Malorie(5)

Abusive.

Yes. That’s it. Whether or not Olympia thinks Malorie is abusive doesn’t matter. Tom thinks she is.

But what can he do? He can leave his blindfold inside. He can keep notes and dream of inventing ways to push back against the creatures. He can refuse to wear long sleeves and a hood on the hottest day of the year. Like today.

At the cabin’s back door, he hears movement on the other side. It’s not Olympia, it’s Malorie. This means he can’t simply open the door and place the bucket of water inside. He needs to put that hood on after all.

“Shit,” Tom says.

So many little dalliances, so many quirks of his mother’s that get in the way of him existing on his own, the way he’d have it done.

He sets the bucket in the grass and takes the long-sleeved hoodie from the hook outside. His arms through the sleeves, he doesn’t bother with the hood. Malorie will only check an arm.

The bucket in hand again, he knocks five times.

“Tom?” Malorie calls.

But who else would it be?

“Yep. Bucket one.”

He will gather four buckets today. The same number he always retrieves.

“Are your eyes closed?”

“Blindfolded, Mom.”

The door opens.

Tom hands the bucket over the threshold. Malorie takes it. But not without touching his arm in the process.

“Good boy,” she says.

Tom smiles. Malorie hands him a second bucket and closes the door. Tom removes the hoodie and puts it back on the hook.

It’s easy to fool your mom when she’s not allowed to look at you.

“Hand over hand,” he says. Though really now he’s just walking alongside the rope, bucket in one hand. Malorie’s told him many times how they did it in the house on Shillingham, the house where Tom was born. They tied the rope around their waists and got water in pairs. Olympia says Malorie talks about that house more often than she realizes. But they both know she only talks about it up to a point. Then, nothing. As if the ending of the story is too dark, and repeating it might bring it back upon her.

At the well, his arms bare below the short sleeves, Tom secures the second bucket and turns the crank. The metal clangs against the stone as it always does but despite the contained cacophony, Tom hears a foot upon the grass to his left. He hears what he thinks are wheels, too.

A wheelbarrow pushed past the well.

He stops cranking. The bucket takes a moment to settle.

Someone’s here. He can hear them breathing.

He thinks of the hoodie hanging on the hook.

Another step. A shoe. Dry grass flattens in a different way beneath a bare foot than it does the solid sole of a shoe.

A person, then.

He does not ask who it is. He doesn’t move at all.

A third step and Tom wonders if the person knows he’s here. Surely they had to have heard him?

“Hello?”

It’s a man’s voice. Tom hears paper rustling, like when Olympia flips pages while reading. Does the man have books?

Tom is scared. But he’s thrilled, too.

A visitor.

Still, he does not answer. Some of Malorie’s rules make more sense in the moment.

Tom steps away from the well. He could run to the cabin’s back door. It wouldn’t be difficult, and he’d know when to stop.

In his personal darkness, he’s all ears.

“I’d like to speak to you,” the man says.

Tom takes another step. His fingertips touch the rope. He turns to face the house.

He hears the small wheels creak. Imagines weapons in the barrow.

Then he’s moving fast, faster than he’s ever taken this walk before.

“Hey,” the man says.

But Tom is at the back door and knocking five times before the man says another word.

“Tom?”

“Yes. Hurry.”

“Are your—”

“Mom. Hurry.”

Malorie opens the back door and Tom nearly knocks her over as he rushes inside.

“What’s going on?” Olympia asks.

“Mom—” Tom begins.

But there is a knock at the front door.

The door is thin and old. Malorie has expressed worry before; it isn’t enough to stop anything, or anyone, from coming in.

“It’s a man,” Tom says. But Malorie has already tapped him on the shoulder. He knows what this means. He knows also that Olympia received the same tap.

Tom doesn’t speak again.

“Hello in there,” the man says on the other side of the cabin door. “I’m with the census.”

Malorie doesn’t respond. Tom thinks of the rustling papers he heard. A barrow full?

“Do you know what the census is?”

Malorie doesn’t respond. Tom thinks he might have to do something. If the man tries to break the door down, he’s going to have to do something.

“I don’t mean to frighten you,” the man says. “I could come back another time. But it’s hard to say when that will be.”

Malorie doesn’t respond. Tom knows she won’t.

He wants to ask Olympia what a census is.

“I just wanna talk to you. However many there are in there. It could save lives.”

Malorie doesn’t respond.

“What does he want?” Tom whispers. Malorie grabs his wrist to quiet him.