Lazaretto (10 page)

“I do not know.”

“So you don't know where the lawyer took her? Was she raised white or colored?”

“Carl, I do not know,” Sylvia said in a determined voice. She was quiet then. Most everything else had quieted, too, except for a single gull that called across the sky, its pitch going from squeals to low moans; the water's hard splashes against the side of the boat; and the heavy thud that was the sound of Sylvia's not-knowing dropping in the boat between them.

LINC AND BRAM
missed Ann as much as Meda did, though in a different way. Ann had always made sure that their mats were closest to the hearth in the winter, that their stew came from the top of the pot, that their chores rarely included climbing down into the chimney to sweep it clean. She'd get in between them and the jealousy of the other boys, who'd resented Linc and Bram for their favored status, for their being able to leave the orphanage every weekend and return with the contented expressions of having eaten well, having slept in a soft bed. Of late their spats with their housemates were turning violent; when one or another boy teased them about their “nigger wench maid,” Linc and Bram joined forces, and though it was just the two of them against sometimes five or six, they won as many fights as they lost. Buddy and his gambling cohorts had taught Linc the art of boxing, which Linc in turn passed on to Bram. Though they were not quite eleven, the strength of Linc's swing, the power in his punch, was that of a much older boy.

For the next two years, they suffered through replacement after replacement of house matrons. Each one worse than the last. The new matrons either exercised no authority and the boys ran wild, or they ruled with iron-clad dictates that let in no light. None were like Ann, who'd balanced regulations with flexibility, agitation with affection, a rear-end whacking with a kind word and a pat on the head. But bad as Ann's replacements were, they all
allowed Meda access as she continued to come in on Fridays and spend the day and help out however she could until evening came and she left with Linc and Bram in tow to spend the weekend in the Benin household.

But then a new head arrived. This one male, Robinson, who had the whitest skin, the silkiest hair, the smoothest hands. He was meticulous about his living quarters, which he expanded, so that more boys than usual were crammed on the second floor. He separated Linc and Bram who, from the time they shared the parlor as infants, had always been roommates. Now Bram's cot was in a room on the third floor, Linc's on the second. He also rearranged the chores Linc and Bram had always done together. Linc was now responsible for cleaning the latrines, and Bram for keeping Robinson's quarters dust free. He reversed the long-standing policy of not indenturing boys of a certain age, as was common at larger establishments such as the Orphan Society of Philadelphia. Dictated that at thirteen, the boys would be indentured. Bram and Linc had just turned thirteen. He collected any jewelry in the boys' possession because he said that it was unfair that some had, and some had not. For Linc and Bram that meant relinquishing the silver rings Meda had given to them the Christmas past. The rings had their first initials engraved inside, and it pained them to hand the rings over. And as if all of that had not hurt enough, they also lost their greatest privilege—time with Meda. Robinson stopped Meda's long-standing practice of coming in on Fridays; he issued a new directive that banned overnight stays away from the house, apart from exceptional circumstances that would nevertheless require his preapproval. That one had been the death knell.

On her last visit with them, Meda promised that she would speak to Benin to see what he could do to ease the situation; but Benin was overseas, traveling to Europe and then to Asia, so it
would be at least several months before he would return, but she asked the boys to please be patient, to stay safe and out of trouble until Benin returned.

She had decided then that she would use Robinson's threat of indenture against him by persuading Benin to use his influence to have the boys farmed out to the Benin mansion. The barn needed restoring, the parlor could use new floors; and Bram was so adept at the piano now that Mrs. Benin could certainly keep him busy performing at one or another of the events she organized and participated in. Meda had it all figured out. She just needed to convince Tom Benin. Ann had always maintained that Tom Benin owed her; that Meda should call in that debt whenever she needed to. Meda had, and it had gotten her a life with the boys, so far. She didn't know how much of that debt was left to dangle. Didn't know if she'd have to make him owe again. Decided that if she had to, she would. Whatever it took to persuade him, she was willing to do. She would invite him into her room if she must. She would wear a half-smile; let her eyes fall to half-closed; she would put on the moan-filled sounds of a cat in heat; she wouldn't judge the rightness or wrongness of it; she had pushed past shame. For the boys, she would do what she had to do. But then they ran away before she could.

They hadn't planned to run away. They had planned to be patient, knowing that Meda would pull strings for them once Tom Benin returned. Their personalities were suffering as a result of being separated from Meda; Linc had turned more excitable, always bracing for a fight. Bram was now more withdrawn, as if he'd grown layers over his true self. Bram had also begun to develop stomach distress, and fevers that would appear out of nowhere and baffle the doctor who came by once a week. But then he would rebound and be well, until the next time.

One night Robinson told Linc that he was not doing an ad
equate job with the latrines. Linc countered that he was doing the best he could, and, besides, each one should be responsible for cleaning up his own shit. Bram had tried to intercede, said that he would clean the latrines for Linc. Then Bram gave Linc a look, telling him with his eyes to tame down. Linc returned the look, told Bram to toughen up. Linc was taken to the shed that night for a severe flogging. Though the other boys had not heard Linc cry out, they had heard the whirring of the whip moving the air, then the slap of it against skin. And Bram's hard breaths as he held himself back from screaming out in pain on his brother's behalf.

Linc had, shortly after, been hired out as a bricklayer; Bram was kept back for duties around the house. Now they barely saw each other until the end of the week, Friday nights, when they'd sneak down to the cellar with another pair of brothers—these two biological—Matt and Chris, to play cards.

This night Matt had pilfered a carafe of Communion wine and they passed it around and told dirty jokes that Linc had heard from the bricklaying men. They delighted at the sound of new profanity spewing from their mouths. They mocked the walks and accents and eating habits of their other housemates. They told “Robinson stories” and imagined what they'd like to do to him—tie him up and pour cream on his toes and unleash a peck of hungry rats, said one; drench his undergarments in invisible lye, said another; fill his shoes with hot nails, said a third. They had to muffle their laughter when Bram stood and raised his hands and motioned for quiet. He heard footsteps overhead; he knew they were Robinson's because they were so deliberate, so particular, the way everything about Robinson was.

“It's the Worm,” Bram whispered, using their name for Robinson. All levity was immediately sucked out of the room; even the pleasurable sensation of the wine splashing around in their heads
came to an abrupt stop. They ran to hide the carafe and the cards. Matt's younger brother started to cry, and Linc punched him and told him to be a man. Bram got very still then. A resignation covered his face like a slow-moving shadow and Linc asked what was the matter. “Nothing.” Bram spit the word out as he listened to the door at the top of the cellar stairs creak open.

“Bram? Are you there?” Robinson called down.

“Sir,” Bram said, as he motioned the others to be still and started walking in the direction of the steps. “Uh, yes, I have come to put away my cleaning supplies.”

“Well, do not be in such haste to do so. Ready your supplies this instant and come make a repair of your haphazard sweep of my quarters.”

“Yes, sir,” Bram said, as the other boys remained motionless until they heard the cellar door close, the footsteps retreat.

“We owe you for that one, you bloke,” Linc said, as the two others came back to life as well and the wine resumed its whirl in their heads and they started to laugh again and imitate Robinson's walk. When Bram had gathered his cleaning supplies, he told them to get ready to kiss their pennies goodbye because he would be back directly to win them away.

Linc and the two others returned to their cards, and after more than an hour had passed, and the carafe was empty, Linc wondered out loud what was taking Bram so long.

“Maybe he's went straight to his cot and passed out from the wine,” Matt said. “I am about to do it, too.”

“Me, too,” said Chris. “Bram always takes such a long time doing a sweep of the Worm's room.”

“Does he now?” Linc asked.

“He got him from his sleep the other night. His mat is next to mine and it woke me.” Matt pulled his brother up from the floor, told him to get up to his bed before he was the next one flogged.
They planned to repeat the escapade the next night at the same time as they separated to their various sleeping quarters. Then Linc crept up to the third floor and peeked into the room where Bram now slept and saw that Bram's cot was still unoccupied. He felt teeth in his stomach then, biting away. He went back to his own room and stepped over the sleeping boys to get to his cot. He sat and started to pull his shoes from his feet, but then he did not. He ran from the room instead, back up to the third floor, then right to the suite that Robinson had turned into his own kingdom.

He did not know what to do at first as he stood at Robinson's door, gasping. Moonbeams pieced through the cobweb-covered skylight in the hallway and drizzled over him, and he was torn between knocking and just barreling in. And then he didn't have to decide because the door opened and there was Bram, quickly pulling the door shut behind him. He looked stricken, his faced blanched as if no blood flowed there, his eyes red, his lips swollen, his neck welted as if he'd just had a bad case of hives. “What the dickens happened to you?” Linc asked in a whisper. “Why were you in there so long?”

Bram didn't answer. He just stood there, breathing hard as scattered moonbeams gave his face the appearance of a jigsaw puzzle. He tried to speak, but his words were garbled coming out, and he felt as if he were choking, and then he started to vomit instead. He coughed and spit up as Linc looked on and felt his own stomach start to spin.

“Bram, what the devil?” Linc asked, desperation coating his words.

“Shit,” Bram said, when he could gather himself enough to talk. “Now I have to clean this up, too.” He tried to move farther down the hallway, but Linc blocked his path.

“Tell me, Bram, what's happening?” Linc said, slowly, pointing the ends of his words.

“It's Robinson,” Bram whispered, as he pushed his hands in the center of Linc's chest and moved him still farther down the hallway. “He tried to turn me into a fucking missus.”

“What?” Linc asked.

“You heard me, as I was cleaning under his dratted bed—he—he—”

“What, Bram?
What?
” Linc's voice rose, and Bram shook his fist to quiet him.

“He told me I was beautiful,” Bram said and then leaned against the wall, as if the saying of it had weakened him. He appeared to be sliding down the wall and Linc grabbed him, shook him. “What did he do to you, Bram? What?” And then he let go of Bram. He ran toward Robinson's room as Bram tried to pull him back, whispering, “No, Linc, you can't, no . . .”

But Linc had already opened the door, had already walked through the sitting room into Robinson's bedroom. Robinson was there in the chair next to his bed, his satin slipper dangling from the foot of his crossed leg. He nestled a globed-shaped glass of brandy in his hand and shook it in slow circles, causing a silent typhoon in the glass. He looked up at Linc, his eyes glassy drunk. “I thought you might be Bram returning,” he said, then laughed a slurred laugh.

“I know what you have tried with my brother, and unless you want the world to know, too, this is how things will be from now on—”

“How will they be?” Robinson asked, as he took another sip of brandy and sat up taller in his chair.

“For one, stay away from my brother. For two, I am not cleaning another latrine. For three, we will be allowed to spend the weekends with Meda again—and short of that, the world will know of you and your revolting intentions.”

Bram had come into the room. He stood next to Linc, his
shoulders squared every bit as defiantly as Linc's were. “I have upchucked in your hallway, and I will not be cleaning that, either,” Bram said.

Robinson's cheek quaked in and out; he touched his finger to his cheek as if to still it. His fingers were long, his knuckles encircled with tufts of silver hair. He looked from Linc to Bram, his head moving slowly, precisely. “I am trying to decide,” he said, “which one of you will be sent upstate to work in the mines? Which one on the chain gang?”

“You do not understand,” Linc said, squaring his shoulders. “
You
are the one who will be on a fucking chain gang!”

“And
you
do not understand,” Robinson said, as he uncrossed and recrossed his legs. “You are a pair of waifs, nothings, thrown-away-at-birth little shits, spawned from alley rats, from what I have heard. Who will give you an audience with your imaginary spews?”

“We will be eager to find out, then,” Bram said, though Linc now fell silent. Linc was watching Robinson's face, which suddenly swelled with self-satisfaction, his chest, too, even the silver hair poking over the shirt that remained unbuttoned at the collar and two buttons beyond puffed up the way a cat's hair does when the cat has caught a mouse. Robinson wasn't bluffing, and though they weren't, either, Robinson held the better hand. Buddy had warned Linc about such a thing, about making a wager that he couldn't cover. Buddy would call this killing time. Nothing to do, he'd say, but back your way out of the door, bargaining if you can, fighting if you can't, running if you must.