had been born here, had never seen Amsterdam. Max had lived the first five years of his life there, in a dimly lit apartment that smelled of mildewed velvet curtains, and the latrine stink of the canal below.
Max hollered until his throat was raw, but in the end, all his shouting brought only Mrs. Kutchner, who shuffled slowly across the porch, hugging herself for warmth, although it was not cold. When she reached the railing she took it in both hands and sagged forward, using it to hold herself up.
This time last fall, Mrs. Kutchner had been agreeably plump, dimples in her fleshy cheeks, her face always flushed from the heat of the kitchen. Now her face was starved, the skin pulled tight across the skull beneath, her eyes feverish and bird-bright in their bony hollows. Her daughter, Arlene-who at this very moment was hiding with Rudy somewhere-had whispered that her mother kept a tin bucket next to the bed, and when her father carried it to the outhouse in the morning to empty it, it sloshed with a quarter inch of bad-smelling blood.
'You'n go on if you want, dear,' she said. 'I'll tell your brother to run on home when he crawls out from whatever hole he's in.'
'Did I wake you, Mrs. Kutchner?' he asked. She shook her head, but his guilt was not eased. 'I'm sorry to get you out of bed. My loud mouth.' Then, his tone uncertain: 'Do you think you should be up?'
'Are you doctorin me, Max Van Helsing? You don't think I get enough of that from your daddy?' she asked, one corner of her mouth rising in a weak smile.
'No ma'am. I mean, yes ma'am.'
Rudy would've said something clever to make her whoop with laughter and clap her hands. Rudy belonged on the radio, a child star on someone's variety program. Max never knew what to say, and anyway, wasn't suited to comedy. It wasn't just his accent, although that was a source of constant discomfort for him, one more reason to speak as little as possible. But it was also a matter of temperament; he often found himself unable to fight his way through his own smothering reserve.
'He's pretty strict about havin you two boys in before dark, isn't he?'
'Yes ma'am,' he said.
'There's plenty like him,' she said. 'They brung the old country over with them. Although I would have thought a doctor wouldn't be so superstitious. Educated and all.'
Max suppressed a shudder of revulsion. Saying that his father was superstitious was an understatement of grotesquely funny proportions.
'You wouldn't think he'd worry so much about one like you,' she went on. 'I can't imagine you've ever been any trouble in your life.'
'Thank you, ma'am,' said Max, when what he really wanted to say was he wished more than anything she'd go back inside, lie down and rest. Sometimes it seemed to him he was allergic to expressing himself. Often, when he desperately wanted to say a thing, he could actually feel his windpipe closing up on him, cutting off his air. He wanted to offer to help her in, imagined taking her elbow, leaning close enough to smell her hair. He wanted to tell her he prayed for her at night, not that his prayers could be assumed to have value; Max had prayed for his own mother, too, but it hadn't made any difference. He said none of these things.
Thank you, ma'am was the most he could manage.
'You go on,' she said. 'Tell your father I asked Rudy to stay behind, help me clean up a mess in the kitchen. I'll send him along.'
'Yes, ma'am. Thank you, ma'am. Tell him hurry please.'
When he was in the road he looked back. Mrs. Kutchner clutched a handkerchief to her lips, but she immediately removed it, and flapped it in a gay little wave, a gesture so endearing it made Max sick to his bones. He raised his own hand to her and then turned away. The sound of her harsh, barking coughs followed him up the road for a while-an angry dog, slipped free of its tether and chasing him away.
When he came into the yard, the sky was the shade of blue closest to black, except for a faint bonfire glow in the west where the sun had just disappeared, and his father was sitting on the porch waiting with the quirt. Max paused at the bottom of the steps, looking up at him. His father's eyes were hooded, impossible to see beneath the bushy steel-wool tangles of his eyebrows.
Max waited for him to say something. He didn't. Finally, Max gave up and spoke himself. 'It's still light.'
'The sun is down.'
'We are just at Arlene's. It isn't even ten minutes away.'
'Yes, Mrs. Kutchner's is very safe. A veritable fortress. Protected by a doddering farmer who can barely bend over, his rheumatism pains him so, and an illiterate peasant whose bowels are being eaten by cancer.'
'She is not illiterate,' Max said. He heard how defensive he sounded, and when he spoke again, it was in a tone of carefully modulated reason. 'They can't bear the light. You say so yourself. If it isn't dark there is nothing to fear. Look how bright the sky.'
His father nodded, allowing the point, then said, 'And where is Rudolf?'
'He is right behind me.'
The old man craned his head on his neck, making an exaggerated show of searching the empty road behind Max.
'I mean, he is coming,' Max said. 'He stops to help clean something for Mrs. Kutchner.'
'Clean what?'
'A bag of flour I think. It breaks open, scatters on everything. She's going to clean herself, but Rudy say no he wants to do it. I tell them I will run ahead so you will not wonder where we are. He'll be here any minute.'
His father sat perfectly still, his back rigid, his face immobile. Then, just when Max thought the conversation was over, he said, very slowly, 'And so you left him?'
Max instantly saw, with a sinking feeling of despair, the corner he had painted himself into, but it was too late now, no talking his way back out of it. 'Yes sir.'
'To walk home alone? In the dark?'
'Yes sir.'
'I see. Go in. To your studies.'
Max made his way up the steps, towards the front door, which was partly open. He felt himself clenching up as he went past the rocking chair, expecting the quirt. Instead, when his father lunged, it was to clamp his hand on Max's wrist, squeezing so hard Max grimaced, felt the bones separating in the joint.
His father sucked at the air, a sissing indraw of breath, a sound Max had learned was often prelude to a right cross. 'You know our enemies? And still you dally with your friends until the night come?'
Max tried to answer, but couldn't, felt his windpipe closing, felt himself choking again on the things he wanted, but didn't have the nerve, to say.
'Rudolf I expect not to learn. He is American, here they believe the child should teach the parent. I see how he look at me when I talk. How he try not to laugh. This is bad. But you. At least when Rudolf disobey, it is deliberate, I feel him
engaging me. You disobey in a stupor, without considering, and then you wonder why sometime I can hardly stand to look at you. Mr. Barnum has a horse that can add small numbers. It is considered one of the great amazements of his circus. If you were once to show the slightest comprehension of what things I tell you, it would be wonder on the same order.' He let go of Max's wrist, and Max took a drunken step backwards, his arm throbbing. 'Go inside and out of my sight. You will want to rest. That uncomfortable buzzing in your head is the hum of thought. I know the sensation must be quite unfamiliar.' Tapping his own temple to show where the thoughts were.
'Yes sir,' Max said, in a tone-he had to admit-which sounded stupid and churlish. Why did his father's accent sound cultured and worldly, while the same accent made himself sound like a dull-witted Scandinavian farmhand, someone good at milking the cows maybe, but who would goggle in fear and confusion at an open book. Max turned into the house, without looking where he was going, and batted his head against the bulbs of garlic hanging from the top of the door frame. His father snorted at him.
Max sat in the kitchen, a lamp burning at the far end of the table, not enough to dispel the darkness gathering in the room. He waited, listening, his head cocked so he could see through the window and into the yard. He had his English Grammar open in front of him, but he didn't look at it, couldn't find the will to do anything but sit and watch for Rudy. In a while it was too dark to see the road, though, or anyone coming along it. The tops of the pines were black cutouts etched across a sky that was a color like the last faint glow of dying coals. Soon even that was gone, and into the darkness was cast a handful of stars, a scatter of bright flecks. Max heard his father in the rocker, the soft whine-and-thump of the curved wooden runners going back and forth over the boards of the porch. Max shoved his hands through his hair, pulling at it, chanting to himself,
Rudy, come on, wanting more than anything for the waiting to be over. It might've been an hour. It might've been fifteen minutes.
Then he heard him, the soft chuff of his brother's feet in the chalky dirt at the side of the road; he slowed as he came into the yard, but Max suspected he had just been running, a hypothesis that was confirmed as soon as Rudy spoke. Although he tried for his usual tone of good humor, he was winded, could only speak in bursts.
'Sorry, sorry. Mrs. Kutchner. An accident. Asked me to help. I know. Late.'
The rocker stopped moving. The boards creaked, as their father came to his feet.
'So Max said. And did you get the mess clean up?'
'Yuh. Uh-huh. Arlene and I. Arlene ran through the kitchen. Wasn't looking. Mrs. Kutchner-Mrs. Kutchner dropped a stack of plates-'
Max shut his eyes, bent his head forward, yanking at the roots of his hair in anguish.
'Mrs. Kutchner shouldn't tire herself. She's unwell. Indeed, I think she can hardly rise from bed.'
'That's what-that's what I thought. Too.' Rudy's voice at the bottom of the porch. He was beginning to recover his air. 'It's not really all the way dark yet.'
'It isn't? Ah. When one get to my age, the vision fail some, and dusk is often mistake for night. Here I was thinking sunset has come and gone twenty minutes ago. What time-?' Max heard the steely snap of his father opening his pocket watch. He sighed. 'But it's too dark for me to read the hands. Well. Your concern for Mrs. Kutchner, I admire.'
'Oh it-it was nothing-' Rudy said, putting his foot on the first step of the porch.
'But really, you should worry more about your own well-being, Rudolf,' said their father, his voice calm, benevolent, speaking in the tone Max often imagined him employing when addressing patients he knew were in the final stages of a fatal illness. It was after dark and the doctor was in.
Rudy said, 'I'm sorry, I'm-'
'You're sorry now. But your regret will be more palpable momentarily.'
The quirt came down with a meaty smack, and Rudy, who would be ten in two weeks, screamed. Max ground his teeth, his hands still digging in his hair; pressed his wrists against his ears, trying vainly to block out the sounds of shrieking, and of the quirt striking at flesh, fat and bone.
With his ears covered he didn't hear their father come in. He looked up when a shadow fell across him. Abraham stood in the doorway to the hall, hair disheveled,
