All the Colors of the Dark — Chapter 49

49

She brought him things: a toothbrush and paste, a pair of nail clippers.

Sometimes she told him the date like she knew, like it meant something, like the two of them weren’t all that mattered.

She moved through the seasons, taught him about the Galveston hurricane, the eight thousand dead. And the Dust Bowl drought, and how the prairies scorched and cracked till nothing would grow, not even wheat or barley.

“The gold rush. From California to summer in Colorado’s Kingdom. Of course, it’s not just precious metal buried in no man’s land, but you get the idea.”

She moved neatly to Steinbeck and the Joads and a thousand Okies chasing hope through depressed lands. She painted the Dust Bowl so vividly he could watch black blizzards turn day to night and feel them dry his throat and shroud his dreams.

“Maybe this is our great depression,” he said.

She told him not to be so dramatic.

She taught French with such an accent he could scarcely make out a word she spoke. But still she went on, heavy through her nose, too deep in the gutter for her r’s, and when he tried to copy her she applauded furiously and called him her chéri, her coquelicot, her chouchou.

“Do you ever worry you’re not okay?” he asked, after she had forced him to sing “La Marseillaise.”

“Okay is the preserve of the uninspired, Patchwork. I’d rather live and die at the extremes than exist in the middle.”

She let him dwell on the things she said. Tested him on her return, lighting the room when he remembered. And to his surprise he did, in a way

he had not at school.

“It’s my birthday today,” she said.

“How do you know?” Patch did push-ups. Sweat dripped steady from his nose to the stone floor. He did not count, just kept going till his arms shook. He rested then started up again.

“I like to eat Christmas cake on my birthday. My mother stocked the pantry each December.”

He’d not heard her mention her mother before.

“What’s she like?” he said.

And when she responded that too was quiet. “Decent. Weak. I sometimes wonder if the two go hand in hand.”

“Being decent takes more strength.”

He heard her swallow and then she was closer than he thought.

“When we get out, I’ll get you a gift.”

“In a little blue box? We’re too young and fucked up to marry, Patch.”

“What would you like?” he said.

“I want you to find me. You can do that, right?” she said.

“You should do push-ups with me.”

“I can’t do push-ups on my birthday, Patch.”

“I’ll get us out,” he said so quiet she leaned in close. “I promise I’ll get you home again.”

“You’re tough now?” she said, and he heard the smile.

The key, the soft scratch of metal, the heavy turn as the man entered the room. She flinched, trembled in a way she had not before.

He had nothing to give her, no gift to make things right. But he knew there was something he could do to make her day easier.

Her fingers slipped from his.

He stood with her, felt his way along her as they knelt side by side in prayer. Patch reached forward and removed the loose brick.

Heavy and rough.

And ready.

“Do not take revenge, my dear friends, but leave room for God’s wrath, for it is written: It is mine to avenge; I will repay,” she spoke loud and clear and then nudged him gently.

“Happy birthday,” he said, and he stood and swung, so hard and fast, the only sound the heavy crack of bone. And then the thump as the man hit the floor.

He lost her hand, scrambled for it but felt another around his ankle.

Her screams became distant as the man crawled up his body. A hand on

his arm, dragging him down.

His eye closed.

He did not cry.

His life tasted of metal, and other bitter things.

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