Pink Fingers

When Seamus was a young boy, he thought the world darker and more dangerous than it actually was. This was mostly due to his elder siblings in general -- specifically, Tristan’s continuous and steadfast hazing made life bearable only in that Seamus, after turning seven years old, found that he would be able to wipe the wagon-rutted roads with Tristan’s face after enlisting the help of a neighborhood branch, stone or even a handful of dirt. Tristan, he realized, was a bit of a coward when weapons were involved. Before that point, however, our boy Seamus had an uncanny ability for drawing the short straw.

"Seamus," Tristan said one morning near the crack of dawn, as they both lay down in the same bed. Seamus’ back was to his brother and he felt the bed creak under Tristan’s weight as he propped himself up on one elbow. He initially made no reply, hoping to feign sleep until the boy got bored and pulled out of bed. "Seamus," he hissed. "Seamus, wake up." The elder shook the younger by the shoulder and there was nothing Seamus could do but to respond.

"Yep."

"Pull the eggs this morning." Seamus could feel his brother’s hot breath on the back of his neck and he clenched his six year old hands into fists beneath the covers, tensing at the request.

"No, Tristan. Pa set that job for you to do."

"Just as I am setting it for you. Go pull the eggs, Seamus." Tristan’s voice lowered and became gritty with a demand. "I’m not asking you, should you’ve forgotten."

"I said ‘No,’ Tris. I’m tired. S’your turn." Just then a fist found the back of Seamus’ head and he tumbled forward in the bed, nearing the edge. He was thumped again and stifled a shudder as the blows began to rain down on him, heartily and yet quietly.

"You will do it, and you’ll tell Pa I’m not feeling well and you are volunteering for the job.” Being only nine years old, Tristan picked up the word “volunteer” from his father just the week before, when the patriarch asked his elder sons – Mack and William – for volunteers to help repair the fencing around their little farm. Tristan was both proud of his ability to coax his brother into the work reserved for himself and at his own intelligence.

"No," Seamus managed to squeak out before being kicked from the bed and landing on the hardwood. Just then, Mack came into the room, flashlight in hand, a look of angry bewilderment on his red-cheeked face.

"Be quiet, Runt. What’s the noise for?"

"Nothing. Tristan kicked me out of bed."

"I didn’t kick him," Tristan protested. "Seamus volunteered to take the eggs this morning. I’m not feeling well." Here, the culprit coughed weezingly, pulling the covers up to his nose so as to hide the smile forming below it.

"Well, that’s nice of you, Seamus," Mack allowed. "Better get dressed. I just come in to get my scarf. It’s cold as a witch’s teet out there."

"Thanks again, Seamus," Tristan said. "I’m glad I don’t have to go out into that freeze. These covers are so warm." The two younger boys exchanged a look of complete hatred and Seamus knew that, if he allowed this to continue, things would only become worse. Even as a six year old, he knew that this was not the way the world was supposed to operate. Given enough time, he thought, he would make Tris pay for all of the hard knocks he suffered.

He crept out of the house after having dressed, feeling the wind bite into his cheeks and poke its way in between the slits in his eyes, drying out the tear ducts and causing him to place his hands up against his face, already covered in a scarf and wrapped tight and layered with the upturned collar of his jacket. When he got to the farmhouse, he saw that the doors were already open, Mack shoveling hay into the horse stall. After every third or fourth rake, the tall blonde would lean the instrument against the wall and pump his arms against his body, trying to keep the heat down in his fingers.

"I can’t feel my hands at all," he said. "Too damn cold."

"Yep," came the little reply. Seamus went through the barn and into the henhouse on the opposite side. There, he opened the pens and picked up all the new eggs -- 42 in all, placing each one neatly into a woven basket his mother had made. When he was first shown how to pick the eggs, William told him not to wear gloves, as he needed to be able to feel the egg, lest he break them and get a hide tanning he would not soon forget. By the time he got back to the cabin, his fingers were numb and a pink the color of a blanket he used as a babe -- his mother said it used to belong to his sister, Elizabeth, though the rest of the children said she had been hoping for a girl.

He got back into the dark bedroom as the sun was beginning to light against the windows, shades drawn tight for just such an event. When his father had built the place, he made it a point to keep the windows of the bedroom facing East so that his children would be able to get up with the sunlight and get to bed in utter darkness. All appendages on his little body were frigidly cold, his breath coming in bursts from his tiny mouth. He undressed quickly and hopped back into bed, much to Tristan’s alarm.

"What are you doing, Shame? You’re too cold to be in bed. Lay on the floor."

"No," came the quick and quiet reply. "I’m tired and cold."

"Don’t care."

"Me neither." They exchanged the hateful look again and Seamus put his cold, little feet against the legs of his elder brother. The kicking ensued and Tristan shuddered at the temperature change, forcefully removing Seamus from the bed again. He also kicked down a blanket on top of him for good measure.

"Sleep there, little brother. You don’t have much time before Lizzy comes and wakes us anyway." Seamus, feeling utterly defeated, curled into a fetal position and sobbed, warming himself with each sad exhalation until he fell asleep.