'Such a strange-lookin' thing,' Alma said. 'What's the matter with ye?'
'Alma,' Catherine said sternly.
'It's a question, is all. Do y' think he don't know?'
Lucas struggled to answer. He liked Alma and Sarah, though they weren't kind. They were raucous and brightly colored, heedless, like parrots. They had a shine about them.
'I was born this way,' he said. It seemed insufficient. He might have told them that between himself and Simon there'd been Matthew, dead at seven, and Brendan, dead before he was born. Now they'd lost Simon and it was somehow, miraculously, only he, Lucas, the changeling child, goblin-faced, with frail heart and mismatched eyes. He should have been the first to die but had somehow outlived them all. He was proud of that. He'd have liked to declare it to Alma and Sarah.
'Well, I never thought you'd decided on it,' Alma said.
'Alma, that's enough,' Catherine said. 'Lucas, surely you'll have something with us. Just a bite.'
Lucas saw Sarah shift her weight to shield the pot. He said quietly to Catherine, 'May I speak to you for a moment?'
'Of course.'
He paused, in an agony of confusion. Catherine said, 'Why don't we go out into the hallway?'
There would be nowhere else for them to go. There would be only the parlor, and the two bedrooms.
'Yes. Thank you.' As he followed Catherine out he said good-night to Alma and Sarah.
'Even the goblins prefers Catherine,' Alma said.
Sarah answered from the stove. 'You should watch that mouth of yours, some goblin'll fix it one day.'
Lucas stood with Catherine in the hall. It was like his own. A lamp flickered at one end, by the stairwell. Near the lamp, piles of paper, empty bottles, and a sack (what must it contain?) were visible in the semidark. At the hallway's farther end, the refuse was only shadows. Halfway down, in the direction of the true dark, something lay atop a discarded oil can. Did it have teeth? Yes. It was a goat's skull, boiled clean.
Catherine said, 'I'm happy to see you again.'
Speak as Lucas, he bade himself. Don't speak as the book.
He said, 'I'm happy to see you, too. I wanted you to know that I'm well.'
'I'm glad of that.' 'And you're well, too?' 'Yes. I'm fine, my dear.' 'And you're careful?'
'Why, yes, Lucas. I am.'
'Does someone walk with you? In the dark, when you come home?'
'My friend Kate does, as far as the Bowery. Really, you mustn't worry about me. You have so much to attend to.'
Lucas said, 'My voice goes after what my eyes cannot reach.'
'Wait here a moment,' she said. 'I have something for you.'
She went back into the apartment. Lucas touched the locket at his breast. His mind was a chaos of urges. What would she have for him? He wanted it, whatever it might be. He wanted so much. He watched the goat's skull as he waited for Catherine. He went into the skull. He became that, a bone grinning in the dark.
Catherine returned with a plate covered by a cloth. She said, 'Here's a little food for you and your parents.'
This was what she had for him. She gave him the plate. He accepted mutely and held it.
He was a beggar, then. He said, 'Thank you.' 'Good night, my dear.' 'Goodnight.'
She retreated and closed the door. She did not kiss him again.
He remained for a while before the door, holding the plate as if he had brought it and not received it. He heard the murmur of the women's voices, couldn't make out their words. Then, because there was nothing else for him to do, he went back down the corridor, carefully holding the plate. His father and mother would want it. He wanted it.
The old woman was waiting on the ground floor to see him out. 'No mischief, then,' she said.
'No, ma'am. No mischief.'
Lucas went into his building, carrying the plate. He went up the stairs. He was aware of a subtle wrongness, as if this most familiar of places (the stairwell, with its gas smell and its flickering lamps, the rats busy among the scraps) were altered, as if it had become, overnight, an imperfect copy of itself, in contrast to his day at the works, which was perfect in every regard.
But the parlor was itself. His father sat as he did, in his chair by the window, with the machine at his side. Lucas said, 'Good evening, Father.'
'Hello,' his father replied. His work was breathing and looking out the window. It had been for more than a year.
Lucas took three plates from the cupboard, divided the food among them. He put a plate on the table for his father and said, 'Here's your supper.'
His father nodded and continued looking out the window. Lucas took his mother's plate into the bedroom.
She was in bed, as she'd been when he left in the morning, as she'd been the night before. Her breathing, the gauzy rasp of it, filled the dark. It seemed for a moment that the rooms were like the works and his parents like machinery they were always as they were, always waiting for Lucas to come and go and come back again.
From the doorway he said, 'Mother? I've brought you some supper.'
'Thank you, m'love.'
He brought her plate and set it on the bedside table. He sat gently on the edge of the mattress, beside the shape she made.
'Should I cut it up?' he asked. 'Should I feed it to you?'
'You're so good. You're a good boy. Look what they done to you.'
'It's just the dust, Mother. It'll wash off.' 'No, m'love, I don't think it will.'
He cut off a bit of potato with the fork, held it close to her mouth. 'Eat, now,' he said.
She made no response. A silence passed. Lucas found, to his surprise, that he was embarrassed by it. He put the fork down and said, 'Should we hear some music, then?'
'If ye like.'
He took the music box from the bedside table, wound the little crank. He sang softly along.
'Don't be angry,' his mother said. 'I'm not angry. Have you slept today?'
She said, 'How can I sleep, with your brother making such noise?'
'What noise does he make?' Lucas asked.
'His singing. Should someone tell him his voice ain't as much like an angel's as he seems to think?'
'Has Simon been singing to you?'
'Aye, but I canna understand the words.'
'Eat a little, all right? You must eat.'
'Has he learned some other language, do ye think?'
'You were dreaming, Mother.'
He took up the fork again, pressed the bit of potato against her lips. She turned her mouth away.
'He's been like that since he was a babe. Always crying or singing just when you think you've earned a bit of rest.'
'Please, Mother.'
She opened her mouth, and he slipped the fork in as gently as he could. She spoke through the mouthful of potato. She said, 'I'm sorry.'
'Chew. Chew and swallow.'
'If I understood what he wanted of me, I might be able to give it.'
Soon he could tell from her breathing that she slept again. He listened nervously for the sound of Simon's voice, but the room remained silent. He wondered, Would his mother choke on the bit of potato? Gathering his nerve (it seemed so wrong, but what else could he do?), he slipped his fingers into her mouth. It was warm and wet. He found the bit of potato, the mush of it, on her tongue. He took it out. He put it in his own mouth. He ate the
