Tomorrow We'll See Morning

Chapter Thirteen

     Bay City, MI. December 6th, 1941.

Maurice sat in the utter darkness of the kitchen, hands pressed to his temples as his eyes drifted over the faint outline of the stove in the corner. The musty apartment air was sapped of all warmth, but he'd long since foregone the safety of his covers after the nightmare he'd had. He could still see his Maman's face in the dream, as crystal clear as though she were actually there. When he was still young and prone to acting out, his Maman used to tell him stories of Hans Trapp to get him to behave. But this dream was more terrible than even the most violent, cane-wielding bogeyman could ever be. It'd felt real.

"Who are you, again?" Maman had said in the dream, eyes distant in confusion. "Maurice? I don't know any Maurice."

A chill wracked Maurice's spine. He finally got up from his chair and shuffled across the sunken tile floor, trailing a hand along the countertop to orient himself. He lit a candle and set it near the stove to begin boiling some water. The air was stale, stifling in a way that was beginning to affect him more days than not. He felt trapped, but how could he be, when he was seventeen going on eighteen in only a few months? He'd be a man soon, but God, it felt like he'd been a man for years already.

Maurice cut the stove's gas and, too tired to use a teapot, poured the hot water straight from the pot into his mug. He carefully laid a teabag over the rim and sat down, sipping the scalding beverage impatiently.

A heavy clack came from the other side of the table, and Maurice grimaced. He slowly raised his head to see his Pa had seated himself on the end, smoking two cigarettes at once. A dirty haze of smoke curled around him.

"Why are you up, eh?" Pa grumbled in French. "Aren't you going to church with your mother in the morning?"

"I am. I was just thirsty."

"Thirsty?"

"Yes, Pa. Thirsty." Maurice took a more careful sip, but his Pa didn't seem to be in too horrible of a mood. He was always kinder on tobacco than whatever kind of the "good juice" he'd acquired. Still—he was not in a good condition. His eyes were sagging and red, and, whether Pa was aware of it or not, rivulets of old tears streaked through the grime on his cheeks.

"Sure you are." Pa took one cigarette out and gestured toward him. "I know what's bothering you, son, because you're my blood. You have got the same stuff working through your veins as me. You know what we are."

Maurice carefully measured his Pa's expression. "What do you mean?"

Pa exhaled a cloud of smoke. "Animals."

Maurice curled his fingers around the ceramic mug, feeling the warmth seep into his palms. Pa was in one of his melancholic states again, he could tell. The kind of vegetative existence that he fell into whenever he inevitably ran out of enough paycheck to distract himself from the reality of being a poor immigrant. He could never remember Pa having such deep emotional swings before they immigrated to the States, but it was difficult to ascertain how bad things had been through the rosy, sun-bleached lens of childhood.

"Animals," Maurice said. "Right."

"Think about it. You ever see a rat trapped in a corner? You watch it long enough, trying to fight a—a cat or something, and you'll see—it's got no choice but to lash out. That's we are, rats." Maurice made the mistake of frowning slightly, which Pa immediately latched onto. He hunched forward, head raised as he continued. "You think you're different?"

     "Different? No, Pa. I just don't think we're animals."

     "Then convince me!"

     Maurice's eye twitched, and he blinked to rid himself of the sensation. It was nearly midnight, and he had little desire to get into an argument that, frankly, he wasn't even sure he knew how to argue. "Never mind. You're right," he relented.