Catch Me When I Fall (5 page)

“What's wrong with you?” she asked now. Her voice was a slash in the air, sharper than she intended.

“Leave the boy alone,” Willem said. “He's got work to do. Don't want him sulking while we're shovelling shit.”

“Don't say ‘shit' at the table.” She crossed her arms on her belly and felt her face return to its customary scowl.

•  •  •

Eustace found Naomi in the cafeteria before school on Monday, eating a Danish. He admired her profile as he approached—the dark eyebrow, the curve of her lips. She sat upright, one slim leg crossed over the other. Her dark T-shirt was a bit baggier than most of her tops, but he didn't think anyone could tell she was pregnant. He pushed aside a chair and leaned against the table, pressing his leg against hers. “Those aren't good for you.”

“Shut up.” She took another bite.

He swivelled his head to make sure no one was in earshot. He swallowed. “So for sure you won't consider adoption, or abor—?” He bit off the word, seeing her eyes narrow. She shifted her leg away from his.

“If you don't want to marry me, that's fine. I'll do it on my own. Look at Chloe. She's fine.”

Eustace thought about Chloe. If only Naomi were Chloe DeBeer. Not that he could imagine being with Chloe. She had a long, horsy face, talked incessantly, and slept around as much after her baby was born as she had before. But Chloe was Dutch. Her parents attended his church. Things would be so much easier for him if it were Chloe he'd gotten pregnant.

“Are you gonna tell your mom and dad?”

“Guess so. I think they'll come around. They love me.” She put down the Danish. Sallow-faced and anxious, she played with a strand of her dark hair.

“Mine won't.” His words were matter-of-fact, but shame simmered beneath them.

“Not ever? Don't they want a grandchild?”

“Not a Jewish grandchild.” He watched her expression turn cold.

“Anti-Semitism is really uncool these days—don't your parents know that?” She flung the words like hailstones.

“It's not personal—” But she was stomping from the room.

In science class, Naomi sat two desks in front of him. Mr. Peet was delivering his Fabulous Fact of the Day, something about the exotic ecosystems a scientist had found in sulfuric sinkholes. Only Clara Watson was paying attention. Eustace sent a note to Naomi when Mr. Peet turned to sketch a geo-thermal vent on the board. “Can we talk after school?” She crumpled it without reading it and tossed it on the floor. Behind him, Rodney snickered.

On his way to his locker, Miss Zylstra stopped him. Her plump face beamed. “I just read your essay,” she said. “You may not be a poet, but my goodness you're good at explaining things.” She looked so pleased with him that he smiled back at her. She was way too nice. So nice that when you took advantage of her you felt bad afterwards. Even Matthew Post didn't give her a hard time the way he did other teachers. “I completely understood how a hay-bailer works after reading your work. Amazing. I hope you're planning on going to university next year.” She paused briefly, and he made a noncommittal shrug, which she seemed to think was embarrassment. “The world's your oyster, Eustace! Oh, there's Clara. I needed to talk to her too.” Miss Zylstra turned and sped across the hall, the speed remarkable given her round frame and the heels she wore.

For an impetuous moment Eustace thought of following her and asking her advice. She would be kind. There was that time in grade ten when he had missed three homework assignments in a row. “I need to call your parents,” she had said, looking sorry.

“Please, Miss, don't.” His heart had lurched like their John Deere with the bad clutch. “I'll do all of them tonight.”

“Are your parents fierce about homework, Eustace?”

“About everything,” he'd admitted.

“Maybe it's their way of showing love?” She'd peered at him, kind blue eyes hopeful. He had just shrugged. “Well, don't worry. You get this work done by Monday, and we'll keep this between us.” And there hadn't been another word about it. That's how she was. Knew how to forgive. Forgive and forget.

Only you couldn't forget a baby. And he was going to have to marry Naomi against his parents' wishes. He'd done wrong, and now there was no clear right. The sheer weight of his situation seemed to pull his shoes into the tile floor, a force far greater than gravity holding him fast.

•  •  •

When he shuffled into the mudroom after chores, his mom sat at the kitchen table, bent over the genealogy charts she bought after the bees, her last project, had abandoned her. The hives stood rotting in the north pasture, a little ghost town beside some scraggly pines. She had forbidden tearing them down: “The bees might come back.” Her order was pointless anyway, he thought. No one tidied up on their farm.

She was singing as she worked. “‘Jesus bids us shine like a pure, clear light, like a lit-tle can-dle burning in the night—'” Because they had no computer, Beatrice's only resources for the charts were an old family Bible and a couple of books she'd ordered through the mail—total rip-offs, in his opinion. But they kept her from her other pastime, which was tending the roadside grave of her beloved cat Tabitha. He felt both sadness and jealousy when she took canned catfood and catnip out to the monument. Would she do as much for him if he were dead? He washed his hands in the mudroom sink. She kept singing. “‘In this world of dark-ness, we-e mu-ust shine. You in your small cor-ner, and I in mine.'”

Her eyes hardened when he entered the kitchen. “Don't say anything to set your dad off tonight.” Did she think he tried to irritate them on purpose? “I'm going to ask him about your great-grandpa.” She fingered the blank spot on the family tree.

“Okay. But you'll be the one to make him mad.”

•  •  •

Beatrice got up to check the potatoes. Eustace should be more interested in her project. She was doing it for him. Taking pride in the family. They were as good as anyone. And so many years had passed since the war. They should be able to move on. Forget the past.

“Are you sure that's not loaded?” He was cleaning the gun in the kitchen again, all knees and elbows as he bent his gangly frame over the task. “I told you to do that outside.”

“Of course it's not loaded! You don't think I learned my lesson?”

“Why can't you go out on the porch?”

“It's raining.”

She glanced out the window, surprised, then twisted back quickly. The .22 was pointed toward the floor, but she made a wide arc around him as she sidled back to the table. She pointed to the genealogy chart. “I put
Tante
Margot's maiden name as VanderZee, but I'm pretty sure the records on her are false. If you ever investigate.” She tapped the word “adopted” that she had penned in after Margot's name.

“Okay.” Eustace kept his eyes on the gun barrel, wiping it carefully.

“My grandparents never officially adopted her,” she continued doggedly. “Her own parents hadn't registered her, so when they were shipped to Westerbork, they gave her to my grandparents.”

“What's Westerbork again?”

“A concentration camp. Where they sent the Dutch Jews.”

“What happened to Auntie Margot's real parents?”

“I don't know. I guess they never came back.”

“So your grandparents raised her as their own kid?”

Beatrice was heartened by his interest. If only she knew more. “Yes.”

“Raised her as a Christian?”

“Of course.”

“Wouldn't her real parents have wanted her raised as a Jew?”

Her pleasure changed to irritation. He was so difficult. Judgmental. “Well, I think her parents would have been glad she stayed alive. And maybe God had other plans for her. Saved her body and soul.” The phrase pleased her. “Body and soul.”

•  •  •

When Eustace's father strode in, the smell of the pig barn on him despite his scrubbing in the mudroom, Beatrice heaped a large portion of roast on his plate. “I made
hutspot
to go with it,” she said. She served him a lump of the steaming mashed carrots, onions, and potatoes.

Willem made a grunting sound that could have been approval. He bowed his head and asked a blessing on the food. When he'd finished his first helping, Beatrice ventured, “I'm making progress on the family records, but there are a few blanks.”

Eustace kept his head down. Conversations during meals usually ended badly, and this one was going to explode. He scooped food into his mouth, planning his exit.

“Your grandfather on your father's side. I don't even know his name.” Her words came breathy and quick.

Willem shoved his plate toward her. “I'll have some more meat.”

After a few minutes of silence, Beatrice said, “I made apple pie for dessert.” She sounded like a child showing off a drawing, Eustace thought. “Would you like ice cream with it, Willem?” She served all three of them generous helpings. They ate in silence until Beatrice tried again. “So, do you at least know his name?”

“Can't we eat in peace?” Willem's gnomelike face, the big nose, the deep grooves, turned to flint.

“Well you don't have to yell at me. After the nice dinner I made you.”

Willem scowled, but he put his fork down and leaned back. He ran his hand over the bald top of his head, as if he were smoothing back an unruly mop of hair. “The collaborators were tried after the Liberation. I don't know what happened to him after that. My grandmother moved to Canada. She told us he turned against his own people, and to never mention his name. Happy now?” Willem picked up his fork and put the last bite of pie in his mouth. Still chewing, he added, “My grandmother raised the five kids alone. Cleaned houses for people in Red Deer to earn money. Kept her own house clean too.” He looked around with displeasure.

“No one lifts a finger to help me,” said Beatrice. She glowered at Eustace, eyes turning nasty. “You have Eustace, but what help do I get?”

“He's not much help,” said Willem.

“I have to go.” Eustace rose and disappeared out the side door.

•  •  •

He stalked to the edge of the yard and stared into the bush. He wondered what kind of man his great-grandfather had been. When Miss Zylstra made them read
The Diary of Anne Frank
in English class last year, she had said that not all the Dutch had been like Miep and Mr. Kraler. Many, many Dutch Jews had died in concentration camps, some of them because their Dutch neighbours sold their names to the authorities in exchange for food or electricity. Rodney VanEng raised his hand and told a story he'd heard from his grandfather. Some men in the Resistance sent a message to a Nazi collaborator to meet them late one night, then they strung a wire across the road he would take. When he sped toward them on his motorbike, the wire sliced his head off. “Do you think that's true, Miss Zylstra?” Clara had asked. “I don't like to think about it,” Miss Zylstra answered. “But yes. That's how they dealt with traitors.”

Eustace hunched under a weeping birch as the rain pelted down. He thought about hatred. Murderous hatred. His own great-grandfather must have been despised by his neighbours and even his own family members. His wife abandoned him and moved to Canada. Maybe he had deserved hatred. Maybe he was the one responsible for sending his Auntie Margot's parents to their death. Eustace wondered how people went on afterwards, after acting on their passions during the war—whether they were traitors or the murderers of traitors—how did they live with themselves, live with others?

The rain finally slowed to a drizzle, and he was cold. He could make his way to the Dodge Dart and shelter there for a while. Or dry out in the barn. But there was no place to go. Eventually he would have to go back inside.

•  •  •

“That girl phoned for you,” Beatrice said. “Wants you to call her back.”

He took the phone to his room and dialled, and Naomi answered, crying. “I think I'm having a miscarriage.”

Hallelujah, thank you, God.

“How do you know?”

“I'm bleeding, you idiot.”

“Are you okay?”

“No. I think I'm supposed to go the hospital, but I don't want to tell my parents.”

“Can't you just say something's gone wrong with your period?”

“No, you fucking moron. They'd still find out.”

“Do you want me to take you?” He heard the reluctance in his voice and braced himself.

She hung up.

•  •  •

He stayed awake all night watching the moon over the cedars outside his window. At dawn he heard the crows start their raucous cries. At eight-thirty, the earliest he thought it would be polite, he called. Naomi's mother answered. “She went to her friend Audrey's house overnight last night, Eustace. She should be at school, though.” He doubted that. He tried to remember Audrey's last name to look up her number. She lived in town. Maybe she'd taken Naomi to the hospital. He hoped Naomi was okay.

For the next three days, he staked out her locker at school until the opening bell rang. Finally, on Friday, he saw her and scurried over. Before he could say a word, she held up a hand as if stopping traffic. “I'm fine.” She did look fine, if maybe a little puffy around the eyes. “But you and I are through. Audrey says I deserve better than you, and she's right.” Her voice was thick. Emotional. She turned and burrowed in her locker.

“I'm sorry.” He took his hand and moved it toward her thin shoulder. His hand looked big and clumsy to him, and her shoulder, even covered in the wool of her sweater, seemed fragile as a blown-glass ornament.

“Go away. I mean it.” Her words were muffled, but they sounded final.

•  •  •

Beatrice scooped meatball soup into three bowls. She wished she could get that song out of her head. “In this world of dark-ness, we-e mu-ust shine.” She tried to remember a hymn from the morning's church service to replace it with. “I didn't like the sermon today,” she announced. Willem was dousing his soup with
Maggi
sauce and Eustace just stared into his bowl. Something was up with him again. Well, there was nothing she could do about it. “I didn't like it at all,” she repeated. Still neither looked up. “I don't know where Reverend Dykstra gets his notions. Sounded like he was saying we could work out our own salvation. ‘Work out your salvation with fear and trembling!' Sometimes he sounds Catholic or something.”