By the Rivers of Brooklyn Read Online Free PDF Page B

apartment, but Ralphie had managed to pull himself up to a standing position on the bars of his crib and was jumping up and down, his face tomato-red. Last month she had been so proud he could pull himself up. Now she was worried he’d jump so hard he’d shoot right out of the crib and onto the floor. There was no question of leaving him in there while she prepared a bottle. Instead, she scooped him up in one arm – he was so heavy these days – and held his squirming, wriggling body while she used her free hand to open the draft of the coal stove, poke up the fire a bit, put on the kettle to boil, measure out the tinned milk, add hot water once the kettle was boiled, and shake it up to mix it. All this terrified her: she couldn’t escape visions of Ralphie twisting violently while she held the kettle, causing her to drop it and splash boiling water all over him, leaving his poor skin scarred for life, so that all the other children would laugh at him. “Hush, baby. Hush, baby,” Ethel cooed. “It’s all right, your milk will be here soon. Hush, hush-a-bye.”
    Her hush-a-byes had no effect on Ralphie, who continued to squall. Finally, an eternity later, Ethel was settled in Jim’s chair with bottle and baby. “Here you go, here you go,” she crooned, but Ralphie pushed the bottle away and screamed twice as loud. Ethel felt panic begin to rise. She was exhausted. She needed to pee. Mrs. Delaney would be hammering on the door soon. And whatever Ralphie wanted, it wasn’t this bottle.
    She walked with him some more, changed his diaper while he screamed and kicked, tried again with the bottle. Maybe Mrs. Delaney was right and he did have gas. Maybe he had caught something terrible, being dragged out in the cold. Maybe from now on she could buy everything from people who came to the door, or from shops that delivered. But after the long hot months of summer spent almost entirely cooped up inside when Ralphie was too young to take out much, she felt she needed a weekly hour at the shops. But at what cost?
    Finally, finally, exhausted, he allowed the nipple into his mouth. He sucked almost accidentally, widened his eyes, looked gratified, and began to drink steadily. Ethel studied his face, so round and serious, the dark red colour beginning to recede now. His blue eyes, calm again, looked so much like Bert’s. Or Jim’s. Of course all the Evans boys had the same eyes, wide and light-blue and guileless.
    He was so much like Bert, Ethel thought as he finally settled down contentedly in the crook of her arm. At moments like this she loved to look at him, to search secretly for hints of Bert. It wasn’t easy because Jim and Bert looked a lot alike anyway. And when people pointed out that Ralphie had Jim’s chin or Jim’s nose, Ethel wanted Jim to believe that. But when she was alone with the baby, she thought, Bert’s chin. Bert’s nose. And, especially – because she missed them so much – Bert’s eyes.
    Jim had been wonderful. He never questioned, never cast a doubt or a suspicion. Yet he must have guessed. How could he not? Ralphie was born eight months to the day from the night of Bert’s funeral. Twenty-three hours a day, baby Ralphie was a little bundle to love, an endless round of chores to complete, a screaming nightmare of frustration. All the things a baby was supposed to be. But one hour, at least one hour every day, Ethel had the peace and quiet to sit alone and look at him. Then he was a reminder, a charm hung around her neck, calling back her very best memories and her very worst. He was the living memorial of Bert, and he was also the shape of her own guilt, which she must never forget or forgive. She loved him with every breath in her body.
    And so did Jim. Yes, Jim had been wonderful. He gave bottles and had even changed the odd diaper, clumsily. Ethel knew from watching Jean’s husband Robert that some men had no