Saltskin Read Free Page B

snap it, until he was
sure the man would never reach out again.
    Angelo worried: of all her admirers, whom had she
admired most? He was accosted by pictures of her in his
mind, crystalline, of the sadness lurking behind her cheer,
and he was ferocious to hurt whoever had put it there, for
he was sure that person was a murderer.
    Yet everyone seemed to claim an intimacy with Magdalene. The
    day of the wake, men and women crowded into their tiny kitchen and fondled
    her things, thinking: Once she touched this. The visitors took scant notice
    of Pierre or Angelo, making the loss of Magdalene theirs alone, ignoring Pierre
    as husband and Angelo as son. Lost wife, lost mother. Angelo pressed himself
    against a wall while the mourners sobbed in private, primitive sounds that
    made him wince and cringe, and by the time all had paid their respects and
    left, almost all of Magdalene's possessions had been stolen, even the worn
    wooden spoon she used for cooking. All except her small collection of books,
    expensive and prized possessions that were stowed in a basket under her bed.
    Angelo did not think to ask them why the visitors loved her, for of course
    they did. And when he asked Pierre why they stole, Pierre replied, 'Souvenirs'.
    By which he meant the French: memories.
     
    One month after their loss, Angelo and his stepfather sat
together eating ugly food that had no taste, no seduction,
no nourishment.
    'You should sweep,' said Pierre with a grimace, gesturing
at the floor. He always accompanied his speech with shrugs
and pouts that were as much as words.
    Angelo looked up from his plate, his eyes resting on
Pierre's sagging jaw, watched it move in mastication. He
looked down at his meal again, said nothing. His stomach
felt hollow, even though he ate.
    Pierre pushed his plate away and Angelo stood and
cleared the table, adding the plates to the pile of food-encrusted
dishes that had been there a week or more. He
turned around and an unbearable heaviness anchored in
his chest, for Pierre was slumped in his chair, and the sight
of him made Angelo feel so sorry for the old man that it
crowded the space and pushed the boy from the kitchen
into his room.
    In the afternoon light the sheets on his bed appeared
soot black, with the imprint of his unwashed body and the
pillowslip yellow where his head lay but rarely rested. He
perched on the end. He practised smiling. His cheeks felt
tight and dry and he stretched his lips back and bared his
teeth, crinkling his eyes. Feeling a little better, he stood and
pretended to play the fiddle and dance, but his body took
a sudden deep breath that shook him and made him gasp,
and he was about to surrender to his melancholy when
somebody knocked on the door.
    Angelo felt the pause, followed by the sluggish
movements of Pierre going to answer. Curious, Angelo
edged into the kitchen and stood behind his stepfather
at the opened door. With a shock of surprise he noticed
that either Pierre had shrunk or he himself had grown, for
where before the old man's shoulder had been above his
head, now they were of equal height. And the observation
made Angelo protective of Pierre.
    A lad dressed in red and green livery, ruddy of face,
looked as though he had run at full speed a great distance
to deliver the letter he now presented to Pierre. Angelo
caught the flash of its wax seal in the shape of a rose as
Pierre slid a fruit knife along the envelope and broke the
seal of the coarse paper. Its contents fell earthward, slowly.
A cartoon drawing wafted onto Angelo's upturned palm
and he felt a queer thrill as he gazed at the image. Pierre
grunted as he picked up the letter and shoved it at Angelo,
half turning away as he did. For, of the two of them, the
boy was the only one who could read, and this distinction,
apparent now, made Angelo yearn for his mother and the
quiet lessons they had shared. Pierre huffed and Angelo felt
superior to Pierre, as if he were the elder. The boy cleared
his throat