Chapter 58 fifty seven bernard

Queenie put the baby in a drawer.A strange way to unfold a new life.The bottom drawer.The largest compartment in my mother's chest of drawers (for the laundered linens).She secretly hides baby clothes.I saw her wrestle with the chair and pull a suitcase from the top of the cupboard.Everything is woven.The funny thing is, I still recognize the wool.I saw her knitting several times before the war.Originally cardigans and sundresses, earlier it was baby socks and hats.She even provided diapers.Pulled a bunch from the suitcase under the bed.Big pins are always on the sideboard for all to see.It never occurred to me to take these as clues.

I was hanging out in Dad's room.Rejoice in the comfort of the familiar four walls.In this terrifying homecoming, everything is wrong.Nor did I recognize a single scene of life that was being played out before my eyes.I feel like I've strayed into another person's life and now I'm busy finding my place.But how long can a man stay tongue-tied about his situation?Rubbing eyes indifferently in response to unusual glares?It's stupid, I know, but I envy Dad.The shock just confuses him.Make him speechless and useless.I hope that when I wake up, I will lose the ability to struggle and surrender without a choice.Drooling in a chair while Queenie feeds me.Clean up the mess.But unfortunately, this big shock that belongs to me is still at a level that I can bear.

I only move around when she is resting.Mostly at night.Stupid, I know.But I am afraid of unexpected encounters.Past the kitchen and through the living room.It's not the decadence of seeing her nurturing an illegitimate child.Nor is it the fear of out-of-control anger.Or pity that makes me cry unjustly.but her expectations.To see in the inquiring glance, in the glance back.She wants me to substitute words for silence.But the truth is I'm numb.I long for something that will once again inspire me to speak out.Anger, hurt, blame.so poor.I was as blank as a blank sheet of paper.Not knowing what to feel.

Just as I was going to bed, I heard him start moving.Even I knew it was the low sobbing that caused the wailing. (He cries every night and most of the day.) Open the door and have a look.Queenie fell asleep.Snoring in a deep sleep.She needs sleep.Just after giving birth, the doctor told her to rest.The doctor came to check on her and see if the baby was all right.Indicates to sleep and double ratio.I send him out.He took me aside and asked her about the whereabouts of her husband.I told him: right in front of you.That sentence made him stare at me like I was a monster.A long moment.Then he babbled on about the war, thinking it would have a soothing effect.I nod.Why not?Talk about war.It's been three years.But yes, perhaps the threads of that rag are still tangled.

I tiptoed into the room.Don't wake her up.Just to check if anything tricky is going on.The drawers are on the two chairs beside the bed.I look in.His mouth was moving carefully into a frown.Something made him sad.He showed it to everyone without concealment.There is no hypocrisy, only melancholy.The corners of the mouth are down, as clear as a cartoon sketch.I thought my presence would silence him.But the crying became louder and louder.Queenie moved.I am ready to run.His lips were pursed, and he looked like he was about to cry.I put my hand down and placed it gently on his stomach. (I've seen a woman do this to her own baby.) His belly was as warm as a thermos.I rubbed it and his expression changed.Not that sad.His mouth relaxes.No need to cry.He opened his eyes, looking for my trace, his dark skin was as fresh as polished shoes.Flat nose, two nostrils, small.His lips were beautifully shaped, as if newly painted.Small fists clenched tightly, swinging in front of the mouth.Feet kicked under the blanket.Glad I was there.He licked his lips with his tongue.Give him my fingers to hold.He held on tight.Wrapped in black little finger.Hold it tight.Then he pulled hard and sent it into his open mouth.Quickly suck up my fingers.Clamped with gums, stuffy and damp.And warm.He sucks like honey.quite satisfied.Actually he was a cute little thing.

He is struggling with sleep.Eyes close only to reopen.Want to find me again.He didn't suck my finger so hard and I pulled it back.That scowling face came back to those sniffles.I said to him: All right.My voice seemed to soothe him.The eyes are focused on the nose.I whispered: Okay, okay.I think of a song.Mom used to sing a song.It has long been lost in the feelings of the past, but she must have sung it to me.My voice was broken and out of tune.Not a singer.But even so, I almost started singing when his eyes closed.Go to sleep, my baby, it's dark outside the window.Can't remember all the lyrics.Take it with you when necessary.But his eyes were closed.Two lines under the frown.The air he sucked was gone too.I pull my fingers away.Help him cover the quilt again.You're done.I turn and leave.

Queenie sat up in bed, staring at me, tongue gaping in surprise.The little guy moved again.I bend over.Talk to him childishly.All right, all right, sleep.Talk crap.Undoubtedly, my voice has a soothing effect.Stupid stuff, but Queenie was listening too, so all of a sudden I said: You know, I've been to prison. Her untuned voice seemed to shout: What?when? I put a finger to my lips to signal her to be quiet.Don't wake him up completely.His eyes narrowed again.A baby snoring softly in his mouth.He looks like Queenie.Although the skin color is different, it is her son, so there is no mistake.Speak softly to him.The unabashed truth.No decoration is required.But I can't go home is still a sad story.Lost gun.Court martial.His clenched fist gradually relaxed, allowing him to fall asleep.

She asked: Why didn't you tell me before?write a letter or something?everything is fine? Had to tell her to be quiet again.Too loud.And I'm not done yet.His eyes opened slightly again.I whispered: Ah, no, he woke up.Only later did I tell the truth about my stay in Bradton.In the silence, I could hear her every breath.Every breath is burdened with confusion, and I don't know where to ask.I could feel her shock. Bernard, you should have told me about this sooner. I have no idea. Why can't I? I left the question unanswered.I know that those should obviously be unspoken.The little guy started to move around.Kicked the quilt again.Put your hand back into his open mouth.I said: I'm really, really sorry.There was just enough light coming from the hall that a beam of light fell on her face.She has never looked so beautiful.Plump and rosy from being a mother.I always knew I wasn't good enough for her.

Bernard, you should have told me all this sooner.You should have said it before. It's all over.It's in the past.The little one's mouth opens to eat.I give him my finger again.But he doesn't want it.It must have been the mother's voice.The mouth begins to droop downward.May cry at any time.I said: I think my fingers are not working.She got up to get out of bed.But I want her to stay in bed.I bent down and wrapped the little guy in my arms.Take him out of the drawer.Amazingly strong.Queenie is ready.Spread out your arms.Very urgent. Sorry, I have never been a good husband.I handed her someone else's son.She took it.Face close to his face made a sound.I told her: I will let you rest.

As I walked out of the room, she yelled: Thank you, Bernard.