Specimen Days

He remained for a while before the door, holding the plate as if he had brought it and not received it. He heard the murmur of the women's voices, couldn't make out their words. Then, because there was nothing else for him to do, he went back down the corridor, carefully holding the plate. His father and mother would want it. He wanted it.

The old woman was waiting on the ground floor to see him out. "No mischief, then," she said.

"No, ma'am. No mischief."

* * *

Lucas went into his building, carrying the plate. He went up the stairs. He was aware of a subtle wrongness, as if this most familiar of places (the stairwell, with its gas smell and its flickering lamps, the rats busy among the scraps) were altered, as if it had become, overnight, an imperfect copy of itself, in contrast to his day at the works, which was perfect in every regard.

But the parlor was itself. His father sat as he did, in his chair by the window, with the machine at his side. Lucas said, "Good evening, Father."

"Hello," his father replied. His work was breathing and looking out the window. It had been for more than a year.

Lucas took three plates from the cupboard, divided the food among them. He put a plate on the table for his father and said, "Here's your supper."

His father nodded and continued looking out the window. Lucas took his mother's plate into the bedroom.

She was in bed, as she'd been when he left in the morning, as she'd been the night before. Her breathing, the gauzy rasp of it, filled the dark. It seemed for a moment that the rooms were like the works and his parents like machinery they were always as they were, always waiting for Lucas to come and go and come back again.

From the doorway he said, "Mother? I've brought you some supper."

"Thank you, m'love."

He brought her plate and set it on the bedside table. He sat gently on the edge of the mattress, beside the shape she made.

"Should I cut it up?" he asked. "Should I feed it to you?"

"You're so good. You're a good boy. Look what they done to you."

"It's just the dust, Mother. It'll wash off." "No, m'love, I don't think it will."

He cut off a bit of potato with the fork, held it close to her mouth. "Eat, now," he said.

She made no response. A silence passed. Lucas found, to his surprise, that he was embarrassed by it. He put the fork down and said, "Should we hear some music, then?"

"If ye like."

He took the music box from the bedside table, wound the little crank. He sang softly along.

Oh! could we from death but recover These hearts they bounded before In the face of high heaven to fight over That combat for freedom once more.

"Don't be angry," his mother said. "I'm not angry. Have you slept today?"

She said, "How can I sleep, with your brother making such noise?"

"What noise does he make?" Lucas asked.

"His singing. Should someone tell him his voice ain't as much like an angel's as he seems to think?"

"Has Simon been singing to you?"

"Aye, but I canna understand the words."

"Eat a little, all right? You must eat."

"Has he learned some other language, do ye think?"

"You were dreaming, Mother."

He took up the fork again, pressed the bit of potato against her lips. She turned her mouth away.

"He's been like that since he was a babe. Always crying or singing just when you think you've earned a bit of rest."

"Please, Mother."

She opened her mouth, and he slipped the fork in as gently as he could. She spoke through the mouthful of potato. She said, "I'm sorry."

"Chew. Chew and swallow."

"If I understood what he wanted of me, I might be able to give it."

Soon he could tell from her breathing that she slept again. He listened nervously for the sound of Simon's voice, but the room remained silent. He wondered, Would his mother choke on the bit of potato? Gathering his nerve (it seemed so wrong, but what else could he do?), he slipped his fingers into her mouth. It was warm and wet. He found the bit of potato, the mush of it, on her tongue. He took it out. He put it in his own mouth. He ate the rest of her supper, ravenously, then went back into the parlor and ate his own. His father had not moved from the window. Lucas ate his father's portion as well, and went to bed.

And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.
Tenderly will I use you curling grass,
It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men,
It may be if I had known them I would have loved
them,
It may be you are from old people, or from offspring
taken soon out of their mother's laps,
And here you are the mother's laps.