‘Well now, that’s the problem. Time. I’m sorry, Ben. If it was up to me
personally
. . .’

He,
personally
, would be only too happy, and so forth . . . but the bank required repayment of the loan. Without delay. Ben said he understood, and they shook hands, and Daniels saw him to the door, hand on his shoulder, a reassuring squeeze; give his best to Nancy.

But when, to Ben’s dismay, he found himself unable to hand back the money to the bank because his customers were, in
turn, unable to come up with the cash they owed him; and when the house payments were overdue and the lenders sent in a repossession notice, he discovered that the Dow Jones and stocks and shares did indeed affect them.

‘I’ll get a job,’ Nancy said. ‘With Joey at school now I can manage it.’

‘That won’t be necessary.’

But quite soon it did become necessary and Nancy took a job. Not one she would have chosen, but choice was no longer an option. The garage had gone, and now it was the turn of the house and the electric kitchen.

Nancy kept the focus tight: she concentrated on what to take, not what must be left behind; hold on to the small things – objects of sentimental value, she had heard them called at sales. She was keeping a Mexican plate that had been a wedding present, and a pair of silver-plated grape scissors, to remind her of a way of life that was about to vanish. Ben pocketed Charlie’s medal.

She picked out and folded the clothes she habitually wore; in truth, the rest just hung there in the closet for most of the time. Joey trailed behind her, watching. He had never been heavy on toys and she told him he could keep his favourite books.

They packed cardboard boxes and carried them down to the porch. As Nancy reached the entrance two Model T Fords drove slowly past; the cars still looked shiny new but they were loaded with household goods. The remains of their own were neatly laid out in front of the house, marked ‘For Sale. No reasonable offer refused.’

What was a reasonable offer? How many dollars could reconcile her to the loss as she watched the pieces she had picked out so lovingly, the maple side table, the standard lamp, the desk with the secret drawer, being loaded on to someone else’s pickup?

*

Nancy said, ‘Where’s Joey?’ but Ben was busy filling boxes, and she went back inside the house, calling his name. By the time she reached the top of the stairs she sounded exasperated: her legs ached and her throat was dry from the dust.

‘Joey?’ she called again.

Ben heard her calling, repeatedly, her voice growing frantic as she went from room to empty room. Then she was down the stairs and hurrying out on to the porch, running her hand through her hair, looking beyond him to the street.

She said, ‘He’s gone.’

She was out on the sidewalk, looking left and right, calling his name, knowing there would be no response but calling anyway.

‘Joey?
Joey!
’

‘I’ve been here the whole time,’ Ben said. ‘He can’t be gone.’

He stood, trying to think himself inside the child’s head.

‘Did you look in the loft?’

She came running past him, into the house and up the stairs. At the top she paused: only now did she notice the ladder to the loft, the open hatch.

Joey was crouching on the loft floor, in the corner below the tiny roof window, the brown paper bag full of his books clutched to his chest.

Nancy said, her voice calm, ‘Joey: we need to start loading—’

He said, ‘I’m not going.’

He curled up, hugging the floor, making himself heavy, cumbersome, to discourage any attempt to lift him.

She went back down the stairs and found Ben, but when she tried to explain the situation he became impatient: kid stuff was Nancy’s province.

‘Just fetch him down. If necessary, give him a whack.’

‘A
whack?
’

A slow wave of anger built in Nancy, composed of weariness, resentment and a sense of being on her own.

‘He’s
your
son,’ she said. ‘
You
fetch him down.’

Her legs seemed to give way under her and she collapsed in the porch; slumped, uncaring of dirt and dust on the steps.

‘
You
give him a whack. If you think that’s what you want to do. I’m not about to start hitting him.’

Ben went up the stairs and climbed the ladder to the loft.

‘Hey, kid.’

He peered across at the boy, very small, huddled on the floor, seeming to be hugging the wall. In the corner of the shadowy room he looked less blond, and something about the angle of his head, the way he raised a shoulder as he looked up at Ben, was for a shocking moment a reminder of the past: Ben saw that he was Cho-Cho’s child.

Joey began to cry, heavy tears welling and dripping on to his knees.

Ben moved into the room and squatted down, keeping things slow and easy, his back propped against the wall.

‘What’s going on here?’

Joey said, ‘Is Nancy going to die?’

‘What?’

‘After we leave the house. Will she be dead?’

Nancy was still on the porch steps, hunched, eyes closed, when Ben came back out and sat down next to her.

‘He’s scared to leave.’

Her eyes blinked open. ‘What?’

‘He said, after he was taken away from home before, he was told his mother was dead and he never saw her again. He’s scared the same thing will happen now and he’ll get another new mom.’

Appalled, Nancy felt the past rise up and crash down on her, an intolerable weight she must endure.

‘Oh God. Oh God.’

‘It’s okay. I told him that wouldn’t happen.’

‘Ben. Maybe we were wrong . . .’

Within the house they heard the kitten-soft sound of Joey slowly descending the stairs.

‘I told him he could sit on your lap in the truck. You’d be fine as long as he was around.’ He added ruefully, ‘He doesn’t give a shit about me.’

When Joey asked where they were going Nancy told him they had a new home. He would have a new school.

‘It’ll be an adventure. It’ll be fun.’

The rented apartment was cramped, though Joey still had a room – of sorts: a curtained closet just big enough to take his bed, with a few toys and books stored in boxes underneath.

Ben looked from the chipped sink to the small table, the light from the overhead bulb showing every scratch on the surface.

‘This is no place to be.’

‘Maybe we won’t have to stay here too long.’

He had managed to hold on to the truck, which he drove back and forth between small-holdings and stores, carrying farm goods, equipment, supplies. Newspaper headlines were no longer optimistic, though Ben tried to keep cheerful when the boy was in earshot.

‘We’re doing okay,’ he said. ‘We’re doing okay.’

For the first time he gave thanks that there was just Joey to think about. He had expected Nancy to give him a kid well before this, and was increasingly aware of unspoken grandparental speculation. Now – silver lining time – it meant one mouth less to feed.

He could have used a drink now and then but alcohol, like choice, was not an option: Prohibition had never been a good idea, in his book, but the way the world was now, the ban
added just that bit to the load, like the last straw that broke the camel’s back. On a bad day, he reflected, he might just break the law. He began to smoke more, but soon stopped: cigarettes didn’t grow on trees.

At the local nursery Nancy cared for toddlers whose mothers went out to work. Her hair no longer bounced sleek and shiny to her shoulders; washed less frequently, it hung, lank, tucked carelessly behind her ears. There was packet-mix angel food cake for tea and they became familiar with cheap meat loaf, the breadcrumbs almost outweighing the beef.

Joey had never been a noisy child. He grew quieter.

There were times, lying in the dark of his closet-bedroom, when he thought about his mother. He wondered what kind of a person she had been; all he could recall was a shape, a woman in a kimono who moved silently on the tatami mat floors of a wood and paper house, who stroked his head and soothed him when he cried, and took him walking by the sea. He found it impossible to imagine her face or hear her voice.

He remembers the sound of screaming, he presses his hands to his ears to shut out the sound. But who was screaming? And why? All he knew was that he had been taken away.

In the yard outside the school he waited by the chicken-wire fencing until Nancy collected him after hurrying from her workplace.