After Alice Fell(48)

Lionel shakes his head and doesn’t look up from his plate. He came home while Toby and I were in the field, stopping his horse long enough to watch Toby miss the target by a foot before giving the horse the reins and allowing it to walk them to the barn.

“No, thank you, Cathy,” she says.

“No, thank you,” he mutters.

Thunder rumbles but doesn’t approach. Just lurks like a mongrel dog at the edge of the woods. Toby has picked the seeds from his fig and pushes them into a triangle with his fork.

Cathy takes his fork, then the plate, and drops them both with a clatter on the serving cabinet.

“I want that,” Toby says.

“I don’t care.” She flattens her skirts under her legs and sits again.

“Give him his food.” Lionel’s on his third glass of wine, and his words are flat.

“No. He has to behave. You need to learn to behave.” She slides the food platter close, picks up a small bread plate, and forks two slices of ham to it. Then she tips the salt box over the meat, pouring enough to coat it white. “Eat.”

Toby glares at the plate she’s pushed before him. He sticks out his bottom lip.

“You can’t give him that,” I say.

“It’s not your business.”

“You’ll make him sick with that much salt.”

Lionel makes a noise, half sigh and half groan, then turns in his chair to look out the window and ignore us.

“I don’t want it.” Toby clicks his teeth, then lifts a piece of meat, letting it hang between his fingers before throwing it across the table. It lands on Cathy’s chest, then falls to her lap.

Her face is stone. Only her chest rising and falling gives hint to her anger.

She picks up the ham and lurches from the chair, rounding the table to him. When he tries to tumble to the floor, she grabs his upper arm and twists him upright. “Do you want to go to the icehouse? Because I’ll take you there. I swear to God, I will.”

She takes him by the shoulders and pushes the boy against the chair’s back. She grips the ham and pushes it at his mouth.

“Stop it.” I grab the meat and toss it back to the table. “There’s too much salt.”

“He’ll be civilized and eat his food.”

Lionel watches her, takes a drink of his wine, and looks back out the window. Then he slams his fist to the table.

Cathy jumps back and gawks at him. “What was that for?”

“I won’t have it.” His jaw clenches tight as he stands and shoves his chair to the table. “I should never have . . .” But he clamps his mouth and stalks from the room, slamming the door to his office.

The only noise is Toby clacking his teeth. He’s eaten the ham.

Cathy looks down at him, her smile smug. “Good boy.”

“Drink your water,” I say.

“Stay out of it.” Her voice is sharp. She runs her hand over his hair. “Now you’re a good boy. We’ll have a magic lantern show tonight. Just for you.”

I can’t stay in the house. I stride instead across the road from it, out from the claw of the light, to the dark of the field. The moon is just tipped over the trees edging it. Thin sickle, not much light. The road ribbons to black in each direction. Far out I hear cowbells. Near in, the grasses bend and slip against each other with a whisper of wind. Something moves in the grass, just to my left. The movement sharpens into a group of sheep.

All the windows in the house are lit now, upper and lower floors, and the long single floor of the kitchen and storerooms. It’s like a dollhouse: Saoirse walks through the kitchen, is shrugging on a shawl. Cathy sets something on the dining table, stops in front of the mirror, then walks through to the parlor. Lionel’s there; he’s holding out the magic lantern, his shoulders bent as he sets it to the piano top and wipes the lens with his handkerchief.

Cathy stops by him. Holds out a piece of paper. He turns his back to her. Opens the lamp casing and removes the small bowl for the oil. She takes it from him and bows her head as she reads and walks out of the room.

On the floor above, Toby looks out the glass. It’s not his room—he’s in the sewing room. His window is blank.

When Cathy returns, she hands Lionel the bowl, now full, ready to illuminate the room. He steps close. Kisses her shoulder. She melts into him, for one moment soft, and then back to the business of preparing the magic lantern. She says something to Lionel, her lips pressed to his ear.

He’s not paying attention, though. He’s looking out the glass at the dark, too, and startles when she touches his hand to remind him of his job.

There’s a swing of two lamps from around the back of the house. Elias coming for Saoirse, and the hired hand, Amos. They stop at the side entrance, then the lamps swing again as they take the road to their cottage and their own evening meal.

No one in the parlor now. Toby’s left the upstairs window. I fumble for my watch, tilting the face to the moonlight, just enough to see. I should walk back. Pretend everything is as it should be. Watch the slides of African elephants and marmosets and fleas, and we’ll all laugh as if everything weren’t broken.

The front door opens, spilling light. Lionel steps out. There’s a flare of a match, the orange glow from the cheroot he’s lit. He crosses the drive. Fireflies scatter around his figure. The tip of the cigarette arcs as he lifts it, then lets it fall to his side. He stops across the road.