Jim didn’t move. He stood in the centre of the kitchen until the room stopped spinning. The anger in him subsided, but it did not go away. It dispersed into every limb, every cell, every part of him now.
Looking down, he saw that he was standing on his father’s name. Huge sobs burst from him. The tears coursed down his face and he made no attempt to wipe them away.
He took a deep breath and headed towards the counter, walking like a zombie. In the cupboard under the sink he found some scouring pads. He found a bucket and filled it. On his knees, he started scrubbing away at FATHER, at KILLED, at HUB. But the paint, as viscous as drying blood, only smeared horribly. He sobbed and scrubbed and the tears fell again, but not enough tears to wipe away the mess Ruth Rose had left behind.
He was still on his knees when his mother arrived home. She dropped what she was carrying. In a flash, she was on the floor beside him, cradling him in her arms as if he were a small child. She smelled of soap. She had spent the night stirring it or cutting it into bars or whatever it was she did. But for once the heavy perfume wafting off her skin and clothes didn’t make him sick. Her own tears joined his. She looked around at the mayhem, the gory graffiti and leaned on him for support as much as he leaned on her.
Finally he pulled away, rubbed his eyes on his sleeve, sniffed and crawled to his feet. His mother picked up a chair and set it at the table. She led him there, then found the kettle — it had been hurled into the wood box. She filled it at the sink. Sniffing, she put the kettle on the stove, turned it on, found the teapot — mercifully unbroken — and went about making tea.
The comforting sounds helped to bring Jim around.
“I’m so sorry,” he said.
“It isn’t your fault.”
“It is so! I brought her here.”
“You took her in,” said his mother. “That was the right thing to do.”
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “It was stupid, stupid, stupid. I hate her. Hate her.”
He heard the intake of breath, but the rebuke didn’t come. She brought him tea with extra sugar, instead. They sat for a long time, letting the drink calm them down.
When his mother spoke again, there was only hurt in her voice.
“Why would she do this?”
Jim shook his head pathetically. “I don’t know. I just don’t get it.”
After another moment she went to use the phone. It was dead. The line had been torn from the wall. She glanced at the blackboard. Nancy Fisher’s phone number in Tweed had been erased.
Iris sighed. “Where is she now?”
“She’s gone,” said Jim.
“You only did what you thought was right. I should have known better.”
Jim sat up. He suddenly realized that his mother knew nothing of what had happened during the night.
“It was because he came back. Father, I mean.”
Iris looked startled. “Last night?”
Jim nodded. “Around three. He knew she was here. When he talked to you, he knew it. Mom, he came inside. I locked the door, like always. He just got the key from the porch and walked in.”
Iris looked aghast. “Did he hurt her?”
“He didn’t get a chance,” said Jim. “We split.”
Iris looked around at the devastation. “Where were you when this happened?”
Jim’s face fell. “We got separated,” he said. “We climbed out a window and took off. I went to Billy’s place. I didn’t see her for…I don’t know…hours, I guess.” He shook his head, trying to kick-start his brain. He looked up again, looked around him, his eyes opened wide. “I can’t believe it.”
His mother sat back in her chair, her arms hanging limply by her side. “Jim,” she said, “Ruth Rose is a sick girl.”
He nodded and hated himself for agreeing with her. But what could he do? She was sick. Twisted. Deranged.
Hey, Jim, you gotta admit. This is a great idea.
“She was right about one thing,” he said. “I’m an idiot.”
“Jim, stop blaming yourself. Bringing her home was the Christian thing to do.”
“What does that mean anymore?” he said. “Was it Christian of Father Fisher to come here at three in the morning and scare us to death? Was it Christian of him to drive me out of my own house? Ruth Rose is crazy — okay, I know that now for sure. But I know what made her that way. Him. He’s just as crazy and I hate him,” he said. “I hate them both.”
With what patience she could muster, his mother spoke. “You know you are not to use that word in this house.”
“Why not!” said Jim darkly. “I’m supposed to tell the truth, aren’t I?”
“Jim Hawkins, please.”
But Jim couldn’t stop. “Right, I forgot. Because Dad hated someone and regretted it, I’m not allowed to hate anyone. Great. That’s really fair.”
His mother’s face went ashen, then grew stern. “Did she tell you that?”
“No,” he said. “But it’s true, isn’t it? Dad hated Wilfred Fisher. Well, I hate his son. Maybe it’s hereditary.”
Iris leaned her elbows on the table, let her head fall into her hands, too weary to fight anymore.
Jim looked over at her feet. She was still in her rain-boots. She never wore outdoor shoes in the house. Nothing was as it should be. Everything had changed.
“Jim,” she said, gently. “Your father told me before we got engaged all about his hatred for Wilfred Fisher. He told me all the bad things he did. He told me he had been consumed with hatred and it was a terrible thing. He wanted me to know that about him. And he wanted me to know that he was ashamed of it. Said he wanted to dedicate his life to loving what there was to love and turning the other cheek to what he could not love. Those were his words. We even said them in our wedding vows.”
Jim rubbed his eyes with his fingers. “I’m sorry,” he muttered.
“I accept your apology. That girl has made you crazy.”
A scratching noise at the outside door stopped them both. Jim was on his feet in an instant. The noise came again. Jim opened the door and Snoot dashed inside, sopping wet. She stopped and arched her back, then lifted a paw sticky with coagulated paint. Jim picked her up. Held onto her squirming wetness. Took a step, felt the soles of his shoes stick to the floor.
Iris stood up with a sigh. “Sleep,” she said. “Nothing more should be said and nothing can be done until we’ve both had a sleep.”
Jim swallowed hard, buried his head in the purring cat. It wasn’t true, of course — that nothing could be done before sleep. Before his mother went to sleep she had the livestock to feed. He wanted to help, but didn’t have the strength. He kicked off his shoes by the parlour door, submitted to a bone-crunching hug from his mother, then headed towards his room.
Thoroughly defeated, he noticed, passing through the parlour, that his binder was gone. The transcript from the Expositor, the photo — everything. And who had taken that?