Cracked Roof's Lullaby

The rain pelted against their shed mercilessly. Thatched, broken, and patched all over again, their roof was like something from a comic, Andy observed warily. It had no business under such assault as the downpour before them: this sting of droplets so sharp it sounded more like a hailstorm.

Indeed, it seemed their roof would not last them the hour. Andy thought herself safe enough, nestled under a sturdy, broad bench as she was, but her parents were terribly exposed, and she wondered how they'd make the night when the roof finally caved.

It was so very cold.

Her teeth chattered audibly, and her mother took off her jacket; a worn but warm thing she'd rummaged from a bin the previous summer, and shoved it beside her.

It will help in the cold, Andy remembered her promising, back when she couldn't have fathomed its use in the sweltering heat.

Andy gratefully tugged the jacket on, absorbing the warmth. The additional comfort made her more aware, and so it was only once she had donned it that she realized what she'd robbed her mother of. The older woman shuddered in her thin shirt, laden with stains and more than a couple of rips she hadn't gotten around to mending.

A crack in the roof widened, and her father leaned over her mother to protect her from the deluge of water pushing its way into their home.

Home. What a funny little word that was, both everything and nothing; for if you asked her classmates at charity school, this runty, barely-there enclosure was all she had to her name. Just straw stacks and clothes too small or ruined to be worn anymore, strung together in a dying symphony over a tree and street lamp that served as the two cornerstones of their makeshift home, tucked away in the forgotten recesses of an abandoned park.

This place, so incapable of shielding her little family from even bad weather, was her home. But in the same breadth, it wasn't.

Home was safe, home was love, home was supposed to be the one place where fear couldn't get to you.

Home was her parents’ comforting embrace, her mother passing up her jacket even though she herself had nothing to wear, the two of them sacrificing the one place that could hold up against the relentless, remorseless rain in these freezing temperatures for her. Home was the fiber of her parents' being, their love for each other, and for little, no-good Andy who only caused them more trouble than she was worth.

She'd tried refusing, when her mother had taken the only carpet they had and laid it below the concrete slab bench, telling her to go under and not come out until the rain let up. She'd begged them to take her place and for once prioritize their own safety. If they relented even once, they'd surely realize just how much comfort they had been giving up, how much better it felt to sleep knowing you had a not-insignificant chance of surviving.

Her father had shaken his head, squeezing her troubled mother by the shoulders, and hugged Andy until all the fight had left her.

His body imparted a strong heat even amidst the dreary cold.

Her mother made a small sound, and Andy realized she was keeping them from securing the place. She gave a relenting nod, and her father pulled back almost immediately, rushing to help her mother clear the water that had already seeped into the small perimeter of their home. She'd fashioned a bundle of thin sticks into a broom.

Seeing it in hand, her father stepped away to rearrange their scattering roof from the outside. He was a tall man, always having to crouch to fit under their low roof; it was a simple matter for him to club together the thatch and sticks stretched thin over weak cloth ballooning with frost-speckled water. The area sheltered was almost halved, but nevertheless better guarded. Relieving the cloth of heavy water, he returned, drenched, to help his wife break the thin sheet of ice forming on the ground.

He leaned in to say something to her mother, but the rain was positively raucous. Her mother made a helpless gesture.

Andy noticed how much she'd paled, skin almost waxy under the moonlight. Fear speared her heart. What if she didn't make it? It was so very cold, and she had no proper, shielding clothes. Everything they had went to Andy, who lay swaddled in five layers, thin and worn though they were, and covered with a jacket to boot, while they themselves froze over bit by bit.

“—won't make it,” her father had managed to raise his voice above the rain. He'd pulled her mother close, and the two of them huddled together, sharing body heat, trying to ward off the cutting cold.

Her mother looked as though she'd swallowed a bitter pill. She shook her head, whether to deny his words or their predicament, Andy wasn't sure.

“I—” Andy caught only bits, “—beg them—room, warm clothes—only way.”

Her mother said something, but she was trembling too hard to be coherent. Her father's eyes widened, and he rubbed his hands and pressed them against her ears. Andy saw her relax at the gesture, but knew there was little it could do.

Mind made up to accept no refusal, she shrugged off her jacket and thrust it back at them. Her father didn't object, wrapping it around her quivering mother and hugging her tightly. Andy remained standing, uncertain. He didn't tell her to go back under the bench. She supposed if the biggest concern had been the roof caving, and that danger was past… but was it? Andy looked at the shuddering thatch, and hope seemed bleak.

She bent down and pulled out the carpet. She was about to lay it on the ground so that they could all share and sit on it when her father made an abrupt, jerking motion with his head, and she froze. She opened her mouth, ready to argue. If it was large enough for her to lie down on, surely the three of them could cuddle and fit if they sat—

He wasn't looking at her. His eyes swept over her mother, searching for something. Her mother's face hardened, and with one look at Andy, as though reminding herself of what was important, she nodded in assent.

Andy frowned, feeling as though she'd missed an important development. Her parents rose, her father aiding her mother's sluggish, slow movements as he sharply ordered Andy to cover herself with the carpet. Andy did so, not regretting her decision to return the jacket. This worked just as well, while the extra layer did her mother more good.

“Follow me,” he said, urgency lacing his voice, “No questions, just stay close.” He handed her a stack of hay, packaged in cloth, before taking a similar bundle for himself and her mother.

Andy nodded, put at ease with the simple instruction. She could do that much. The clarity filled her body with temporary strength, and she followed him outside.

They rushed over open ground, sodden streets, while rain poured and rushed, slicking their backs and testing the mettle of the hay protecting their heads. If not for that cover, Andy suspected it would not have taken even a minute for her to be soaked through. There would be no heat to be had in that state.

She stuck to her word. When he turned, so did she. When he increased pace, she kept up. When he told her to be careful while crossing the street, she did, even though she couldn't understand why. There should be no cars out and about now; the rain and hail, the latter setting in some time ago, made it almost impossible to see, and the frost and snow collecting on the streets made driving reckless.

Her faith was rewarded when they approached a house with majestic mahogany doors. Even amidst the fog, the place radiated luxury.

The people living here, Andy was sure, never had to worry about freezing to death.

Her gaze flicked to assess her parents. Her father looked bitter, almost resentful, while her mother choked on unsaid words. As one, they reached out and rang the bell.

A few minutes of painful silence followed, and Andy almost dismissed the house as abandoned before the door creaked open to reveal a dark, raven haired woman with venomous eyes.

“What are you doing here?” She hissed, and Andy took a step back.

Her father gripped her shoulder and steered her back in clear sight.

“We need shelter,” her mother said, voice tired and weak, “We won't make the night, Isa.”

The woman, Isa, turned wry eyes to her father, “Should've thought of that before you married him, hmm?”

Her father's grip tightened, and Andy became perfectly still.

“I do not care what animosity you think lies between us,” His voice was cutting, hard, and Andy blinked in surprise. She had never heard her father sound like that. “This is a matter of life and death. We- we have a daughter, Isa. She's your blood as much as ours.”

He applied the slightest pressure on the small of her back, and Andy took a step forward.

Isa's eyes flashed.

The silence that followed seemed to last forever, though Andy knew logically it could not have been more than a minute.

“Get her in,” Isa said, moving aside to make room.

Andy looked up at her parents, then took hesitant steps inside. Immediately, she felt warmer, and her shoulders slumped in relief. How could the temperature be so drastically different within?

Her eyes shuttered of their own accord. She could fall asleep then and there.

But she couldn't make out the exchange of words anymore, so she turned reluctantly to face the cold blowing in from the doorway once more.

Her mother had made it in, but her father still stood outside. Isa's hand blocked the door.

“Not you.”

“Isa, please—” Andy never wanted to hear that note of desperation in her mother's voice again.

“He is not welcome in my home.”

“Don't do this. You won't be able to take it back,” her mother said, voice cracking.

Isa turned to regard Andy and her mother fully, voice deceptively soft, “I. Don't. Care.”

A gust of wind caused a shiver and she stepped away from the door. “Say your goodbyes, if you like, but make it quick. The heater's running.”

Her mother flung herself at her father, pulling away only to assess his face.

“We can go, William,” Andy could tell she was mustering every bit of her energy together, “We can find our own way out there.”

Her father shook her head, and light caught his eyes. The sorrow and pain in them took Andy aback. “I couldn't take care of you,” he admitted, “You almost caught hypothermia, back there. We'll die.”

“You'll die,” her mother choked out, “how is that any better? And what- what of Andy? Are you going to leave her fatherless?”

“It is because of Andy above all that you must stay,” Her father crouched down to Andy's eye level and cupped her face in his hands.

It was in the warmth of the heater that she realized how cold they were, life numbed and draining away.

“You'll do great things, sweetheart. Just don't forget to be kind.” He stroked her hair, “Papa loves you.”

Her eyes began to stream, “P-papa, you're coming back, aren't you? We'll see you tomorrow? Promise?”

“Of course.” His words belied the agony in his eyes, “I'll try. I want to see you grow up, after all.”

Her mother broke into wracking sobs. Her father hefted Andy up in his arms, and the three of them pulled into a hug.

“This place is no better, William. Please…” Her mother begged.

Her father shook his head gently, “That man is dead. He can't hurt you or Andy. Isa might resent us, but she'll take care of you until the storm is out. She cares more than she is angry.”

He pulled them closer, “Now listen to me well. Andy, be a good girl. Listen to your mama. And Joanne—” he turned his attention to her mother, “take care of yourself. Please.”

She pulled away to meet his gaze, “I will.”

Then he leaned over, and she pressed her lips against his. It was a tender brush, much like when he went to work and her mother rushed forward, rickety stool in hand to combat the height difference, and give him a light peck on the lips. It meant goodbye, but not for good. Meant I love you, and we'll be waiting.

Looking at it, Andy thought everything was going to be okay.

Then her father tugged free from their tight grips, and walked out into the night.

Andy's mother shut her eyes, but Andy watched until he was but a speck, unidentifiable and distant.

The door shut with a thud.

“The room to the right is empty,” Isa said, not meeting their eyes, “I— I'm going to sleep. Don't mess around the house,” she added, then left.

Her mother shook herself into alertness, weighty eyes landing on Andy.

“Come on,” she said softly, “You should try to sleep.”

Andy followed her into the room. A comfortable, if disused setup greeted them: a sleek and elegant double bed with nightstands on either side, all made of black, hardy wood.

The room seemed to have an in-built heating system, at least so far as Andy could guess, because the temperature hadn't dropped in the slightest.

Her mother took a seat on one side of the bed, patting the place beside her in invitation. Andy trudged over.

“Are you hungry?” she asked. Andy couldn't help but think that she was looking for a distraction.

She shook her head.

Her mother nodded in understanding. At her gesture, Andy laid her head on her lap and closed her eyes.

Sleep eluded her. Whatever rest might have tried to claim her was lost, frozen in the dark somewhere amidst their goodbyes.

She opened her eyes slowly. Her mother, it seemed, was much the same.

“Mama?”

“Mm?”

Could you tell me a bit more about you and Papa?

The words stuck on her tongue.

Instead she asked, “Where are we?”

Her mother bit her lip, “At my old place.”

“Your— you used to live here?” Andy couldn't imagine it.

Her mother looked down at her, searching, “Once. Before I married your father.”

She remembered the scowl on that woman— Isa's face.

“Did your family not like him?”

Whatever she found in Andy's eyes gave her pause. She took a deep breath.

“I'll tell you a story, Andy.” Her gaze seemed to spin somewhere faraway, lost in a moment long past, “It's not entirely a happy one, not in the beginning. But I think you'll understand, life—” she smiled a bit dryly, “life isn't always happy.”

Andy absorbed that, not quite knowing what to say. She did understand.

“I was young— maybe in about 11th grade? —when I met your father. He was a dashing youth with too much charm for his own good, and I, a girl, studied in caution.” Her voice was nostalgic, fond, almost wondering, and Andy couldn't help but smile at the picture, “He was of poor means, not one who typically frequented our circles, but we gradually became friends. I was in a dark place at the time. My family had… problems,” she admitted, “The woman you met earlier, she's my mother.” Andy flinched. How could a mother ever be so cold to her child? “My father, well, he was an alcoholic.” A pause. “He used to abuse us.”

Andy remembered freshly entering third grade, and her mother pulling her aside to explain in gentle words the concept of bad touch. How she was to tell her immediately if anyone made her uncomfortable. How she wasn't to stand for it.

Suddenly, the fervor that entered her mother's eyes when she spoke took a new light.

“I-I thought it was normal,” her mother said, voice hoarse, “But your father realized. He tried to save my mother and I. Got the police involved.” She hesitated, unsure.

“What happened?” Andy asked.

“My father— he ended up taking his life. And my mother blames William for it to this day.” She laughed without humor, “She thought he'd poisoned my mind, when all along it was he who kept me sane.”

Silence, thick and heavy, settled upon them.

When her mother next spoke, it was as though she voiced something beyond her understanding, “I think she really loved him. My father, I mean.”

Andy felt a trickle of water drop on her cheek, and was startled to realize her mother was crying.

“And now she's taken your father from you. Oh, I'm so sorry, Andy.”

“I— he'll be fine.” Andy said, voice cracking, “Nothing's going to happen to him.”

Her mother shook her head even as Andy embraced her.

“I want to believe it. But I saw the look in his eyes.” She mumbled into Andy's hair, “He knew he wouldn't make the night.”

“We'll do him proud,” Andy insisted, “and he'll come back, he has to.”

She searched in vain for a spark of hope in her mother's eyes. She thought this was goodbye.

Andy refused to believe it: not that night, as she snuggled into her mother’s arms, warm yet cold, not in the days after as the weather grew progressively worse and still there was no sign, not when the news proclaimed a body had been found, not until—

A calm, peaceful expression lay adorned on a body otherwise mangled with frostbite.

Not until they set the coffin into the ground.

It hit her like the shovel hit the snow: harsh, unyielding. She'd never feel his warmth again. A kiss, it turned out, didn't guarantee anything at all.