Goretti's Boarding House, the Rose
after midnight on the 15th of intas, 2719
R
avenous, said Mr. Carver.
Something funny about the way the word came out of his mouth. Clark wasn’t looking at his face, but he could hear it, the way Mr. Carver let every beat of it roll around behind his teeth before he let them out. So strange did he say it that Clark wasn’t sure what he meant, not rightaway.
It wasn’t how a man would say he was hungry. Wasn’t like how Uncle Orso sat down at the dinner table and winked at Claudia and said, I’m faaaamished,, drawing it out like a cat taking a big long stretch. It didn’t sound empty-belly hungry.
Clark remembered, then, the question he had asked – the first question. Angry, must’ve been, that funny way of saying it. Like a warning. Clark knew, then, he had gone too far in the asking. He felt a flush in his cheeks, all warm and embarrassing. It ain’t your place, Clark Cooke, he told himself. It ain’t your place, asking questions like that. A man of the world like him, he don’t want to talk about it. Not with you, leastways.
Clark nodded, setting his teacup down on the table and starting to creak up off the sofa. It had been a long journey; Mr. Carver didn’t want to talk, Mr. Carver wanted to eat. Least Clark could do was get him some more food.
Ent much one of those, said Mr. Carver. His hand was shaking in his lap.
Clark paused, sinking – delicate-like – to perch on the edge of his seat, unsure whether he ought to stay or go. He stared at the carpet, wondering at the strange way of Mr. Carver’s words. He could feel Mr. Carver’s eyes on him; he could see him looking, in the corner of his eye. He wished he couldn’t, but he knew he’d feel them even if he looked away.
He closed his eyes; he could still feel them. The hairs on the backs of his arms prickled. He didn’t know what Mr. Carver meant. Against the backs of his eyelids, he saw Mr. Carver full of holes. He didn’t know what he saw through the holes; he didn’t think it was the wall behind him.
“I don’t know I can help you wi’ that sort of hunger, Mr. Carver,” he mumbled, opening his eyes. Mr. Carver didn’t have any holes in him, then.
It was getting harder and harder to stand up from the couch, where it’d sunk down from being sat on, where Clark was getting tireder by the year. It gave another wheeze of a creak, and something popped, and Clark took the teapot from the tray – and the other tea-things – and picked up the tray by itself, with its crusty crumbs.
Clark was moving back to the kitchen, then. Out of the oil light and away from the hungry man. He stayed there for not too long. Renata was sound asleep, again; Clark made sure she was breathing, but he did not want to disturb her. So he got more bread – the last of that morning’s – and more cheese and one of the wizened apples in the cupboard, and carried the tray back through.
Mr. Carver still had no holes in him, except for his two dark eyes. But even Clark knew that Mr. Carver hadn’t been talking about holes you could see. Clark had known other folk shot through with holes. You could pour whisky into them, and it’d go right through. Clark knew people like that very well, even if he didn’t understand them.
Clark set the tray down on the table, and he sat back down on the sofa.
The teacup Clark had left on the table was still giving off a thin plume of steam, so he must not’ve been gone long. He hadn’t tried the tea with the salt in it, yet. Clark raised it to his lips and found it hot, but not too hot. He took a sip.
He put it back down, folding his big hands in his lap, hunching his big shoulders. “Ain’t so bitter,” he muttered, “wi’ the salt.”
He looked up at Mr. Carver’s face, then back down.
“You’ll be needin’ somethin’ warmer,” he said hesitantly, “warmer than them clothes. You can use that blanket, on the back of the chair. Or I can get you more. My wife’s ma, she knits them.”
avenous, said Mr. Carver.
Something funny about the way the word came out of his mouth. Clark wasn’t looking at his face, but he could hear it, the way Mr. Carver let every beat of it roll around behind his teeth before he let them out. So strange did he say it that Clark wasn’t sure what he meant, not rightaway.
It wasn’t how a man would say he was hungry. Wasn’t like how Uncle Orso sat down at the dinner table and winked at Claudia and said, I’m faaaamished,, drawing it out like a cat taking a big long stretch. It didn’t sound empty-belly hungry.
Clark remembered, then, the question he had asked – the first question. Angry, must’ve been, that funny way of saying it. Like a warning. Clark knew, then, he had gone too far in the asking. He felt a flush in his cheeks, all warm and embarrassing. It ain’t your place, Clark Cooke, he told himself. It ain’t your place, asking questions like that. A man of the world like him, he don’t want to talk about it. Not with you, leastways.
Clark nodded, setting his teacup down on the table and starting to creak up off the sofa. It had been a long journey; Mr. Carver didn’t want to talk, Mr. Carver wanted to eat. Least Clark could do was get him some more food.
Ent much one of those, said Mr. Carver. His hand was shaking in his lap.
Clark paused, sinking – delicate-like – to perch on the edge of his seat, unsure whether he ought to stay or go. He stared at the carpet, wondering at the strange way of Mr. Carver’s words. He could feel Mr. Carver’s eyes on him; he could see him looking, in the corner of his eye. He wished he couldn’t, but he knew he’d feel them even if he looked away.
He closed his eyes; he could still feel them. The hairs on the backs of his arms prickled. He didn’t know what Mr. Carver meant. Against the backs of his eyelids, he saw Mr. Carver full of holes. He didn’t know what he saw through the holes; he didn’t think it was the wall behind him.
“I don’t know I can help you wi’ that sort of hunger, Mr. Carver,” he mumbled, opening his eyes. Mr. Carver didn’t have any holes in him, then.
It was getting harder and harder to stand up from the couch, where it’d sunk down from being sat on, where Clark was getting tireder by the year. It gave another wheeze of a creak, and something popped, and Clark took the teapot from the tray – and the other tea-things – and picked up the tray by itself, with its crusty crumbs.
Clark was moving back to the kitchen, then. Out of the oil light and away from the hungry man. He stayed there for not too long. Renata was sound asleep, again; Clark made sure she was breathing, but he did not want to disturb her. So he got more bread – the last of that morning’s – and more cheese and one of the wizened apples in the cupboard, and carried the tray back through.
Mr. Carver still had no holes in him, except for his two dark eyes. But even Clark knew that Mr. Carver hadn’t been talking about holes you could see. Clark had known other folk shot through with holes. You could pour whisky into them, and it’d go right through. Clark knew people like that very well, even if he didn’t understand them.
Clark set the tray down on the table, and he sat back down on the sofa.
The teacup Clark had left on the table was still giving off a thin plume of steam, so he must not’ve been gone long. He hadn’t tried the tea with the salt in it, yet. Clark raised it to his lips and found it hot, but not too hot. He took a sip.
He put it back down, folding his big hands in his lap, hunching his big shoulders. “Ain’t so bitter,” he muttered, “wi’ the salt.”
He looked up at Mr. Carver’s face, then back down.
“You’ll be needin’ somethin’ warmer,” he said hesitantly, “warmer than them clothes. You can use that blanket, on the back of the chair. Or I can get you more. My wife’s ma, she knits them.”
