Nathaniel by John Saul Page B

then shook his head.
    “I thought not. Well, you won’t like it, but it won’t kill you. When you’re done with that, you and I are going downstairs, and you are going to apologize to your mother.”
    Again, Michael opened his mouth, but this time he thought better of it. Instead, he clamped his mouth shut, and his eyes narrowed angrily. In his temples, a dull throbbing began.
    “Then, after you’ve apologized,” Amos went on, “this is going to be all over, and we’re going to fix some cocoa and forget about it. Do you understand? Nod or shake your head.”
    For a long minute, as the throbbing pain in his head grew, thoughts tumbled through Michael’s mind. His father had never talked to him like that, never in his life. He’d always said what he wanted to say, and his parents had always listened to him. And no one, since he was a little boy, had come into his room without his permission, at least not when he was there. Then why was his grandfather so angry with him? Or
was
his grandfather angry with him? Maybe this was something else. He watched Amos, but could see nothing. The old man just sat there, returning his gaze, waiting. Michael began to feel sure that his grandfather was goading him, pushing at him, wanting something from him. But what?
    Whatever it was, Michael decided he wouldn’t give it to him, not until he understood what was really happening.
    His head pounding, but his face set in an expression that revealed nothing of his growing fury, Michael got off the bed and walked out the bedroom door, then down the hall to the bathroom. He could feel more than hear his grandfather following him.
    In the bathroom he stood at the sink, stared at the bar of Ivory soap that sat next to the cold water tap. He reached out and turned on the water, then picked up his toothbrush. Finally he took the bar of soap. Holding the soap in his left hand, he dampened the toothbrush, and began.
    The sharp bitterness of the soap nearly gagged him at first, but he went doggedly on, scrubbing first his teeth, then his whole mouth. Once he glanced at himself in the mirror, and watched the foam oozing from his lips, but he quickly looked away from the reflection of his humiliation. At last he dropped the toothbrush into the sink and rinsed out his mouth, flushing it with water again and again until the taste of the soap had almost disappeared. He wiped his face and hands, put his toothbrush away, carefully folded the towel before putting it back on the bar, then wordlessly left the bathroom, his grandfather still following him.
    Downstairs, he found his grandmother in the kitchen. Her eyes were flashing with anger, but Michael instinctively knew her fury was not directed at him. Indeed, as she glanced at him, he thought he saw a trace of a smile on her lips, as if she were telling him not to worry, that whatever had happened upstairs, she was on his side. Feeling a little better, he looked for his mother, but she was nowhere to be seen. Then, through the window, he saw her sitting under the elm tree. With his grandfather close on his heels, he went outside.
    Janet looked up and saw them coming, but her smile of greeting faded as she saw the grim expression on her father-in-law’s face, and Michael’s own stoic visage of self-control. At last Michael glanced uncertainly back at the tall figure of his grandfather looming behind him, but the old man simply nodded.
    Michael turned back to face his mother. “I’m sorry I spoke to you the way I did.” He went on, “If you think we ought to stay here and not go back to New York, then we will.”
    Janet’s eyes darted from her son to her father-in-law, then back to Michael again. “Thank y—” she began, then changed her mind. “That is what I think,” she said. Then, softening, she reached out to touch Michael, but got no response. She hesitated, stood up and started toward the house, then turned back. “It’s going to be all right, Michael,” she said. He glanced at