Page 20 of Boy Blue
Going inside, I shut the door and slid off the rubber boots, leaving them in the boot tray to dry. Then I went into the kitchen, set the kettle to boiling, and got out the tea-makingthings. It was a simple task that I could do; I’d done it before. Then I’d knock on the workshop door and present Wolfe with an afternoon treat. A cup of tea, with sugar only because there was no milk, and a single cake donut neatly arranged on a plate.
The kettle came to a boil, and I put five tea bags in the teapot and closed the lid. While that was steeping, I went into the fridge. The plastic baggie with the donut was gone. Which meant that Wolfe had taken it. Probably so he could eat it without me watching him like I wanted a bite.
The idea of it made my eyes sting. This was his place. He could eat what he liked, when he liked, only he had to hide it because his guest was a greedy pig who was eating him out of house and home.
I scrubbed at my eyes with my palms, then reached to give the teapot a swirl to hurry the steeping process, even though I knew in the back of my mind that you should never do that, or you’ll make the tea bitter. Rosalinda had taught me that. She had made the best tea with little triangle cucumber sandwiches with the crust cut off.
I made myself stop the flow of images and memories because Wolfe needed his tea, even if he’d already eaten his donut. But as I grabbed for the handle of the teapot, it slipped in my damp hand and smashed open with a crack that sent shards of pottery floating across the floor on a sea of brown tea that blended in with the color of the wood.
The waste of it battled with a sense of dread. I couldn’t move but sank into the corner, where the cupboard under the sink met with the narrow cupboard by the stove. My breath came in gasps as the fast-cooling tea soaked into my jeans.
My head rang with shouts, and if there was someone standing over me, they were a shadow. A raised hand that moved in air that smelled like old soap on stagnant water.Do you want Room or House or Cellar?
That question had never been one I could ever answer without stuttering, even as I’d done my best to be a kind of cape-wearing hero who wasn’t afraid of anything. Who spat in the face of danger. But my best had always failed, leaving me curled up in a ball on the floor. Dodging the hate. The blows.
Cellar was cold with damp corners, the mold so tightly woven with the cement that you could smell it, inhale it into your lungs.
House was a separate building that had nothing but thin windows, a door that locked from the inside, a metal cot with no mattress, and a single belt hanging from a nail pounded into the damp-laced plaster wall.
Room was at the top of the dormitory. It had one white-painted window that looked out from beneath a sagging gable roof. There was no running water, no AC. Just a chain nailed to the floor and a hard metal cuff attached to the end of it.
Surely this was all fiction in my head. My body told me otherwise, going tight all over.
Room,I’d said, the echo of that statement coming back to me on ghostly ribbons. The cuff had been heavy on my ankle.
Room was hot. The door had no lock on either side, but it didn’t need one, not with the cuff. The air sat still, as though it had died a long time ago and could not move, not for love or money. But the window was not locked and could be opened when I reached hard enough, yanked on the white-painted handle, stiff from disuse. Nothing was locked, except the cuff. I remember storing the information away for later.
“Blue?”
I looked up. It wasn’t a wrathful shadow standing over me; it was Wolfe, coming through the open doorway, snow on his boots, his hair rumpled, crumbs on his lower lip. I shuddered a breath because yes, he’d eaten that donut which I didn’t deserve any of because I’d broken his teapot. He wasn’t going to be happy about that, but I would just have to bear his wrath and askfor Room because it was there I could finish the puzzle as to how to escape.
“I broke it,” I said. “I’m so sorry. Please don’t be mad.”
My hands went over my mouth to lock off a scream as he stepped into the lake of tea. The liquid was sinking into the floor he’d worked so hard on the summer before. So now I’d ruined the floor, too.
“Don’t move,” he said. “You okay?”
I didn’t know if I was or not, but I watched him. First, he took off his flannel shirt to soak up a small lake of tea at his feet. Then he grabbed the broom and began to sweep the tea onto the snow.
When he could, he grabbed a towel from where it had been draped over the faucet, then grabbed another, folded from where the dishes had been. Both of these soaked up a lot of tea, and the rest he swept outside, turning the snow brown.
“No, don’t get up,” he said, coming toward me, sweeping shards of crockery into a pile in the middle of the floor as he went. “Why aren’t you wearing shoes? You need shoes.”
When he knelt on one knee in front of me, I drew back, pressing into the cupboard, unable to understand why he wasn’t shouting.
“I’m sorry,” I said, my mind circling around the question of Cellar, House, or Room, like I was spinning the dial on a children’s board game.
“Don’t cry,” he said, a gentle sweep of his thumbs beneath my eyes. “It cost me fifty cents at a thrift store in Billings. I can easily get another.”
I blinked at him, the blinks turning into fully closed eyes so that I wouldn’t be confused about what I was seeing. Feeling. Wolfe, up close, not yelling. The scent of sweat and soap and leather oil settling on me like some soft thing. His touches gentle, a sweep of fingers as he combed my hair back from my face.
I wanted to fold into a ball and dissolve into my tears, but he wouldn’t let me. Instead, he helped me stand up, then, his hands firm around my waist, lifted me onto the kitchen counter.
“There could be tiny shards,” he said, as though responding to my unspoken bewilderment. “Always wear shoes when cooking. Understand?”
I liked it when he talked like that. A rule laid out. A single word uttered that required agreement. So basic, it settled me, though my hands clenched the edge of the counter tighter than I should have. And I knew this because he came over and uncurled my fingers, placed them on my lap, and patted them, as if the matter was settled.
“Yes,” I said.
