I rubbed the boys’ backs and cooed meaningless babble like, “Now, now,” which is what Old Mother used to say to me whenever my emotions had overwhelmed me. Old Mother had passed on years ago, but she’d given me the role model for the person I wanted to become. Even now, I could almost hear her creaky but gentle voice, accompanied by the slow rubs on my back, which had helped my tears to subside.
It was that memory that instructed me on what the boys needed, but while my hands and voice were occupied in applying the same kind of stress release for the boys as I’d been given, I couldn’t help picturing what they had earlier told me about their father slamming his fists into his wife. Had their father injured the boys’ mother worse than a broken arm? Had he beaten her in the head or hit some vital organ?
“He’s in jail,” said the policeman, still giving me the eye like all this was my fault. “She was in the hospital, and he broke into her room. Then he . . .”
Officer Krugle stopped, refusing to go on, but I got the picture. That poor woman. Had the father used a knife on her? Had his fists done even more harm to her delicate frame while she was suffering from the earlier bout? Obviously, something of that nature had occurred if she’d died from the second attack.
Frances took the officer’s words to heart. His lips were trembling, and his body shook worse than battered tree branches in a windstorm. His tears were quieter than his brother’s. I guessed he wasn’t one for loud emotions, but this was an overwhelming shock, too big a wound to censure.
I would guess that Frances probably understood even more the complete finality of his mother’s death. She would never again tuck him into bed, never soothe a booboo, or kiss his cheek as she told him how much she loved him. Was Frances already visualizing a life without his mother in it? Had he understood the part about his father being in jail and the relevance of that statement? Did he realize that his father must have killed his mother?
“Boys, you’ll be coming with me,” Mrs. Penn said. “First, we’re going to go inside and get you some clothes and anything else you want, then you’ll get to ride in the buggy with me. That will be fun, won’t it?”
Frances had obediently stood up, but then he simply stared at the woman, making no move to step in her direction, although she was holding out her hand to him. I think the shock had just hit his body in full measure. His skin turned ghostly. He looked like he was one second away from passing out. “You better catch him,” I cried out. “He’s going to . . .”
The officer stopped glaring at me to reach out to Frances. The hand on the boy’s shoulder seemed to bolster Frances, although I was doubtful it was meant to offer support. It was more likely the man just didn’t want to have to bend over and lift the boy up from the dirt.