His Baby Boy novel · Chapter 9 of 24

Chapter 9: The Corner Table

Malcolm walked away from the laundromat at ten past one, because the window had gone dark.

He walked without a destination and ended up on Wharf Lane.

The Gull & Kettle was black behind its glass.

Bernie had given him a spare key three weeks ago, pressed into his palm with the words, "For emergencies, and for sleeping, you ridiculous man."

He had never used it.

Tonight he stood at the door with the key in his hand and his clothes sticking to him.

He had nowhere else to go.

The house on Munjoy Hill was a museum.

Nobody could sleep in a museum.

He let himself in.

The café smelled of cinnamon, coffee and wet wool.

The corner table sat where it always sat, under the back window, with the chair pulled out.

He did not take off his coat.

He did not even turn on the lamp.

He sat down with his hands flat on the wood and thought, I'll rest my eyes, and the dark rose up to meet him.

Malcolm slept.

It happened the way it always happened here, with no warning.

For nine years he had lain awake in beds, staring at ceilings and listening for a door.

At this table he could sleep for twenty minutes, sometimes forty, and he had never let himself ask why.

He knew why.

It was the milk steamer, and the faint clink of cups, and a soft voice humming off-key.

It was the shape of a slight man moving behind the counter in a green apron.

Perrin was not here tonight, and still the room held the memory of him.

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