Thread and Other Stories

Thread and Other Stories

© 2017 Eric Halpenny

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Print ISBN: 978-1-54390-067-5

eBook ISBN: 978-1-54390-068-2

for those who have cried

through the night,

or maybe just wished to,

and then looked up in hope

when they saw the

dawn

Contents

Thread

Conversation | Part 1

Shrink

Conversation | Part 2

Chance

Conversation | Part 3

Conflict

Conversation | Part 4

Oversight

Conversation | Part 5

Deception

Conversation | Part 6

Thread

Part 1

After—How It Might Have Been

G rant them eternal rest, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them.

Why are we here? Yannick whispered. "I don’t even believe in God."

Shh!

Yannick grumbled to himself—quietly—and resumed trying to ignore everything that was happening at the front of the church. He really disliked church, and more so the priest, who took the silly rituals so seriously. Yannick’s sister, Prudence, worried about him—at least that’s what she told him. She said he was a blasphemer, faithless, and a heretic—all of those. She mostly said she was afraid for when he died—when he died. She was not worried in the slightest about her own death—she was only concerned with his—because she thought he was going straight to Hell. And if he went to Hell, she would be alone in Heaven.

Such talk was ridiculous. No one had ever seen Hell—or Heaven—so he didn’t think there was much to be afraid of. He thought about that for a while until his attention drifted slowly back to the Mass. He tried to ignore it, but the words still annoyingly penetrated his thoughts. They seemed to just repeat a lot of things in church, he thought, probably to make it take longer.

…and let perpetual light shine upon them.

The dirt road leading to their shanty—one of hundreds on the same side of town as the weatherworn church—was dry. The dust, disturbed by dozens of other pedestrians, made a dark, choking cloud. Yannick barely noticed it, though, because it was so familiar. Prudence walked next to him with her head bowed, her eyes mostly closed. She was praying. He knew that only because she always prayed while walking home from the church. Today, though, he didn’t try to interrupt her prayers with his normal antics—he usually tried to fake a snake bite or pretend as if she had a spider on her until he could get her to look at him instead of praying. Today, he too was somber as they walked in the darkening shadows of evening. But Yannick did not pray.

Prudence had tear stains on her face from earlier, and now and then, a fresh drop would course its way down her cheeks. The dust was caking over her wet skin. She didn’t seem to mind. Yannick’s eyes were dry, but his heart was heavy. The words from the priests, although he had struggled to shut them out, had still made their mark on him. There had been so much discussion of eternal rest that the words seemed to permeate his every thought.

He wondered what they really meant by that—he thought maybe they meant sleep, but he wasn’t certain. And beneath the thoughts of rest was something else that bothered him more. They had repeated phrases about light shining eternally, or some other such phrase. He wondered at that. He did not think he would be able to sleep forever if there was always light shining on him. Church did not make sense.

At last they arrived home. The soup needed to be warmed up. The one-room house was not much, but it was more than many people had. Yannick knew there were many people in town who lived in cardboard boxes, while he and Prudence had a tin roof. They were lucky. He looked at the rolled-up sleeping mats in the corner and then at the pot on the stove, a quarter full of broth, with the stir stick peeking over its edge. He was hungry.

He kneeled on the floor and lit some twigs under the pot to start heating the soup while Prudence sat on the floor not far away, her head still bowed. Now and then, a tiny sob would slip from somewhere within her. Yannick could only shake his head.

It’s not going to bring him back, he said.

The words sounded cold in his ears, but he couldn’t find any warmth to add to them. He knew Prudence would not like it, but she couldn’t cry forever. There was a long period of silence until she finally looked at him for the first time since they had left the church. Her face was upset, not with him, but he would be the target for a moment since he had spoken harshly.

I know that! But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt inside. Sometimes you have to let that out. You never do, and it will eat you up someday.

He didn’t look at her, but he thought about what she meant. He shook his head again, just slightly.

No, it will make me strong against it. How many people in the world died today? Not just one—thousands—maybe millions. Can you cry for all of them? You would spend your life in tears and not change a thing. This was just one more.

He didn’t really mean all of that, but there was pain inside of him, and he couldn’t just let it out like Prudence did.

She scrunched up her face a little and didn’t respond. He could tell it was because she knew that if she tried to talk, she would cry again—a lot. He looked at her sidelong through narrowed eyes, his lips pressed together in a thin line. He wanted to say something to make her feel better, but he couldn’t bring the words out. Everything always sounded harsh when he tried. He decided not to say anything.

After a few moments, Prudence regained her self-control and said,

He wasn’t just one more. We knew him. He was our friend. He was one of us.

Yannick just nodded, keeping his expression unchanged while he stirred the pot.

Prudence looked at him for a little while, obviously still sad and also fuming at his callousness. Then she stood up.

It wouldn’t hurt you to have some compassion, at least for me. You don’t have to be like this. She paused. I have to pee.

She went outside. Yannick poured soup into the two tin cups that hung from the wall when they weren’t using them. They didn’t have much in the way of firewood, so the soup wasn’t very warm, but it was better than stone cold. He looked at the carved-out wooden cup that still rested on the floor near the door. He almost wanted to burn it to heat the soup, but he knew he could not do that. It was the only thing left.

When Prudence returned, they drank their soup in silence. It was late, and this would be the second night in a row that they would get little rest. They rolled out their mats and lay down to sleep.

Yannick could hear Prudence whispering a prayer before closing her eyes. He just shook his head in wonder at her. She never gave it up, even after it was obvious that God was doing nothing for any of them. Isidore was still dead—and he was dead in spite of the prayers—and he would stay dead in spite of the sorrow. That was what all life was made of—spite and death.

He went to sleep.

***

Prudence: Sylviane! Why did you do that? We have only ever been good to you.

Sylviane: Well, what of it?

Prudence: You ought to be nice back when someone is good to you.

Sylviane: Why?

Prudence: Because you should.

Sylviane: You think so, but I am good in my way.

***

Part 2

Before—How It Was

Yannick awoke to the grey, chilly morning air. It would be daybreak soon, and he had to go to his job. Prudence’s sleeping mat was already rolled up, and she was gone. There was half of a flat, round bread on the stove for him. She had already eaten hers and left. She had to walk across town to get to her job, which forced her to get up almost an hour before him. He envied her, though. His walk was only a few hundred meters, but he had to go wait for the lorry.

He hated the lorry. If there really were a place called Hell, Yannick was sure he would have to ride the lorry to get to it.

He took the semicircle of flat bread in one hand and his canteen in the other. Prudence had filled his canteen too. She always did—he didn’t even think about it anymore. It had water in it when he woke up, and he relied upon that just as he knew he could always breathe in air. He ran to the pick-up spot. Most of the others were already there, waiting. He had finished the bread while he ran, and he drank the water once he arrived at the group. He had to finish it quickly so he could refill his canteen at the pump before the lorry came. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t have water again until the evening, when they returned.

He heard the grind of the engine in the distance, and he swallowed the last of the water with a painful gulp, leaving a feeling like a stone in his throat. He rushed to the pump and waited behind a small boy who was filling a wooden cup. Yannick didn’t recognize the boy, and he had obviously never used a pump before. Yannick elbowed the boy aside and grabbed the wooden cup from him in the same motion. He quickly filled it and shoved it back into the boy’s hands. Then he filled his own container just as the drab green lorry pulled up in a cloud of dust.

No one spoke a word, and the twenty or so boys that had been waiting clambered onto the truck in silent efficiency, except for one small form—the new one. Yannick inwardly sighed. He wanted to leave the boy to himself, but he reached out against his will and hauled the boy in anyway just as the lorry lurched away with a squeal of gears. The wooden cup spilled as he did so, though, leaving a puddle that rapidly ran along a groove in the bed of the lorry and out into the dusty trail behind them. The boy looked despondently down at his now empty cup.

Yannick eyed the boy, as did a couple of the other workers. Most, though, especially those who had been doing this for a long time, didn’t look at anyone. They stared at the floor, clutching whatever water container they owned as they silently rode out each bounce of the lorry, almost as if they were at one with the vehicle—symbionts or parasites. They jounced along a rutted dirt road that had them coated in dust before passing even a mile. The lorry was open to the air, and they sat around the rim of the bed, knees knocking against their neighbors’ but their eyes avoiding any contact.

The boy—the new one—still stared down at the empty cup. Yannick sighed inwardly again. He was certain he was going to regret this entire day now, but he resignedly opened his canteen and poured a third of the precious contents into the empty wooden cup. The boy was startled at first and just stared at the liquid he now held in his hands. Then he glanced up at Yannick’s face. Yannick ignored him, not looking at him, as if he had done nothing. The boy looked back down at the cup.

After a few minutes, he was still staring at it, ripples shimmering with each bounce of the vehicle. Yannick sighed again.

Drink it now, he growled.

The boy was startled. No one else even acknowledged that the sound had occurred. The boy again glanced up at Yannick, who just glared back at him. Hesitatingly, the boy took a drink and then eagerly finished the whole cup. Yannick stared back down at the bed of the lorry. It was not going to be a very hot day, but they were going to sweat a lot. He didn’t think the boy had a chance.

The lorry lurched to a halt at the edge of the pit. A pile of buckets and picks waited for the boys as they dismounted. Yannick grabbed a pickaxe and a bucket, placed his canteen—which sloshed disturbingly in his ears, reminding him that it was not full—into the bucket, and joined the file of barefoot boys heading down the ramp into the pit. The new boy clanked along behind somewhere, obviously having seen everyone else taking tools. Yannick doubted the boy had any idea how to use the pickaxe, or possibly that he might even be able to swing it. Yannick was certain the bucket would also be too heavy for him to carry once it were full—if he could manage to fill it, which Yannick was certain he could not.

Still, no one spoke. They hurried down the ramp as quickly as they could. They all knew that their wages would depend on how much ore they could bring up out of the shafts, and every minute counted.

The sun broke over the horizon up above them even as they reached the bottom, which was still shrouded in grey darkness. Yannick already knew where he would go, as he had been working in the same shaft for weeks. He almost turned around to help the new boy, who would be completely lost, but he did not. He had already shared his water with him, and he wasn’t about to give away any money. He darted down his shaft with a few others who usually worked alongside him. It was dark, but the kerosene lantern that the mine boss had laid at the entrance would give them enough light. In a way, it was fortunate that they started work so early, Yannick realized, because it meant that he didn’t have to wait for his eyes to adjust to the darkness.

He placed his canteen up high on a little shelf of rock that protruded above the place where he had finished working yesterday. Without delay, he started chipping away at the rock, placing pieces of the ore into his bucket as he loosened them. He had heard the telltale clanking of the new boy’s tools as he had descended the shaft. To Yannick’s dismay, he realized that sharing his water had earned him a shadow.

Next to him, after a moment’s pause, the slight figure started hacking haphazardly at the rock walls, his pick doing almost nothing but spray fragments of rock all around. Yannick closed his eyes in resignation. There wasn’t even any ore right there. He opened his eyes and resumed his work, but the ridiculous blur of useless hammering continued unabated next to him.

Yannick put down his pick in consternation and turned abruptly. The little boy stopped and looked up at him in the dim yellow light.

You’re here to find tin. Yannick paused. But that’s rock.

Yannick pointed at the vein he was working on.

That’s tin. You get money for tin.

He pointed at the rocks in front of the boy and the splinters that dusted the bottom of the boy’s bucket.

That’s rocks. You get nothing for rocks. Now, find your own place. Slow down, or you’ll die in the heat. And find tin.

He said nothing more, having provided more training than he had received himself on his first day. He resumed his own work. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the boy slink away from his side, squeeze himself in between two others, and tentatively start chipping away at the vein they all shared. Yannick still didn’t think the boy had a chance.

***

Yannick: You know, Sylviane, I don’t know why you treat us like this. You live comfortably here.

Sylviane: What of it? I don’t do as you.

Prudence: That can change, you know.

Sylviane: Ha! You couldn’t change—you couldn’t make anything different than it is—than any of you have ever done. You are so afraid—so unimaginative. You wouldn’t even know what to do. Besides, what would I care? I am just fine as I am. Whatever happens in your head doesn’t matter to me. Not really.

Prudence: Well, I don’t believe you. And anyway, it’s not right.

Yannick: I agree with Prudence.

Sylviane: Well I’m not surprised at that. What does that even mean anyway: right? How can you speak of rightness? There is no wrongness here—so there is no rightness either. You are just making things up because it’s not the way you want it.

Yannick: Well, you ought to treat others as they treat you.

Sylviane: Why ought I do that?

Yannick: Because. It’s how we act.

Sylviane: Why don’t you two worry about your own little things and let me take care of my own? I don’t know why you even care so much. You can just ignore me over here.

***

Prudence looked up as her brother plodded towards the house—his feet dragged, his hands hung limply at his sides, and his head was down. He looked more tired than usual. It had not been especially hot today, but she knew his work was hard. It was very hard. All work was hard, of course, but not like the mine. She compressed her lips as she thought about what Yannick did for them, and squeezed her eyes shut for a moment to keep in the tears. Then she resumed stirring the onion soup.

It was almost sundown. She had returned home nearly an hour ago from her job. She washed laundry at one of the hotels across town. It was tedious but relatively uneventful work. She didn’t get paid as much as Yannick, not even half, but it was all she was allowed to do. She would have gone to the mines if she could, but girls were not permitted.

Yannick came inside and sat down heavily on the floor. He sat with his back to the wall, his head tilted back and his eyes closed. He didn’t say anything. His hands rested limply in his lap. His canteen lay on its side next to him.

Did something happen? Prudence asked.

Yannick said nothing but just shook his head slowly. She nodded in response even though his eyes were still closed, but she was suspicious. Prudence took a cup of broth to him and put it in his hands. He drank it in one gulp and put the cup on the floor, returning his hands to his lap. She sat down with her back to the wall also.

Prudence slowly sipped her soup and waited. Something had happened. Yannick’s lips looked more chapped than usual. He had rinsed his face under the pump after the lorry had dropped him off—she could see the streaks of water on his face—but he still looked dirty. Eventually, he opened his eyes halfway and looked at her sidelong. His expression was one of exhaustion, and behind that was dismay.

There was someone new today.

Prudence grunted mildly. There were often new workers.

He was small. Didn’t even have a canteen. Just a cup.

Prudence nodded again. The workers were poor—Yannick was lucky to have a canteen.

Yannick huffed out a huge, exasperated puff of air.

I should have let him kill himself out there! But he was so small.

You did the right thing.

No, I didn’t. I wasted time showing him what to do. I gave him water! And I was so thirsty by the end of the day I could hardly work. I didn’t even fill my bucket. Yannick’s voice was trembling. I only had just enough money for the lorry because I had to help him pay too—because he didn’t have enough. Not even close. I didn’t have any left over.

Prudence said nothing—she just sat calmly beside him and hummed a tune that she remembered from sometime long ago. After a while, his breathing calmed a little, and she stood up. It was late, and he needed to sleep. She whispered to him as she did so,

It will be alright.

She got his mat and rolled it out for him. He was asleep before she had turned around. She rolled her own mat out but could not fall asleep. She just stared into the darkness for a long time, wondering.

In the morning, Prudence went outside to start the long walk to the hotel and almost tripped over a body lying on their doorstep. She squinted down in the darkness of the early day. It was a little boy. He was holding a cup in his hand and was sleeping on the dirt just outside of the entrance to their house. She stood looking at him for just a moment. Without thinking, she tore her semicircle of bread in half and placed one piece in the wooden cup—like Yannick, she ate her bread on the way to her job each day—then she stepped over the little boy and continued on without waking him. She was certain it was the new boy from the work crew. Yannick was not going to have a happy morning.

She walked through the shadows of the pre-dawn. The sky was still dark, although there was a lightening of the deep blackness on the horizon. Her pace was brisk, and the way was familiar to her. She did not need much light to find her way. There were electric lights near the hotel and in other parts of the downtown, but by the time she got to the hotel, the sun would be over the horizon anyway. There were only a few other people around at this time of the morning—Prudence never talked with any of them. Most had their heads down and were hurrying to a job somewhere.

The buildings were denser as she moved into the main part of the city, and the roads became straighter. She walked next