Road Ends by Mary Lawson Read Free Book Online

tangle of dirty plates and utensils and saucepans, all of them now spattered with sour milk.
    “Where’s Mrs.… whatever her name is?” Tom said. “The lady who helps Mum clean the house. Has she been here this week?”
    “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
    Tom rinsed off the can opener, opened both cans of beans, looked for a clean saucepan, discovered there were none, rinsed off two spoons and gave one of them and a can of beans to Adam.
    “Thank you,” Adam said, very politely.
    They ate where they stood, spooning in the beans. Tom hadto force them down. He was fighting a growing sense of dread, brought on by his small brother and the empty cupboards. There was something going wrong and he didn’t want to know about it, far less deal with it. He pushed down the last of the beans, swallowing hard, dumped the can in the garbage, nodded briefly to Adam and went upstairs.
    The door of his mother’s room was closed. He hesitated for a moment and then tapped lightly.
    “Come in,” his mother’s voice said.
    He opened the door cautiously. She was sitting up in bed with the baby over her shoulder, gently rubbing its back.
    “Donald,” she said, and smiled at him. “Come in, dear. How are you?”
    Tom decided against pointing out that Donald was on a ship on the other side of the world along with his twin brother, Gary, both of them having joined the navy two years ago. There was nothing particularly worrying about his mother mixing up her children’s names though; she’d always done it.
    “I’m fine, thanks,” he said. “How are you?”
    “I’m fine too,” she said. “A little tired, but fine. Isn’t your brother the sweetest thing you ever saw?”
    Which one, Tom thought. I have many, none of them sweet. “Yeah, he’s great,” he said. “Um, I was wondering about food, Mum. There doesn’t seem to be much in the house.”
    “Oh dear,” she said. “Well don’t worry, there’ll be something.”
    Tom shifted his feet. “I’ve had a look and there’s hardly anything. And I think Adam’s been … hungry. Like, really hungry. He didn’t have any lunch today. There isn’t even any bread in the house.”
    “Oh,” his mother said, and she did sound mildly concerned, which gave him hope. “Well, for the moment, could you just make him a sandwich? I’d do it but this little fellow is hungry too—he seems to be hungry all the time, day and night.”
    The hope drained away. Did she just not listen or was she going nuts? She was smiling down at the baby. Tom had a sudden fleeting memory of how it had felt to be on the receiving end of that smile. The warmth of it. The safety.
    “Sure,” he said. “Sure. I’ll make him a sandwich.”
    He went back downstairs. The dread churning around in his stomach was mixed now with anger and frustration. He needed—not wanted,
needed
—to get back to his newspaper.
    He crossed the living room and stood for a moment outside the door of his father’s study. His father would be sitting at his desk surrounded by his bloody books; he’d look up and on his face would be an expression of barely contained impatience, as if this were the tenth time Tom had interrupted him in as many minutes instead of the first time in years. Once upon a time Tom wouldn’t have been put off by that. Once upon a time he’d had privileged status with their father, though he’d never been quite sure why. But no longer.
    He stood facing the door, head down, mouth a tight line. He had something important to say and he was going to say it. He would say, Dad, your wife is losing her mind, your four-year-old son is hungry and there’s no food in the house. I thought you’d like to know. He wouldn’t wait for a reply. He would turn around and go back to his obituaries.
    On the other side of the door the silence was so deep that either his father was dead at his desk or else he knew Tom was there and was waiting for him.
    Tom turned on his heel and crossed the living room