Nora & Kettle (4 page)

8. STRANGE

NORA

Silence frightens me. In the silence is plotting, planning, and waiting. Silence is death. In his silence lies pure malevolence.

Frankie kicks and bucks in her sleep. Her silky, fine hair sprays up my nose as she flips her head back and forth on the pillow like a carnival clown. I humph and shuffle to the edge of the bed. She follows me, even in her sleep, inching over and plastering her sweaty body to my back, clinging like a marsupial to its mother.

I shudder as the last few nights roll over me in a cloudless nightmare. Mother. That is my role now. Mother and shield.

The door creaks open a crack and I close my eyes, holding my breath and clamming up so I’m still as a stone, silent under an ocean. Appearing unconscious is my only defense. Because I’m not technically doing anything wrong, he has no flimsy excuse to strike me. I feel his shadow falling over my curled-up form, cold and heavy as a thick military blanket. But then it’s tugged away and I breathe freer when I hear his footsteps retire to the den.

That’s where he sleeps now. Their bedroom is an untouched shrine to Rebecca Deere. The bed messily made, a silk dressing gown lying lonely across the foot of the bed. Three pairs of shoes toppled around the large dressing mirror.

I wait until I hear the thump of his defeated body hit the red velvet sofa and then try to relax.

Sleep is uneasy.

How can you sleep when a threat hangs over you like a chandelier clipped of all but one stubborn wire? Soon, glass will shatter, iron will graze, and electricity will burn.

***

I wake in confusion as I have the last two mornings. My brain still reaches out for noises that no longer exist—my mother’s radio blasting and her loud stomping rumbling through the corridor. It’s like someone scooped up the life of this house, shoved it in a sack, and threw it off the Humblestone Bridge.

My hand shoots sideways, searching for Frankie’s warm body beside me. Her wriggly worm movements are absent. I jolt up from my bed and run out, my heart squeezing in panic. I don’t have time for a dressing gown or slippers as I throw open the door and tear down the stairs, trying hard not to close my eyes as I grip the bannister. I can’t leave them alone together.

I hit the cold tiles, stepping around where
she
landed like I might sink through the floor, and make my way to the kitchen. Listening for voices—plates smashing, crying. Instead, I hear my father laugh.

I halt in the doorway, pressing my fingers into the dark brown frame. I count the bumps and carvings in the architraves, my toes balling under. My fingers catch on a rough part, and a splinter digs into my skin.

“Ouch,” I whisper.

A chair pulls back, and I hear footsteps. I squeeze my finger, and one drop of blood rises like a bubble on the tip. Staring at it with morbid fascination, I turn it this way and that, waiting for the surface tension to break and blood to run down my skin.

My father’s jolly face peers around the cabinet I was hiding behind. “Good morning, Nora,” he exclaims brightly, frighteningly. I take a step back from this dancing mask of a face.

Marie, our maid, sighs deeply, and Frankie squeals from the table. “Mornin’. Mornin!”

My hand darts behind my back as he approaches, and one strong eyebrow rises in curiosity at my quick movement. Scents of vanilla and butter crawl across the kitchen, and I smile. Pancakes.

My father stands over me, hands lazily resting behind his back, trying his best to look nonchalant. His necktie hangs from his throat like a curtain cord. “What are you hiding, Nora? Show me what’s behind your back, please,” he says sternly but with lightness in his voice.

I stare down at his shiny shoes, and then back up to his face. His expression remains impassive. Timidly, I hold out the bleeding finger. He tenderly takes it in his hand, brushing the blood away with his thumb and shakes his head. “That looks painful, darling.” He glances up at me, eyes as earnest and round as a puppy dog he would ordinarily grip at the scruff of the neck, and says, “Will you allow me to remove it?”

I nod, dumbstruck by his sudden kindness.

Frankie’s rusk-like voice spills out around a mouthful of macerated pancakes and cream. “You better hurry up coz I’m gunna gobble up all the pancakes!” Lumps of half-chewed food fall onto her plate as she beams. I wait for the snap, the shoulders to pull back, and the hand to come flying at her face. I mentally measure the distance between us in alarm when I realize I won’t make it in time.

But my father remains calm, although I can see his jaw winding tighter and tighter like Frankie’s chattering toy monkey. He opens his mouth and a lighter-than-air laugh floats through the kitchen. He’s still gripping my wrist as he drags me to the butcher’s block that sits next to the kitchen table. Usually we eat in the dining room, but there’s nothing usual about this situation or his demeanor.

“Marie, do you have a sewing kit?” he asks over his shoulder at our dull housemaid, who’s busily pretending to wash dishes.

She jumps, her hand to her chest. “Yes, Mister Deere,” she squeaks and scurries from the room, her long, black skirt swishing like a magic broom.

We wait in silence, him pinning my wrist to the stained chessboard wood, animal blood and fat spotting all colors of disgusting, and me staring out the side window. From here, I see nine squares of beautiful. Each framethe size of a photograph. Gold blossoms, fastened to spindly branch fingers, gleam in the morning sun
.
Smiling dreamily, I think about walking to school and collecting handfuls as I go.

Marie returns and shakily places her sewing kit on the block. Frankie jumps from her chair and stands on her tiptoes, leaning over my shoulder to get a better look.

“Ick!” Frankie remarks.

I feel a prick and realize he’s already started digging at my skin with the needle, a greedy, concentrated look on his face like he’s seeking treasure. “Nora, I’ve decided to withdraw you both from school,” he states as he pierces my skin. “I’ve hired a tutor who will work with you and your sister full time, Monday through Saturday morning.” I feel the locks turning as he talks, the bolts of his control sliding neatly into place. “I hope you can understand how I feel. After losing your mother, I want to keep you both close… safe from harm as best I can.” He wiggles the needle and then holds it up. One tiny, blood-dipped piece of wood the size of a grain of rice. “Ah! Got it!” he says, proudly holding it up to the light. He then flicks it to the floor like my last scrap of freedom and smiles.

I pull my hand back and nurse it in the other. “But…”

He methodically cleans the needle and places it back in the case without looking at me once. “No arguments,” he says, dusting his hands off on his tailored brown pants. “Marie? Call the handyman and get him to sand back the door and give it another coat of lacquer. We don’t need any more injuries, now do we?”

Marie shakes her pretty, plump head too fast, gazing at the floor. “No sir.”

In one graceful movement, he sweeps his briefcase from the floor, lays his jacket over his arm, and presses his lips to the top of Frankie’s head. She rocks on her heels, hands behind her back, and looks up to smile at him. “Have fun judging people, Deddy.”

He opens his mouth to correct her but instead, he gives her a tight-lipped smile. Counselor Deere strolls to the front door. I watch him edge around where she fell too, feeling the gaping ache of missing her widening in my heart.

“You better eat your breakfast quickly, Miss Nora. The tutor will be here at nine,” Marie urges, pushing a plate heaped with pancakes, syrup, and cream toward me.

Frankie jumps up onto the stool beside mine, teeters like a tenpin, and eyes my pancakes with her tongue in the corner of her mouth. “Can I have some of yers?” she asks pleadingly like she’s starving. To add to the drama, she clasps her hands together like she’s praying

“How many have you had?” I ask incredulously.

“Five!” She holds up her tiny, white hand, wriggling her fingers and giggling.

I laugh. The sound and feel is like Christmas baubles tapping against each other. I hold my chest, feeling like it’s wrong to laugh when Mother only died a few days ago. Frankie still gazes up at me expectantly.

I fork a pancake and plop it on her chipped bunny plate. The only one she’ll eat from. “Oh, all right. Here you go!”

She picks it up in her fingers like a cookie and bites before I can stop her. “Frankie…” I sigh as she takes another one, rolls it up, and puts it in her dressing gown pocket.

She pats it once and whispers, “I’m saving this one for Mommy.”

Marie sniffles and wipes her eyes with her apron.

I don’t know what to say, so I just wrap an arm around her and rest my chin on the top of her head. She gives me a squeeze with her sticky hands.

Never still for long, it only takes a few seconds for her to start rattling around and buzzing like a fly in a bottle.

***

I feel lost as I walk back upstairs to change. The swirly handrail is clamped in my hands as I trudge up each carpeted step, my toes touching the brass weights pressing the rug into the corners. Cool autumn sunshine lights the landing. A few leaves leap from trees and swing gently back and forth to the ground. I think about what it would be like to be tiny and ride the leaf like a surfboard to the ground. My arms push out from my sides as I pretend to ride the wind. When I realize what I’m doing, I stare down at my feet, embarrassed. But then, no one’s here to watch me anyway.

I lean back on the railing, feeling my clothes slip on the waxy wood. Staring out the window, I wonder what Father is up to. Where did this sudden kindness sprout from? I want to believe that Mother’s death has given him new perspective but I just can’t believe it. A growing winter spreads in my heart at the prospect of being trapped in this house with him. And without her.

I move faster up the stairs, the memory of my mother flying over my head like a ghost. It’s still too fresh to linger and I quickly wash and dress.

Just as I’m fastening the last button of my dress, a knock at the door disturbs me. I tighten my belt and carry my shoes in my hand to the top of the stairs. My eyes close slowly as I consider the fact that no one is around and before I can talk myself out of it, I throw my shoes to the ground floor with a “thwack”, mount the rail, and let go. I shoot down like a greased marble, my breath still held at the top with my stomach. My hand reaches out to stop me, but I’m already at the bottom and have run out of handrail. I grasp the air as I slip off the end and fly toward the front door. My bottom hits the lower panel with a thud, and I let out a hysterical, panicky laugh putting my hand to my chest as my heart tries to escape. When I knock the back of my head on the door, I giggle.

A sharp knock vibrates through my head, and I search the ground floor for Marie. Then I hear her wrangling Frankie into a dress upstairs.

“Er, hello?” a muffled voice comes from the other side.

My voice is much higher than it should be when I answer, “Just a minute.”

I jump up to grab my shoes, putting them on as I walk. When I reach the door, I hover, my cheeks hot, my breath still shaky from my ride. I gulp and open it, expecting a strict-looking, middle-aged woman. Instead, I’m confronted with a young man, sharply dressed in a light gray suit, his hair combed back in greased waves. He smiles nervously as I step back from the entrance.

He moves forward, his hand outstretched in greeting, and nervously stutters, “Are you Miss Deere? Err. I mean, Nora Deere?”

I frown. “My father’s already left for court.”

“Yes, yes, I know,” he says. “I, um, I’m Douglas Inkham,” he says, still holding his hand out to me. I retreat. “Your mother sent me.”

I freeze, a strangling hope pushing at my feet and propelling me forward. Feeling flustered, I gesture grandly to the coat rack. “Would you like hang up your coat?” I ask, lips trembling. He nods and hangs his hat up as well.

We step into the foyer and I hear a creak above my head. The bannister shudders as Frankie shakes it manically from above. “Nora, look!” Frankie and Marie stand at the top of the stairs, Frankie, too close to the edge, swings her skirts back and forth. She’s wearing a Sunday dress, a sweet silk flower tucked into her headband.

Our eyes go to them and then back to each other.

“My mother couldn’t have sent you,” I say flatly, quietly. “She’s dead.”

Mr. Inkham fumbles with his case and stares at the floor. “I know, Miss Deere. And I’m terribly sorry for your loss. But your mother’s sad passing is why I am here.”

Curious eyes follow me from the upstairs platform.

“Marie! Take Frankie to her room to change,” I order. “That dress is inappropriate for school hours.”

Marie drags a protesting Frankie back to her room with a “Humph”.

“I need to speak with you, urgently. Privately.” His eyes are intense. Dark. They look like they’ve seen things I don’t want to know about.

I gulp, nod, and try to pretend I’m grown up enough to handle what’s coming. “Please follow me, Mr. Inkham.” I gesture and lead him to the sitting room at the front of the house, echoes of Frankie ducking Marie and Marie’s frustration becoming quieter and quieter as we step down the hall.