Kate Hoffmann: Marcus

The ninth book in the Mighty Quinns series, 2006

THE LATE AFTERNOON sun slanted through the grimy windows of the old stone stable. The stalls stood empty, their iron bars tangled with cobwebs and their old wooden doors battered and scarred. From the roof rafters, doves cooed softly, fluttering their wings and sending up motes of dust to dance in the sunlight.

Marcus Quinn huddled in the quiet shadows of the haymow, his arms wrapped tightly around his knees. At his feet, a small pile of wood shavings lay scattered in the musty hay. This had become his secret spot, the place he retreated to when his world got too difficult to bear. Today was his eighth birthday and nothing had changed.

He reached into his jacket and pulled out the Swiss Army knife his father had sent him last year for his birthday. The blade was sharp, honed by his grandmother’s cook with the old whetstone she kept in the kitchen.

Marcus stared at the line of tiny figurines he’d set on a beam against the stable wall, counting them silently-birds, dogs, horses, fish, even an alligator he’d carved from a photo in a book. His very first carving, an owl, had been fashioned from a scrap of sapwood he’d found in the rubbish bin. Though it was crude and a bit uneven, Marcus liked the way its wide eyes watched him.

Over the past year his carvings had become much more detailed, aided by the old tools he’d found in a box in a dark corner of the stable. Marcus pulled the box from its hiding spot beneath a musty canvas and carefully inventoried the tools, touching each as he counted them. The handles were all worn smooth with age, but the edges were still as sharp as razors and free of rust.

Marcus reached down and ran his fingers over the initials carved into the front of the rough-hewn box. E.H.P. He’d wanted to ask his grandmother who the tools belonged to, but he was afraid she’d take them away from him, fearful that he’d hurt himself. Everyone treated him like a baby, always hovering over him, always concerned for his feelings. But Marcus was much stronger than they gave him credit for.

The stable door creaked and Marcus quickly shoved the toolbox back beneath the canvas, then shimmied against the wall. Holding his breath, he waited, praying that the shadows would hide him.

“Marcus! Jaysus, Marcus, come on. Nana is waiting in the car and she’s pissed.”

Marcus scowled. He and his two older brothers, Ian and Declan, had lived with their Grandmother Callahan for two years now, but Marcus still couldn’t bear to call this place home. It was half a world away from his mother and father and the rest of his siblings, this big fancy house in a strange land where everyone talked in a funny voice and they played cricket and soccer instead of baseball and football.

Ian cursed. “Don’t be such a baby. Just come on out. Nana said we can go to the cinema for your birthday. And then we’ll have ice cream. She says it’ll be a grand time.”

Cinema? The movies. That’s what it was called- the movies. Already his brothers had started talking like their mates at school, lacing everything they said with colorful curses and strange slang. Marcus shifted, sinking farther back into the dark. A strand of hay tickled at his nose and he fought against a sneeze, covering his face with his hands. The last of his tears still clung to his cheeks, and Marcus wiped his runny nose with his wrist, willing himself to remain silent.

His grandmother had ordered a wonderful birthday celebration with gifts and a cowboy cake and an afternoon outing in nearby Dublin. Though everyone had worked so hard to lift his spirits, it wasn’t enough. After two birthdays away from home, he thought maybe this time he’d get to enjoy a celebration with his family, his ma and his da and all six of his older siblings.

He remembered the day he’d turned five, waking up in the morning and going downstairs to find the kitchen table covered with presents, all wrapped in the Sunday comics. He couldn’t remember what gifts he’d received, but he remembered his mother sitting at the end of the table and watching him with tear-filled eyes.

She’d cried a lot that month and Marcus hadn’t understood why. And then, one terrible night, his father had gathered them all around the kitchen table to tell them that their mother was very ill. Marcus remembered his confusion over the word: cancer. He’d never heard it before, but it was his father’s somber expression and watery eyes that told him how serious it was.

Marcus wondered if she were crying now. There would be a phone call later that day from Da and Ma, as there had been for his sixth and seventh birthdays, and Marcus felt a sick knot growing in his stomach. It was always difficult to talk to his mother, to ignore the tears in her voice and pretend everything was all right, to lie to her and insist that he was happy living in Ireland.

Everything wasn’t all right! His ma was sick-so sick, she could no longer care for her three youngest sons. So sick, his father had to go back to fishing with his uncle Seamus to make enough to pay the hospital bills. So sick that he and Ian and Declan had been sent away to Ireland so they wouldn’t have to watch their mother die.

A fresh round of tears threatened and Marcus swallowed them back. She couldn’t die, she wouldn’t, if they’d only let him go home and take care of her. Marcus had always been able to make her laugh. He’d been her sweet baby, her silly clown, her wee boy. If anyone could make her well, he could.

“Come on, Marky!” Ian shouted. “We know you’re in here. Nana’s gonna take us to see Top Gun . It’s supposed to be really neat, with jets and bombs and stuff.”

“Maybe he’s not here,” Dec muttered. “We didn’t search the attics. The little sissy could be hiding there.”

“I’m not a sissy!” Marcus shouted. As soon as the words slipped out, he knew he’d made a foolish mistake.

“See?” Ian said. “I told you.”

Marcus scrambled to the edge of the mow and peered down at his brothers. “I don’t wanna go to the movies,” he said defiantly. “You can go without me.”

“It’s your birthday,” Ian said. “If you don’t go, then Nana won’t let us go. Grady is waiting to drive us.”

“Maybe we can talk him into taking us to Aliens ,” Dec said excitedly. “Davey says it’s really cool. There’s this monster that comes out of this guy’s chest and it’s all gooey with big fangs and-”

Ian gave Dec a shove. “Yeah, right. Can you see Grady sittin’ through that? He’d piss his pants.” Ian looked up at Marcus. “What’s the problem? Why are you actin’ like a baby?”

“I’m not a baby. I just wanna go home. It’s my birthday and I wanna see Ma and Da.”

“We can’t go home,” Ian explained. “Not until Da says it’s okay.”

Ian always acted as if he knew everything, Marcus mused. He was only eleven, but he acted like the boss. And Dec wasn’t any better even though he was just a couple years older than Marcus. They were always bullying him around. “You act like you don’t even miss them,” Marcus murmured, a hot tear trailing down his cheek.

Ian’s expression softened. “I do. I miss them a lot. I miss Ma’s cooking and I miss Da’s singing.”

“I miss ’em, too,” Dec admitted. “I miss the way Ma would read to us before she tucked us into bed. Haven’t slept right since we came here.”

Ian crawled up the ladder to the top of the mow and plopped down next to Marcus. A few seconds later, Dec joined them. They sat on the wide plank floor, their legs dangling over the edge.