There were twelve steps from the kitchen to the bedroom, then a pause to
push the door with his elbow, then another five steps to the table beside
the bed. For days he had counted them under his breath. He walked slowly,
balancing the bowl between both hands, not complaining, not even when the
broth spilled over the side. His breath came out in a long, low hiss but
aside from his rapidly blinking eyes, there was no other sign of pain.
He put the bowl down gently, holding his breath until the task was successfully completed. Then he crossed to the door and bolted it, listening for sounds of footsteps in the hall. He had never heard any so far, but it was only a matter of time.
A sound from the bed caught his attention. The man lying there was struggling to lift his hand. He flew back to the bed and bent over anxiously. "What is it?"
The man pointed to the far corner of the room. He turned and checked. Yes, the occupant of the truckle bed was still there, watching the proceedings with large eyes as he ate his boiled potato and carrots. "It's alright, Dad. Conn's eating his dinner. I got it first tonight."
He turned back to the bed with a smile. The man grimaced, one side of his face unyielding while the other moved spasmodically. Harsh noises eventually surrendered to a strong will and became words. "You.your.turn.eaten?"
"Yes, Dad, I ate already." He sat on the side of the bed and reached for the bowl. "I need all my strength to keep you in bed so you don't run around and dance a jig." He held out a spoonful of broth.
The man's torso began to shake and puffs of breath wheezed from his throat. "Ha, ha, ha." He reached forward and patted the other's knee, then let his arm fall to the bed, exhausted by the effort.
For some time the meal proceeded in silence. Finally the man relaxed into his pillows, eyes closed, and sighed deeply. His chest rose and fell evenly and he slept.
His son gathered up the bowl and plates and returned them to the kitchen. He bolted the door again and sank down on the truckle bed, finally surrendering to the softness. The growing darkness encouraged his feeling of drowsiness.
"Niall? Are you still awake?" The whisper was urgent in his ear.
"Yes, Conn."
"I want Sam to come back."
"She will, Conn. With lots of money. Then everything will be fine again."
"I want her now, Niall." The voice trembled with tears.
Niall opened his eyes and looked at his brother. "So do I. But she'll come as soon's she can."
Loud footsteps crashed down the hall outside. Niall and Conn froze, their breaths congealing in their lungs. Then Niall reached under the bed and pulled out a six-shooter. He held the weapon in both hands and pointed the muzzle at the door.
Beside him Conn cowered behind his pillow, his thumb hovering near his mouth.
They could feel the floorboards under them shake with the force of heavy treads. "ANNIE! You hear me, woman?" The man's voice was harsh and loud, and Niall pictured him as a giant of eight feet or more, his head probably brushing the ceiling of the hall. Conn disappeared under the covers.
Niall held the gun tighter.
A door opened and a woman's voice, laughing and soft, interrupted the man. They exchanged words and then the door shut again, leaving the hall silent once more.
Niall slowly lowered the gun to the covers, then slid it under the bed again. He looked at the lump in the bed that was his seven-year-old brother. He wished Liam was back from working at the livery stables. Liam was twelve and would know what to do. He wished Sam was back. He wished his Dad was better again and things were the way they used to be.
Most of all he wished he wasn't only ten years old and scared.
He put the bowl down gently, holding his breath until the task was successfully completed. Then he crossed to the door and bolted it, listening for sounds of footsteps in the hall. He had never heard any so far, but it was only a matter of time.
A sound from the bed caught his attention. The man lying there was struggling to lift his hand. He flew back to the bed and bent over anxiously. "What is it?"
The man pointed to the far corner of the room. He turned and checked. Yes, the occupant of the truckle bed was still there, watching the proceedings with large eyes as he ate his boiled potato and carrots. "It's alright, Dad. Conn's eating his dinner. I got it first tonight."
He turned back to the bed with a smile. The man grimaced, one side of his face unyielding while the other moved spasmodically. Harsh noises eventually surrendered to a strong will and became words. "You.your.turn.eaten?"
"Yes, Dad, I ate already." He sat on the side of the bed and reached for the bowl. "I need all my strength to keep you in bed so you don't run around and dance a jig." He held out a spoonful of broth.
The man's torso began to shake and puffs of breath wheezed from his throat. "Ha, ha, ha." He reached forward and patted the other's knee, then let his arm fall to the bed, exhausted by the effort.
For some time the meal proceeded in silence. Finally the man relaxed into his pillows, eyes closed, and sighed deeply. His chest rose and fell evenly and he slept.
His son gathered up the bowl and plates and returned them to the kitchen. He bolted the door again and sank down on the truckle bed, finally surrendering to the softness. The growing darkness encouraged his feeling of drowsiness.
"Niall? Are you still awake?" The whisper was urgent in his ear.
"Yes, Conn."
"I want Sam to come back."
"She will, Conn. With lots of money. Then everything will be fine again."
"I want her now, Niall." The voice trembled with tears.
Niall opened his eyes and looked at his brother. "So do I. But she'll come as soon's she can."
Loud footsteps crashed down the hall outside. Niall and Conn froze, their breaths congealing in their lungs. Then Niall reached under the bed and pulled out a six-shooter. He held the weapon in both hands and pointed the muzzle at the door.
Beside him Conn cowered behind his pillow, his thumb hovering near his mouth.
They could feel the floorboards under them shake with the force of heavy treads. "ANNIE! You hear me, woman?" The man's voice was harsh and loud, and Niall pictured him as a giant of eight feet or more, his head probably brushing the ceiling of the hall. Conn disappeared under the covers.
Niall held the gun tighter.
A door opened and a woman's voice, laughing and soft, interrupted the man. They exchanged words and then the door shut again, leaving the hall silent once more.
Niall slowly lowered the gun to the covers, then slid it under the bed again. He looked at the lump in the bed that was his seven-year-old brother. He wished Liam was back from working at the livery stables. Liam was twelve and would know what to do. He wished Sam was back. He wished his Dad was better again and things were the way they used to be.
Most of all he wished he wasn't only ten years old and scared.