Only Killers and Thieves(38)

Tommy looked from Sullivan to Billy, who held his steady stare.

“Your brother agrees with me,” Sullivan said. “The least we can do for your family is find those responsible for this outrage and see to it that they hang.”

Tommy lowered his eyes to the plate, now awash in watery blood. He tried to go on eating but found that he could not, so he set his cutlery together and waited for the others to finish their meal. Sullivan began talking about the colonies again, Billy following his every word, while at the other end of the table Mrs. Sullivan said nothing at all. She caught Tommy staring and briefly smiled, then dabbed her napkin to her lips, her jewelry sparkling in the candlelight, folded the napkin on the table, and sat listening to her husband talk.

When all were finished, Sullivan rang a handbell and a native houseboy came into the room. “You can clear now, Benjamin,” Sullivan said.

The houseboy was dressed in a shabby livery of white shirt and red waistcoat and must have been well into his middle age. He moved stiffly around the place settings, gathering up the plates, stacking them in one hand and laying the cutlery on top. The table waited silently. Sullivan poured himself more wine and drank, watching the houseboy as he worked.

“You shouldn’t ever talk business or politics in front of them, Billy. They understand more than they let on—isn’t that right, Benjamin?”

At the sound of his name the houseboy hesitated, gave a small nod, went on.

“I make them wait down the hall so they can’t listen in. It pays to be wary, I don’t care who they are. Benjamin here’s been with us for years, and I still don’t trust the bastard an inch.”

He spluttered a short laugh, took another sip of wine. The houseboy had now reached Tommy’s place and was collecting his cutlery and plate.

“Some like to keep their boys in the room while they eat. Can you imagine? Who wants to look at that over dinner, or smell him—can you smell him, Tommy? The bastards have a stink that’s all their own.”

“John, please,” Mrs. Sullivan said.

Sullivan ignored her. As if she hadn’t spoken. He waved a hand and went on laughing, and when his plate had been cleared and Tommy lifted his eyes, he saw that Billy was laughing too.

*

He lost them after dinner. Returned from the outhouse to find the dining room empty, the chairs askew, napkins on the table, and a seam of wax dribbling down the candelabra and pooling on the tablecloth. Tommy backed into the atrium and stood listening. Faint kitchen clatter but otherwise the house was silent, every door closed. He went to the drawing room, the only other room he knew, and put his ear against the paneled wood. Nothing. He opened the door anyway. Mrs. Sullivan was standing alone by the decorated tree, one hand toying with the baubles, the other holding a thimble glass of liquor. She smiled when she saw him, waved him into the room.

“Come in, Tommy. Come in. Don’t be shy now. I won’t bite.”

“I was looking for Billy.”

“John has him. I thought he had you too . . . but come in, close the door.”

He shuffled forward. Unsure where to put himself, unsure where to look. She was still in her dinner dress, cream-colored and very tight, corseted, and her hair had unraveled from its nest of curls and tumbled around her face. Her cheeks were freshly rouged, or perhaps she was flushed from the fire behind her, or whatever was in the little glass.

“Have you seen this yet?” she asked him, meaning the tree. “They’re all doing it in England these days. Even the queen has one. Isn’t it just marvelous?”

“What’s it for?” Tommy asked.

“Sorry? What do you mean?”

“Why’ve you got it? A tree in your house?”

There was pity in her smile, warmth too. “Oh, Tommy, it’s a Christmas tree—have you never heard of a Christmas tree before?”

Timidly he shook his head.

“The idea is that you decorate it, hang balls and presents and all sorts of things. Here—would you like to try one of these?”

She picked off a parcel and held it out for him to take. Oval-shaped, wrapped in a purple paper twist. Tommy opened it and found a yellow boiled sweet, hesitated, then popped it into his mouth and sucked.

The lemon flavor burst on his tongue. Sour and sweet all at once. Lemon had always been Mary’s favorite; Tommy usually preferred butterscotch, but he wouldn’t have swapped the lolly for the world.

“You like it? Is it good?”

“Really good.”

“Well, help yourself. There are plenty, and that’s what they’re for. It’s silly of me really, doing all this when there’s no children around, but we had one at home, so . . .”

“What kind of tree is it?”

“Spruce. You don’t get them here. I had it brought up especially. Where I’m from, down in Victoria, there are whole mountains covered with these kinds of trees. They like the cold, see, and in winter we’d even get snow high up in the hills. Daddy would take us tobogganing; it really was the most wonderful thing.” She sipped at her drink. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever seen snow?”

“In a picture book once. Like feathers in the sky.”

She smiled and touched her cheek. “Well, yes, I suppose it almost is.”

Tommy sucked on the lolly, Mrs. Sullivan watching him, the upright clock ticking with each pendulum swing and the fire spitting its embers onto the hearth. A new log was struggling to take, the wood mostly ashen in the grate.