A Spool of Blue Thread (11 page)

Red said, “What?”

Abby said, “Nothing.”

Stem and Jeannie’s Hugh arrived at the back door with the truck, and everybody went to unload—even the little boys, even Abby—except for Nora. Nora took delivery of the first item Stem brought in, an ice chest full of groceries, and she drew from it an apron folded on the very top. It was the kind that Red and Abby’s mothers wore in the 1940s, flowered cotton with a bib that buttoned at the back of the neck. She put it on and started cooking.

Over supper, there was a great deal of talk about accommodations. Abby kept wondering if one of the boys shouldn’t be moved to her study. “Maybe Petey, because he’s the oldest?” she asked. “Or Sammy, because he’s the youngest?”

“Or me, because I’m in the middle!” Tommy shouted.

“That’s okay,” Stem told Abby. “They were sharing one room at home, after all. They’re used to it.”

“I don’t know why it is,” Abby said, “but these last few years the house has just always seemed the wrong size. When your father and I are alone it’s too big, and when you all come to visit it’s too small.”

“We’ll be fine,” Stem said.

“Are you two talking about the dog?” Red asked.

“Dog?”

“Because I just don’t see how two dogs can occupy the same territory.”

“Oh, Red, of course they can,” Abby said. “Clarence is a pussycat; you know that.”

“Come again?”

“Clarence is on my bed right this minute!” Petey said. “And Heidi is on Sammy’s bed.”

Red overrode Petey’s last sentence, perhaps not realizing Petey was speaking. “My father was opposed to letting a dog in the house,” he said. “Dogs are hard on houses. Bad for the woodwork. He’d have made both those animals stay out in the backyard, and he’d have
wondered why we owned them anyways unless they had some job to do.”

The grown-ups had heard this too many times to bother commenting, but Petey said, “Heidi’s got a job! Her job is making us happy.”

“She’d be better off herding sheep,” Red said.

“Can we get some sheep, then, Grandpa? Can we?”

“This chicken is delicious,” Abby told Nora.

“Thank you.”

“Red, isn’t the chicken delicious?”

“I’ll say! I’ve had two pieces and I’m thinking about a third.”

“You can’t have a third! It’s full of cholesterol!”

The telephone rang in the kitchen.

“Now, who on earth can that be?” Abby asked.

“Only one way to find out,” Red told her.

“Well, I’m just not going to answer. Everyone who’s anyone knows it’s the supper hour,” Abby said. But at the same time, she was pushing back her chair and standing up. She had never lost the conviction that someone might be needing her. She made her way to the kitchen, forcing two of the little boys to scoot their chairs in as she passed behind them.

“Hello?” they heard. “Hi, Denny!”

Stem and Red glanced toward the kitchen. Nora placed a dollop of spinach on Sammy’s plate, although he squirmed in protest.

“Well, nobody thought … What? Oh, don’t be silly. Nobody thought—”

“What’s for dessert?” Tommy asked his mother.

Stem said, “Ssh. Grandma’s on the phone.”

“Blueberry pie,” Nora said.

“Goody!”

“Yes, of course we would have,” Abby said. A pause. “Now, that is
not true
, Denny! That is simply not … Hello?”

After a moment, they heard the latching sound of the receiver
settling back into its wall mount. Abby reappeared in the kitchen doorway.

“Well, that was Denny,” she told them. “He’s coming in tonight on the twelve-thirty-eight train, but he says just to leave the door unlocked and he’ll catch a cab from the station.”

“Huh! He’d damn well better,” Red said, “because
I
won’t be up that late.”

“Well, maybe you should meet him, Red.”

“Why’s that?”

“I’ll go,” Stem told her.

“Oh, I think maybe your father, dear.”

There was a silence.

“What was his problem?” Red asked finally.

“Problem?” Abby said. “Well, not a problem, exactly. He just doesn’t understand why we didn’t ask
him
to come stay.”

Even Nora looked surprised.

“Ask Denny!” Red said. “Would he have done it?”

“He says he would have. He says he’s coming now, regardless.”

Abby had been standing in the doorway all this time, but now she made her way back to her chair and fell into it heavily, as if the trip had exhausted her. “He found out from Jeannie that you were moving in,” she told Stem. “He thinks he should have been consulted. He says the house doesn’t have enough bedrooms for you all; it should have been him instead.”

Nora started reaching for people’s plates and stacking them, not making a sound.

“What wasn’t true?” Red asked Abby.

“Excuse me?”

“You said, ‘That’s not true, Denny.’ ”

“See how he does?” Abby asked Stem. “Half the time he’s deaf as a post and then it turns out he’s heard something all the way off in the kitchen.”

“What wasn’t true, Abby?” Red asked.

“Oh,” Abby said airily, “
you
know. Just the usual.” She placed her silverware neatly across her plate and passed the plate to Nora. “He says he doesn’t know why we had Stem come when … 
you
know. He says Stem is not a Whitshank.”

There was another silence, during which Nora rose in one fluid motion, still without a sound, and bore the stack of plates out to the kitchen.

Actually, it
was
true that Stem was not a Whitshank. But only in the most literal sense.

People tended to forget the fact, but Stem was the son of a tile layer known as Lonesome O’Brian. Lawrence O’Brian, really; but like most tilers he was sort of standoffish, fond of working by himself and keeping his own counsel, and so Lonesome was the name everybody called him. Red always said Lonesome was the best tile man going, although certainly not the fastest.

The fact that Lonesome had a son seemed incongruous. People tended to look at the man—tall and cadaverously thin, that translucent kind of blond where you can see the plates of his skull—and picture him living like a hermit: no wife, no kids, no friends. Well, they were right about the wife and perhaps even the friends, but he did have this toddler named Douglas. Several times when his sitting arrangements fell through, he brought Douglas in to work with him. This was against the rules, but since the two of them never had any cause to be in a hard-hat area, Red let it pass. Lonesome would head straight to whatever kitchen or bathroom he was working on, and Douglas would scurry after him on his short little legs. Not once did Lonesome look back to see if Douglas was keeping up; nor did Douglas complain or ask him to slow down. They would settle in their chosen room, door tightly closed, not a peep from them all morning. At lunchtime they would emerge, Douglas scurrying behind as before, and eat their sandwiches with the other men, but
somewhat to the side. Douglas was so young that he still drank from a spouted cup. He was a waifish, homely child, lacking the dimpled cuteness that you would expect in someone that age. His hair was almost white, cut short and prickly all over his head, and his eyes were a very light blue, pinkish around the rims. All his clothes were too big for him. They seemed to be wearing
him
; he was only an afterthought. His trousers were folded up at the bottoms several times over. The shoulders of his red jacket jutted out from his spindly frame, the elastic cuffs hiding all but his miniature fingertips, which were slightly powdered-looking like his father’s—an occupational side effect.

The other men did their best to engage him. “Hey, there, big fellow,” they’d offer, and “What you say, my man?” But Douglas only squinched himself up tighter against his father and stared. Lonesome didn’t try to ease the situation the way most fathers would have—answering on his child’s behalf or cajoling him into showing some manners. He would just go on eating his sandwich, a pathetic, slapped-together sandwich on squashed-looking Wonder Bread.

“Where’s his mom?” someone new might ask. “She sick today?”

“Traveling,” Lonesome would say, not bothering to raise his eyes.

The new man would send a questioning look toward the others, and they would glance off to the side in a way that meant “Tell you later.” Then later one of them would fill him in. (There was no lack of volunteers; construction workers are notorious gossips.) “The kid there, his mom ran off when he was just a baby. Left Lonesome holding the bag, can you believe it? But any time anyone wants to know, Lonesome says she’s just taking a trip. He acts like she’s coming back someday.”

Abby had heard about Douglas, of course. She pumped Red for his men’s stories every night; it was the social worker in her. And when she heard that Lonesome claimed Douglas’s mother was coming back, she said flatly, “Is that a fact.” She knew all about such mothers.

“Well, apparently she
has
come back at least twice that people know of,” Red said. “Stayed just a week or so each time, and Lonesome got all happy and fired the babysitter.”

Abby said, “Mm-hmm.”

In April of 1979, a crisp, early-spring afternoon, Red phoned Abby from his office and said, “You know Lonesome O’Brian? That guy who brings his kid in?”

“I remember.”

“Well, he brought him in again today and now he’s in the hospital.”

“The child’s in the hospital?”

“No, Lonesome is. He had some kind of collapse and they had to call an ambulance.”

“Oh, the poor—”

“So do you think you could come by my office and pick up the kid?”

“Oh!”

“I don’t know what else to do with him. One of the fellows brought him here and he’s sitting on a chair.”

“Well—”

“I can’t talk long; I’m supposed to be meeting with an inspector. Could you just come?”

“Okay.”

She hurried Denny into the car (he was four at the time, still on half-days at nursery school) and drove up Falls Road to Red’s office, a little clapboard shack out past the county line. She parked on the gravel lot, but before she could step out of the car Red emerged from the building with a very small boy on one arm. You could see that the child felt anxious. He was keeping himself upright, tightly separate. It was the first time Abby had laid eyes on him, and although he matched Red’s description right down to the oversized jacket, she was unprepared for his stony expression. “Why, hello there!” she said brightly when Red leaned into the rear of the car to set him down. “How are you, Douglas? I’m Abby! And this is Denny!”

Douglas scrunched back in his seat and gazed down at his corduroy knees. Denny, on his left, bent forward to eye him curiously, but Douglas gave no sign of noticing him.

“After my meeting I’m going to stop by Sinai,” Red said. “See what’s doing with Lonesome, and ask him how to get ahold of his sitter. So could you just—I appreciate this, Ab. I promise it won’t be for long.”

“Oh, we’ll have a
good
time. Won’t we?” Abby asked Douglas.

Douglas kept his eyes on his knees. Red shut the car door and stood back, holding one palm up in a motionless goodbye, and Abby drove off with the two little boys sitting silent in the rear.

At home, she freed Douglas from his jacket and fixed both boys a snack of sliced bananas and animal crackers. They sat at the child-size table she kept in one corner of the kitchen—Denny munching away busily, Douglas picking up each animal cracker and studying it, turning it over, looking at it from different angles before delicately biting off a head or a leg. He didn’t touch the bananas. Abby said, “Douglas, would you like some juice?” After a pause, he shook his head. So far, she hadn’t heard him speak a word.

She allowed both boys to watch the afternoon kiddie shows on TV, although ordinarily she would not have. Meanwhile, she let Clarence in from the yard—he was just a puppy at the time, not to be trusted alone in the house—and he raced to the sunroom and scrabbled up onto the couch to lick the boys’ faces. First Douglas shrank back, but he was clearly interested, in a guarded sort of way, and so Abby didn’t intervene.

When the girls came home from school, they made a big fuss over him. They dragged him upstairs to look through the toy chest, competing for his attention and asking him questions in honeyed voices. Douglas remained silent, eyes lowered. The puppy came along with them, and Douglas spent most of his time delivering small, awkward pats to the top of the puppy’s head.

Around suppertime, Red arrived with a paper grocery bag. “Some clothes and things for Douglas,” he told Abby, setting the bag on the kitchen counter. “I borrowed Lonesome’s apartment keys.”

“How is he?”

“Mighty uncomfortable when I saw him. Turns out it’s his appendix. While I was there they took him to surgery. He’ll need to stay over one night, they said; he can come home late tomorrow. I did ask about the sitter, but it seems she’s got some kind of leg trouble. Lonesome said he felt bad about saddling us with the boy.”

“Well, it’s not as if he’s a bother,” Abby said. “He might as well not be here.”

At supper, Douglas sat on an unabridged dictionary Red had placed on a chair. He ate seven peas, total, which he picked up one by one with his fingers. The table conversation went on around him and above him, but there was a sense among all of them that they had a watchful audience, that they were speaking for his benefit.

Abby got him ready for bed, making him pee and brush his teeth before she put him in a pair of many-times-washed seersucker pajamas that she found in the grocery bag. Seersucker seemed too lightweight for the season, but that was her only choice. She settled him in the other twin bed in Denny’s room, and after she’d drawn up the blankets she hesitated a moment and then planted a kiss on his forehead. His skin was warm and slightly sweaty, as if he’d just expended some great effort. “Now, you have a good, good sleep,” she told him, “and when you wake up it’ll be tomorrow and you can see your daddy.”

Douglas still didn’t speak, he didn’t even change expression, but his face all at once seemed to open up and grow softer and less pinched. At that instant he was not so homely after all.

The next morning Abby had a neighbor drive carpool, because even back in those days, before the child-seat laws, she didn’t feel right letting such a small boy bounce around loose with the others.
Once they were on their own, she settled Douglas on the floor in the sunroom with a jigsaw puzzle from Denny’s room. He didn’t put it together, even though it consisted of only eight or ten pieces, but he spent a good hour quietly moving the pieces about, picking up first one and then another and examining it intently, while the puppy sat beside him alert to every movement. Then after she finished her morning chores Abby sat with him on the couch and read him picture books. He liked the ones with animals in them, she could tell, because sometimes when she was about to turn a page he would reach out a hand to hold it down so he could study it a while longer.