He’s warm and cold, his heart races, his hands tremble. What the hell did he find? A mass of disjointed thoughts swirl through his brain, but there’s no up and down to anything. What the fuck is it? Who put the packets there? What the hell’s in them? He screws and screws with the terrible doll’s screwdriver that keeps rotating crookedly on the thread, and now Jenny comes out and stands beside him, her hands at her side.
“Can you figure it out?”
“Well, I’ve taken it apart and put it back together, at least,” he mumbles. “We’ll see if it works.”
“Could you tell what was wrong?”
“Nope,” he says, tightening the last of the screws. “It probably just doesn’t work. Broken.”
He puts the toaster on the table, and Jenny immediately grabs it and plugs it into the outlet above the table.
“Oh, look!” She claps excitedly. “It works! I said it would! Oh, thank you, Thomas. Look, it works!”
And it does. The small coils glow orange. “Patricia, come out here. Your man is a genius with a screwdriver. Come see!”
They all stand admiring the rather smoky toaster. A burnt odor hangs in the kitchen.
“Can you smell it? Oh, I love that scent. Right before the toast pops up.”
She’s crazy, Thomas thinks. The pot whistles. Patricia pours water in the teapot. Excited now, the women return to the sofa.
“Come on, Thomas, have some apple pie!” Jenny’s eyes are lit up like a child’s.
When he clambers to his feet, he can feel the packets against his belly. What the hell’s in them? He yanks the cord of the stinking toaster from the plug and walks stiffly out to the others.
Jenny suddenly looks more like a diva than a washed up, underpaid, slovenly, scarred at-an-early-age, frustrated nurse’s aid. She throws herself upon the leather couch, props a leg on the easy chair, and her dress slides up to reveal a fleshy, milk-white thigh. Her cheeks are flushed and she seems both lazy and shamelessly sensuous. Thomas can tell it makes Patricia uncomfortable. Even Jenny’s voice is sultry. When Alice enters with a mug and plops down beside Patricia, pouring herself some tea, Jenny’s motherly love knows no bounds.
“Did you tell Thomas and Patricia who sent us a letter yesterday, sweetie?”
“Just a letter from my dad.” Alice slurps her tea cautiously.
“Isn’t that incredible? Alice and I couldn’t believe our own eyes, isn’t that right, sweetie?”
“From Ahmed?” Thomas interrupts, nearly choking on a bite of pie. “Why?”
“Yeah, Alice. Why?” Jenny smiles, her eyes half-closed.
Alice puts her mug down. “He wanted to tell me I have a little brother.”
“What?” Thomas straightens up. “Where?”
“The letter was sent from his mother’s address,” Jenny says. “If she’s still alive, or if he’s moved into her house, he didn’t say.”
“He sent a photo. It’s a cute kid,” Alice says, her face breaking into a little smile, a brief flash that vanishes almost instantly.
“He looks like you did when you were a baby, sweetie. A beautiful child. And you look like Ahmed.”
“She also looks like you,” Patricia says, “and your mother.”
“Did he send money?” Thomas asks.
“Nah.”
“You haven’t heard from him in ten years.”
“No, but now we have heard from him.” Jenny smiles. As if it was something to smile about, Thomas thinks. Ahmed let his daughter down. The tinfoil crackles against his belly whenever he moves. Carefully he leans back in the wobbly chair.
Jenny takes a deep breath and slowly exhales. “In our family the men don’t take very good care of their children. It’s a tradition. But you don’t have any children, Thomas, so you don’t count.”
Patricia mumbles: “Not yet, in any case,” and Alice sits up, says: “Not all the women take good care of their children, either, as far as I can see.”
“What do you mean, Alice?” Jenny struggles to sit up straight. “Why do you say that?”
“As far as I know, your mother left you two.”
Jenny sinks back again. “Right, well, but we had Aunt Kristin.”
“Oh, did we now?” Thomas looks at Jenny
“She was a consolation of sorts. In any event, we lived with her that summer.”
“That was a week at most.”
“I hate it when you’re so superficial, Mom,” Alice says in a high, clear voice. “It’s unbecoming.”
“Hey, now,” Jenny mutters.
“Aunt Kristin let you live with your father. She couldn’t handle you two. You told me yourself. And your father was a bastard.”
“Exactly,” Thomas says, smiling at Alice. “He was a bastard.”
“Exactly,” Alice says, returning the smile. Suddenly there’s a connection between them.
“Hang on,” Jenny says. “Aunt Kristin wasn’t much older than you are now. Of course she couldn’t keep us . . .” Now it seems as though Jenny’s about to fall asleep. Her eyes fall shut.
“Do you have a smoke, Thomas?” Alice asks. He fishes a crushed pack from his breast pocket, and offers one to Alice. They light their cigarettes. Patricia glares at him disapprovingly, but it’s oh so good to feel the smoke in his lungs. Alice ashes on an empty pie plate.
“Are you sad that you never hear from your father?” Patricia asks.
She shrugs. “I used to be. But not anymore. Since I don’t really know him, I couldn’t care less.”
“Be happy you don’t,” Jenny snuffles. “But he’s got himself a cute kid, just like you were once.” Did she drink port before they arrived?, Thomas wonders. Or popped pills? Does she pop pills?
“She still is!” Patricia squeezes Alice’s shoulder. “Please visit us soon. You can bring your boyfriend, if you’d like.” Alice seems younger and happier for a moment. She leans against Patricia and wraps an arm around her. Then, suddenly, Ernesto is standing in the doorway in his undershirt. “There’s pie?” he asks, showing everyone his toothy smile.
Thomas and Patricia push open the door to the street and are almost blinded by the light. Thomas glances up at Jenny’s windows, and sure enough, he sees a flapping arm; he returns the wave. They take a left toward the station. Patricia draws inward, says nothing. Thomas discreetly shoves his hand under his jacket and shirt and touches the packets. The tinfoil seems to have loosened here and there, no doubt there’s plastic underneath. Their father lay on a plastic sheet. Jenny insisted that the nurses dress him in his own clothes. So they did. Meanwhile they waited outside, and it took a long time. Maneuvering such a rigid cargo of flesh and bones must be strenuous work. The sounds in the hallway were hard and raw. The entire time he felt one little shock after another: a door slammed shut, then voices, then footsteps coming or going. As though all sounds were magnified. Jenny clutched the sleeve of his jacket and wouldn’t let it go. They stared at each other, but said nothing. She hung on his sleeve. Then the nurses returned, each of them flushed and warm. One disappeared, while the other began removing a thin rubber glove from her left hand. Her disposable smock rustled softly. “So he’s all set,” she said. Jenny thanked her, clasping her hands in her own. An ambulance was called. They could see him here or at the hospital chapel. But Jenny wanted to see him in