The Past

His pajamas were soaked with his sweat and the chills raced through him as he slipped from the warmth of his bed. He shivered convulsively, his bare feet touching the cold boards of the hardwood floor as he tiptoed to the door of his room. He opened the door a crack and heard his Mum and Dad's voices coming from the kitchen. He tilted his head so he could better hear their conversation.

“The boy is six years old,” his father said. “He can take care of himself.”

“But he had a fever,” his mother answered. “I was concerned.”

He heard his father snort. “Fever,” he said. “What the hell do you think I have?”

The backdoor slammed, and he grabbed the feather pillow from his bed. The pillow was old and had held the heads of his three older brothers before him. It would probably have to hold the head of the next baby, too. Mum’s baby was due soon. Robbie overheard Dad tell Mum she could quit when she gave him a daughter. 

Slipping quietly from his room, Robby crept slowly down the staircase. He reached the bottom and breathed a heavy sigh of relief. The steps hadn't creaked beneath his weight. He slipped into the living room, where he pulled the quilt that Mum had made last winter across his shivering body and lay down on the couch. He closed his eyes and relaxed, feeling as if he had just traveled a great distance.

"What's the matter, boy?"

Robby's heart jumped, and his eyes fluttered open. His father loomed over him, his eyes red-rimmed and watery, his nose red from the cold outside. He sneezed into a large handkerchief, then blew his nose.

"I asked you a question, boy," he said gruffly, tucking the handkerchief back into the pocket of his overalls. "I expect an answer."

Robby sunk deeper into the cushions of the battered sofa and shivered. "I'm sick," he mumbled. "Got a sore throat."

"You're sick," his father repeated. "Like you're the only one. I still have to go to work, though, don't I? You can't make it to school, but I still have to go to work, sick as a dog, so's I can feed all you damn brats. What do you suppose would happen if I decided I was too sick to go to work?"

Robby stared fearfully up at his father, afraid to answer. He wasn't sure Dad wanted an answer, but he wasn't about to give him one. He already knew it wouldn't be the right one.

His father snorted in disgust and turned away.

Robby buried himself deeper into Mum's soft quilt and tried to fight the bad feelings his dad had left with him. Now he didn't know if he should just go on and fight the sore throat and fever, force himself to go to school, or just stay put and give in to the illness. He felt foolish. His father always made him feel like a sissy. He shivered again and turned onto his side. The feather pillow felt good against his hot face.

He heard footsteps coming from the kitchen and closed his eyes. Cool hands brushed his forehead.

"How's my baby?" Mum's voice was soft and close to his ear as she sat beside him. Robby relaxed as she stroked his hair. He coughed for good measure and opened his eyes.

"I feel bad, Mum," he whispered.

"I know you do, Robby."

"Mum?" He shifted onto his back to face her.

"What, baby?"

"How come Dad hates me?"

His mother's eyes fell to the hands that she was wringing in her lap. She stopped and laid them to rest on her belly. "Your Dad doesn't hate you, Robby." Her smile was sad. "Why would you say something like that?"

Tears fill his eyes as he gazed up at her. “He’s always hollering at me.”

“Oh, honey, he hollers at all of us.” Her smile eased the anxiety he felt. "Now,” she whispered, taking him into her arms and planting a kiss on the top of his head. "You can put those big old crocodile tears right back where you dug them out from. They don't work on me anymore."

"Yes, they do." He felt strangely better after her embrace. "I got a hug out of you."

"Yes, you did, and maybe if you're feeling better later, I'll make you some hot soup, with some nice warm bread. Would you like that?"

Despite his fever and chills, Robby's mouth watered. He never could refuse his mother's bread. She made her own. Robby had never tasted store-bought bread.

"I could help you make it?" he asked hopefully.

She placed her lips against his fevered brow. "I don't think you're up for that." 

Robby loved to help by running paths with his toy trucks through the spilled flour on the countertop. It kept him occupied for hours.

It was then she would slip to the fruit cellar.

He knew where to find her when she disappeared into the cellar. He followed her down the rickety stairs, hid in the shadows, and watched her pray. She held her hands high in the air. The tears would stream down her cheeks, then she would fall on her knees to the concrete floor and sit quietly. The first time Robby witnessed this display of religious fervor, he thought his mother had dropped dead right there in the fruit cellar.

Then a song would rise from her lips. Her voice was soft and beautiful, and Robby loved to hear his Mum sing. And she would smile, and the years would melt from her face. He loved to see Mum smile, too. She so rarely did.

"Sure, I am," he protested now. As if to prove his point, he threw back the warm quilt and struggled to an upright position. He started to shiver immediately. "Oh, Mum," he groaned. "I don't guess I am up for it."

"I didn't think you were. But you always must figure things out for yourself. One of these days, you're going to get in a mess of trouble."

"Ah, Mum, I won’t.”

"We'll see." She tucked the quilt around him and rose heavily from the sofa. "I just hope I'm around long enough to see you grown. Then I can rub your nose in it."

He felt a stab of fear every time she talked like that. She spoke of death frequently. He begged her not to talk that way. But she would scoff at him and tell him that death was inevitable. They would all die someday. She was just a little closer to Jesus with every breath she took.

Robby lay back against the pillow and closed his eyes. In the kitchen, his mother hummed against the clattering of pots. Dad would be spitting fire, hollering at her to quiet the racket. Then, if she didn't listen, he’d make a trip to the other room, and Robby would hear a sound slap and then his mother's quiet sobbing. Robby's Dad hated commotion. He brandished his belt frequently to keep things quiet.

Robby was glad Dad wasn't home. To him, the racket that came from the kitchen spoke of good things to come. He knew that as soon as the noise quieted down, the aroma of baking bread would soon follow. He tried to stay awake and wait for that scent, but his eyes grew heavy, and his breathing even. He drifted off into a feverish sleep.

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