Early morning sunshine filtered through my window, a welcome change from the gray skies of the days before. I rolled over to find the cat lazing in a sun spot on Norm’s side.
“What are you doing in my bed?” I asked.
She lifted her head and blinked long and slow at me before tucking her nose into her crossed paws.
“Are you ready to get up? Or are you going to sleep all day, you lazy bones?” I asked, rubbing my hand along her spine. “Oh, Betty Sweet. You have really lost it. Talking to a cat.”
Getting myself ready for the day, I listened for any sign of stirring upstairs but heard nothing. So I tried to be as quiet as possible when I brewed a pot of coffee and made a batch of muffins.
Half an hour later and still no stirring, I decided that they needed all the rest they could get. It didn’t bother me, letting them sleep the morning away. I retrieved the morning paper from the stoop as quietly as I could, hoping not to disturb them.
Flannery, however, had another idea.
Very rarely did she venture upstairs. That morning, though, she did, yowling at the top of her lungs, acting the part of our own rooster.
I’d never been one to rush, but that morning I did. Right up those stairs and to the landing to scoop her up, shushing her to no avail.
I caught Hugo watching me from where he still lay in his bed. He shut his eyes fast, as if he thought I’d not seen him. His little face scrunched up so tight, and I had to cover my mouth to keep from chuckling.
“Psst,” I hissed into the room. “Hugo.”
He opened his left eye the tiniest bit, his lid quivering.
“Are you awake?” I asked, my voice a whisper. “If you are, I have brown sugar muffins downstairs.”
His left eye opened all the way.
“I might be able to find some bacon to fry up too.” I stepped into the room on tiptoe, not wanting to disturb Clara in the other room. I bent at the waist once I reached his bedside, letting the cat hop out of my arms and next to him. “If you happen to be awake and hungry, that is.”
He sat up, both eyes wide, and licked his lips. The cat butted her head into his shoulder, and he scowled at her.
“Oh, honey. She’s not being mean. That’s her way of telling you that she likes you,” I said. “She certainly does have a funny way of showing it, doesn’t she?”
He nodded, still frowning at the cat.
That was when I caught the whiff of something from the bedclothes.
“Are you all right, sweetie?” I asked.
He lowered his face, resting his little chin on his chest as if all of a sudden remembering that he should feel ashamed of himself.
“What is it?” I tilted my head.
“I had an accident,” he whispered, drawing away from me just slightly.
“Oh, well that’s all right.” I stood upright. “It’s easy to clean up.”
“Are you mad?”
“No. Why would I be?” I smiled at him. “Let’s get you cleaned up. Then we’ll make that bacon.”
He lowered his legs off the bed and to the floor, the old T-shirt he’d worn as pajamas hanging past his knees. In the downstairs bathroom I showed him how to draw water in the tub and where I’d put the soap that he could use.
“Make sure you get the washcloth good and sudsy, all right?” I said. “I’ll find something for you to wear once you’re all spick-and-span.”
I helped him out of the oversized T-shirt, telling him to leave his little briefs on until I was out of the room.
That was when I saw the matching bruises on either arm. They looked like someone had grabbed hold of him so hard, too hard. The purple was faded like they’d been made a few days before. When he realized I’d noticed them, he crossed his arms, concealing the marks with his cupped hands.
“Do they hurt?” I asked, making my voice small, soft.
He shook his head. “Not anymore.”
“Who did that?”
He shook his head again, a refusal to tattletale.
“You don’t have to tell me.” I licked my lips. “But I want you to know that you didn’t deserve to be hurt. No matter what. All right?”
He blinked hard twice.
“Well, how about you get into the bath,” I said. “Will you call for me if you need anything?”
“Good. Just put your briefs on the floor there. I’ll get them after you’re done.”
I closed the door behind me and waited to hear the sloshing of water before I went back upstairs to collect the bedclothes to put in the washing machine. But when I got to the top of the steps, I turned to the other bedroom, pushing the door and looking inside.
“Clara?” I said. “Are you up?”
She rolled toward me, keeping her eyes shut. “I am now.”
“I have Hugo in the tub.” I walked into the room and stood at the foot of the bed. “He had an accident.”
Sitting up, she rubbed at her eyes with the heels of her hands. “Gosh, I’m sorry.”
“It’s no trouble,” I said. “Truly.”
“I’ll clean it up.” She swung her feet off the bed, her legs pale and skinny under the hem of the slip she’d worn as a nightie. “Just give me a minute.”
“You don’t have to do that. I’m more than happy to.”
She shrugged and stood, going to the raggedy suitcase that lay open on the floor against the wall. Crouching, she riffled through the contents.
“He has some angry looking bruises on his arms,” I said, fully aware of how my voice trembled.
Clara stilled her hands and let her head drop.
“I don’t need to know how he got them,” I went on. “But I don’t want to see more like them.”
“Birdie, I . . .”
“You don’t have to explain yourself to me.” I turned to leave the room. “I didn’t say it to make you feel badly.”
I was certain she felt plenty horrible about it already. I imagined she’d already begged Hugo’s forgiveness for her loss of temper. That she’d sobbed at the capacity to do harm that had burbled up inside her.
When I imagined her grief, I saw how much she’d grown to look like our mother.
“He doesn’t deserve that kind of treatment,” I said before looking at her over my shoulder. “We didn’t either.”
Those last three words out of my mouth shocked me. It was so seldom that I allowed myself to think about the days our mother had spent angry and mean. I had much rather remembered her days of whimsy and happiness. I’d even let myself think on the times when she tried to sleep away her sadness.
It was simply easier for me to tuck the memories of Mother’s rage into a corner of my mind and turn my back on them. It hurt less that way.
“I hate myself for it,” Clara said.
“Well, I think he still loves you,” I said and stepped out in the hall, making my way to strip Hugo’s bed.
It was no trouble at all.