Albert (Part 2 of a three-part short story)

Tue, Jun 19. 2012

In Albert Part I, Bertie is inexplicably giving his sister the silent treatment. She is concerned and worried about him. Suddenly, there is a knock at their front door. Happy for the company, she goes to answer the knock, but soon regrets her decision.

Raymond pushed on the door before she could completely shut it. Wendi ran back to their house. The old woman pushed back determinedly, but lifting teacups was not a muscle building exercise. She let out a soft squeal as the door gave way to his superior strength.{{more}}

“Now, listen here, young man,” she began, backing away.

“What’s going on in here?” Raymond shouted, cutting her off.

She flinched. Bertie did not like loud noises. He was going to be so upset and he was already in a bad mood.

“Stop shouting this instant,” she demanded sternly, without raising her voice. She had had years of practice doing things just the way Bertie wanted.

She had never forgotten the time nine-year-old Bertie had smashed her five-year-old face into the sturdy legs of their mahogany centre table. She had been playing the radio too loudly. There had been a loud pop and she had fainted. Thankfully, Ruby, their mother, had been lucid enough to rush her to the hospital. The doctors had warned of possible head trauma and had thrown around terms like anosmia. All the information had gone over Ruby’s head.

Many things had gone over Ruby’s head since Donald, their father, had unexpectedly deserted them. Their mother had given in to the despair that had permeated her entire being. Ruby had spent hours in the room Bertie now called his, staring at the front door, hoping that Donald would return. She and Bertie had brought her sandwiches and her favourite tea. The sandwiches would remain un-eaten and the lettuce would shrivel. At times, Ruby would rouse herself sufficiently to wander aimlessly about the house, randomly rearranging her ornament collection and straightening her self-crocheted doilies. The house had to remain immaculate for Donald’s return.

As the years passed and Donald declined to come back, Ruby began to devote herself to Albert. He looked so much like their father, especially his eyes. They were so turbulent. It was as if Ruby could not allow Albert to leave her too. He became her sole focus. So caught up was Ruby in ensuring that Albert’s every need was met, she never noticed her daughter’s idiosyncrasies. Ruby had taken no notice of her daughter’s complaints of a perpetually stuffy nose; no notice of the way she seemed to eat mechanically; and as the years passed, no notice of her yearning to please her by keeping Albert happy too.

She shook her head to dispel the untimely and unhelpful memories. She glanced fitfully at Bertie’s room to see if the neighbour’s yelling had awakened him. Thankfully, Bertie was still asleep. She had to get rid of Raymond before Bertie got up. Bertie did not like surprises. No, that was an understatement. Bertie detested surprises. She still remembered the day Ruby had planned a surprise party for Bertie’s thirteenth birthday. Ruby had invited all the neighbours’ children and had led Bertie into the backyard; everyone had yelled “surprise.”

The surprise had been theirs. Bertie’s caramel face had reddened in anger. He had shoved Ruby into the last remnant of their father’s presence at their house: an old doghouse Donald had built for a dog they had never received. Surprisingly, the decaying wood had shattered under Ruby’s frail weight. The resulting din had seemed disproportionate to the small structure, and had only served to upset Bertie further. He had run into the house and closed the door quietly behind him.

The neighbours’ children had gasped and their stunned parents had hurriedly ushered them home. That was probably when the whispers had started. She had rushed towards Ruby and tried to help her to stand. Ruby had brushed her helping hands away. Tears had streamed down her face.

“You have to help me,” Ruby had whimpered. Her drawn face had belied her thirty-one years; Ruby had been through much. “I can’t bear to lose him too.”

“I will help you, mother,” she had promised earnestly, “I won’t let him leave you.”

She had kept her promise. She had followed her mother’s instructions word for word, and Bertie had never ever left. Now, here was this stranger striding purposefully towards Bertie’s bedroom. She had to stop him; at all costs.