[flashback] uneasy sleep

[2goodarms]

Edgar outgrew his oil drum crib a while ago. Long enough that he's spent more time sleeping in Curtis's bed than he did in the crib; long enough that Curtis is used to squishing awkwardly to one side to make room for the warm weight on his other. It's not like anybody can get real breathing room back here anyway. What's losing a little more of it?

Because consensus moved through the Tail a while ago, unspoken but clear, that the full-sized cots and hammocks would only be given to people who couldn't fit anywhere else. That doesn't include Edgar yet -- and Edgar is Curtis's responsibility.

He drifted off to the usual sounds of the train rattling and Edgar breathing. The kid's not wheezing, he thought just before succumbing to sleep. Good. Don't want him catching whatever's going around the Tail lately.

Comments

[2goodarms]

"Edgar -- "

This time, Curtis grabs his arm to try and haul him back.

[hate_gettin_older]

He knows better than to struggle; even if Curtis weren't so much stronger, he could end up pulling free only to fall off. His only protest is a muffled "Aww," as he's dragged back onto the bunk.

[2goodarms]

Curtis sprawls out the full length of the bed to completely block Edgar from the edge. After a second's hesitation, he grips the ladder and cranes his neck so he can stare all the way into Harry's bunk.

Not for long; in an echo of what he did to Edgar, one of the older men shoves him back with a hissed, move it!

Before he does, he catches a glimpse of Harry: eyes closed, mouth open, dried spittle at the corners of his lips.

[hate_gettin_older]

Gilliam's asking if Harry had any close friends. They all know he didn't have any family.

(He sounds so sad. Edgar squirms a little, biting his lip, because Gilliam sounding sad always makes him feel awful; he feels worse for Gilliam than for Harry.)

[2goodarms]

The blankets are gone; the thin sheet beneath Harry, worn threadbare and ground in with years of filth, isn't.

Not until two of the adults reach in, rummage for several minutes, and -- with extra help from a third person -- ease out a large bundle consisting of far more than the sheet. Harry's body has already gone rigid, like one of the guards stuck it out in the cold.

That's one of the last sheets we've got, Curtis hears himself think with a disproportionate flare of annoyance. You're using it for a fucking funeral shroud?

[hate_gettin_older]

Edgar looks at Curtis's face, and doesn't say anything. They're taking the body away now, toward the front end of the tail section, where the guards will take it when they come for head count.

Harry didn't have much in the way of personal possessions, even for the tail. One of the older women is collecting them now, to bring to Gilliam's tent: a pair of shoes, a ratty sweater, a little star that somebody twisted out of scrap wire and hung from a string, a handful of dog-eared postcards.

[2goodarms]

The immediate drama of the moment has ended; people start to retreat back into their beds, faces disappearing one by one. From the bunk across the aisle, Curtis hears Allison murmur what sounds like a prayer.

He pulls back, settles into bed, shoves one hand under the thin pillow to prop it up a bit further.

[hate_gettin_older]

Edgar feels a bit too keyed up to go back to sleep, but ...

"How long till it's morning?" he asks Curtis, in a whisper.

[2goodarms]

"Couple hours, I think," he mumbles. "Try to get some more sleep, okay?"

Some people, especially the train babies, have a knack for judging the passage of time without any outside light to guide them. Curtis doesn't; if he hasn't by now, he thinks, maybe he never will.

[hate_gettin_older]

"Okay."

He lies down and stares out into the dark, sure he isn't going to fall back asleep at all.

[2goodarms]

Curtis stares up at the bunk above theirs for what feels like a long time. Eventually, though, he closes his eyes.

The image of Harry's body stays behind his eyelids until he finally drifts back to sleep.



The next morning, after head count and protein block distribution -- and after Harry's wrapped corpse is dragged away by the guards, feet in their hands and head slamming over every dip in the floor -- Tanya pulls Curtis aside.

Their conversation's too low to be overheard, but both of them keep glancing at Edgar every couple of seconds.

[hate_gettin_older]

Edgar knows it's useless to try to eavesdrop on them when they're so obviously talking about him. He stays where he is, sitting on the floor playing pick-up-sticks with Jenny and Grey and Bell, glancing back at Curtis and Tanya when he thinks they're not looking.

[2goodarms]

Curtis peels away, with one last nod to Tanya, and eels through the crush of people to reach the kids.

"Hey, Edgar," he says once he's close enough. "Can I talk to you for a sec?"

[hate_gettin_older]

"Sure," he says without hesitation, scrambling to his feet.

[2goodarms]

The other kids glance up at Curtis, with idle curiosity, before returning to the game. Curtis leads Edgar out of the immediate crowd to a spot that has a little less foot traffic, then crouches down to put him on the same level as the kid.

"Tanya and I were talking," he says. "How would you like to have your own bed?"

[hate_gettin_older]

Edgar's eyes widen. "Seriously?"

[2goodarms]

He smiles a little, but there's an uneasiness behind it.

"Yeah," he says. "Seriously."

[hate_gettin_older]

Something about the look in Curtis's face brings back that uncomfortable feeling, not really scared and not really guilty but he doesn't know what else to call it.

But the rising excitement is quickly blotting out any other feelings, and it comes out of his mouth in a laugh and a whoop.

[2goodarms]

Okay, yeah, sometimes it's hard to be serious when Edgar's that happy: Curtis's smile turns to a full-on grin before he tries to compose himself.

"Okay," he says, "okay, but -- here's the important part, all right? It's Harry's old bed."

[hate_gettin_older]

That sobers him a little.

"But ... that's okay, isn't it? Somebody's got to use it now."

[2goodarms]

"Yeah," he says, "it's fine. But it's really important that if you start to feel sick, even a little, you come tell me, okay?"

It's good to see that Edgar's not freaking out about the possibility of sleeping where someone died. And it aches, a little, to see how practical he is about the whole situation. When Curtis was that age --

No. It doesn't matter.

[hate_gettin_older]

"Okay."

A beat.

"What happens if I get sick? Will I die?"

[2goodarms]

"No," he's quick to say, "no, you won't. We'll take care of you to make sure you won't."

He hopes.

[hate_gettin_older]

"Okay," he says again, accepting it without further question. "Do I move my stuff too?"

His 'stuff' is an even scantier assortment than Harry's: a translucent green marble, four baby teeth, a creased and grubby page torn from an old magazine with a picture of a dog and three puppies. They're wrapped in the ragged remains of a baby blanket, and currently stowed at the foot of Curtis's bed.

[2goodarms]

"Sure," says Curtis. "You can bring anything you want."

The smile returns, more surefooted this time.

"It's your space now."