There was no time now, though, for such meandering. Conrad swung back up to Old Barnegat Road and headed toward Chatsworth. He should take the boy to a hospital. But perhaps they’d already blocked the major exits—Route 9, Route 72, certainly the on-ramps to the Parkway. Of course, within the Barrens there were a million little roads, and no one knew them better than Conrad.
This was his place, his land. He’d been brought up to consider himself a kind of lord here. His family had once owned much more than nine hundred acres. They’d had thousands. They’d owned mines, too—bog iron, and later titanium and rare earth minerals. They’d owned sand pits. So much of the concrete in New Jersey and New York had started with gravel owned by a Billings. Hadn’t some of it been used to build the Lincoln Tunnel?
“Did I tell you that?” He touched Edgar’s leg.
The Billings family were part of this land’s history. They were Pineys through and through. His great-grandfather had been at Lakehurst when the Hindenburg had crashed. In fact, he’d been holding one of the tethers when the dirigible had burst into flames. As a child Conrad had seen a piece of the charred rope, which his great-grandfather kept in a cloisonné box. When he’d first shown the relic to Conrad—asking him, “Do you know what this is, little man?”—Conrad had started to cry, thinking it was his mother’s hair, which she sometimes wore in braids.
* * *
Past Chatsworth, there were more cars—most of them coming from the opposite direction. Tourists, no doubt, going home. Conrad found himself annoyed by the traffic. So many of the people who came here for the day did nothing but sully the place. They left behind trash, stole orchids, poisoned the birds with potato chips.
As Conrad drove through sparkling pines, he was unsure where he should go. The Blue Hole wasn’t far—the place his grandfather had forced him to swim, testing his bravery. For all its beauty, the Barrens was an underworld, a desert over demon-infested waters.
Maybe he should drive to one of the great pygmy plains, with its stunted trees and blue sugar sand. The plains tended to spook people and were nearly always deserted. There were also the tunnels under the old brick factory near Batsto. Conrad unfolded the map in his head. All he wanted was to find a sweet spot where he could be alone with the boy for a little while longer—maybe just for the night.
Whatever time remained was grace.
It was not divine grace, though; it was cold and bureaucratic. Like the grace his family might give to debtors who couldn’t pay their bills. Thirty days.
For Conrad it was much less. He could hear his luck running out. Something stuck to one of the tires was clicking like a roulette wheel.
Near Tuckerton, Conrad winced at the huge boxy houses, with their fountains and lawns and mechanized wrought-iron gates. Sickened by the blight of humans, he drove south, toward the bay. The bay was pure, protected. As he pulled onto Seven Bridges Road, the sun did a sly trick—oozing from a cloud like honey from a broken jar.
* * *
He’d done so much wrong. Impossible to undo—or simply too late.
After he’d driven over the first three bridges and was heading into the marshlands, where terns were diving for silversides, he began to cry. At one point, he had to stop the truck for a diamondback terrapin crossing the road. Upland were cherry trees, their wilting white blossoms dripping with caterpillars.
When he pulled into Tammy’s Pedals and Paddles, it seemed effortless. It was late in the afternoon; there were no other customers. He rented a simple aluminum jon boat—an eight-footer with oars.
“Life preservers?” asked the teenaged girl running the store.
“Sure,” said Conrad.
“How many?”
“One.”
“It’s extra,” the girl said. “And you have to leave a deposit.”
Conrad handed her his credit card.
* * *
The fifth bridge was a narrow wooden one, single lane—and so was the sixth. The truck thudded over the planks, and at each crossing Conrad put his hand on the boy to keep him steady. Out on Crab Island, you could see the ruins of the Stinkhouse.
There was no seventh bridge. Conrad remembered this now as he came to the end of the road. The seventh bridge was an imaginary one—never built. The idea had been to let drivers cross over to Dog Island, giving them access to the beaches north of Absecon. But the engineers could never get it right. When Conrad was a child, there’d been half a bridge here, ending in the middle of the bay. Now there was nothing.
Conrad dragged the boat to the water, and then went back for Edgar. After setting him in the space between the two seats, he gave the boat a good push to get it through a snag of eelgrass. He watched it rock on the waters of the inlet, which separated the bay from the ocean.
Across the water, past Brigantine, Atlantic City rose in the hazy late-afternoon light like a fairy town. Edgar would like that. The boat, pulled by a current, was already ten feet out. Conrad let it go a little farther, before wading through the shallows to join the boy. The tide was slack, and Conrad had no trouble rowing from the inlet into the bay.
A few fishing boats were heading back to Mystic. When Conrad reached the center of the bay, he pulled in the oars and steeled himself with a slug of bourbon he’d purchased at the Black Bear. He took off his shoes, and as he swung his legs over the side of the boat, Edgar opened his eyes and said, “What are you doing?”
68
Rest
At first, he thought the tattered clouds were part of the dream he was having about rags in the window of a washing machine. Then, he turned and saw Conrad, who was climbing down a ladder—maybe after picking crabapples.
But it wasn’t any of these things. Edgar lifted himself on his elbows, even though Conrad said, “Careful,” and tried to stop him. They were on a boat in the middle of a huge circle of greenish water. You could see weeds at the bottom, as if through a magnifying glass. You could even see some fish. In the distance, a fin broke through the surface. Edgar touched the side of his head where there was a fierce throbbing, and discovered a bump. “Oh,” he said, confused.
He recalled the zebra and the ape, though not much else. When he tried to ask Conrad where they were—and why—the question came out wrong.
“Did we have our pie?” he said. And then: “Why are you crying?”
Conrad shook his head, pretended he wasn’t. He hid a glass bottle in a bag, and then pulled out some water.
“I can do it,” said Edgar, when Conrad tried to hold his head and put the bottle to his mouth like a baby.
The water was warm but tasted good, and Edgar drained half the bottle in a single slug. He wiped his mouth and looked around again. When he breathed he could hear himself doing it. It was like they were in some kind of auditorium where sounds were amplified—and there was something about the rasp of his breath and the slap of tiny waves against the metal boat that seemed to be coming from far away and close at the same time. It felt like church, or Percocet. Plus, the light was huge, doubled by the water—and somehow this made it hard to speak.
“I’m glad you’re okay,” said Conrad—a comment that only added to Edgar’s confusion.
“Why are we…?” The question was absorbed by the glare. Edgar squinted, tried to see the shore. “Where’s the truck?”
Conrad was quiet for a long time, and then said, “Edgar.”
Edgar, being right there, didn’t feel the need to answer.
“I thought…” said Conrad.
After another spell of silence, the man seemed to wake up. He started digging again in the paper sack, as if whatever he wanted to say had fallen in there. “We didn’t—we didn’t eat.” His hands were awful, rattling some wax paper as he unwrapped two slices of pie. “Blueberry.”
Edgar recalled the lady at the café telling him there wasn’t any blueberry, and when he mentioned this to Conrad, Conrad said he’d bought it somewhere else. “You were sleeping.”
It was only then that Edgar noticed the blanket
over him. He pulled it off because he was hot. But then immediately he felt cold.
Conrad pushed the pie toward him.
Edgar desperately wanted to be back in his room, or rolled up in a ball behind the tilted bookshelf—a thing he’d stopped doing, but which his body hungered for now.
They both took little bird bites of the pie, which wasn’t very good. Edgar pushed his away. “I don’t want to be here.” The sun was slipping down, dragging color from the clouds: pink streamers and orange patches of gleaming fish scale. Edgar was still trying to understand the water. Toward the horizon the circular bay narrowed, and then there was a ruffly white line, after which the water opened again into an immense field of blue.
“What is that?” asked Edgar.
“What are you pointing at?”
“That white line.” Even from a distance, you could hear it hissing.
“Breakers,” said Conrad. “It’s the ocean.”
Edgar didn’t understand. “What do you mean, the ocean?” He touched his head where the bump was. “I want to go home. Can we go home? Conrad? We should go home.”
Edgar, realizing that he’d said this three times, fell silent. He waited, and then waited some more, but Conrad didn’t pick up the oars, which seemed to be how the boat worked. “Where’s my hat?” He suddenly realized it wasn’t on his head. It was his Devil Hunters cap, and he didn’t want to lose it. “Is it in the truck?”
“I’m sure it is,” said Conrad, as if he weren’t sure at all—or didn’t care.
Edgar squinted against the light, feeling dizzy. He asked Conrad to check his forehead. “I think I have a fever.”
“Me, too,” said Conrad. He dipped his hand into the water. “Maybe we should take a swim.”
Edgar ignored this comment, even as Conrad began to unbutton his shirt.
* * *
In the sky the colored streamers had multiplied—all of them pointing toward a single spot on the horizon. “Sit down,” said Edgar, because Conrad was standing now, taking off his pants. The sharp light cut his face into angles—long shadowed creases. He looked like a piece of origami.
He held out his hand. “Come in with me.”
Edgar shook his head.
Conrad stared at the shore and then turned away and dove, rocking the boat. Edgar could see his wobbly form moving through the weeds. When he came up, he was farther out, closer to the inlet. Edgar shouted, but Conrad went under again—and when his head popped up a second time, it seemed no bigger than an orange. He was swimming toward the breakers.
Edgar kept shouting, even though it made the bump on his head more painful. When he took up the oars and tried to row, he went in a circle before he managed to get his arms in synch and navigate in the right direction. Conrad had turned and was waving—either saying hello or goodbye or gesturing for Edgar to stop. And then he was gone.
Edgar rowed as best he could, but a willful current kept turning him. When Conrad suddenly appeared beside the boat, Edgar’s breathlessness succumbed to tears.
The man’s breath was jagged, too. “I was just swimming, kiddo.”
Edgar shook his head furiously. “I saw a shark.”
“No,” said Conrad.
“Yes. I saw it.”
“Probably a ray.”
“What’s a ray?”
“Manta ray.” Conrad spread his arms. “They have wings. Pointy. Sometimes they break the surface.”
“Fish don’t have wings.”
A few lights had come on at the shore, which made Edgar realize how low the sun was, and how much of the world was already in shadow. He told Conrad to get in the boat. He held out his hand.
When Conrad didn’t take it, Edgar said, “Please.”
“I’m fine here.”
“Conrad—please. I want to give you something.”
“I can’t come with you,” Conrad said.
“Where am I going?” asked Edgar—and when he got no answer, he asked if they were in trouble.
“No.”
“Yes we are.”
“Yes,” said Conrad.
“I don’t care,” said Edgar—and this time when he extended his hand, Conrad took it and climbed aboard.
“We can row in now,” said Edgar.
“What is it you wanted to give me?” asked Conrad.
Edgar blushed. He didn’t have anything. It had been a trick to get Conrad back in the boat. “I don’t…”
“It’s okay.”
“I left my backpack at the restaurant.”
Conrad nodded.
“With my book. With my name in it.”
Edgar was crying again.
“It’s okay. Look at me. It’s okay.”
The surface of the bay was now painted with splashes of color—confusing and unreal. Conrad’s eyes seemed very blue—and he had that face of his, almost too sad to look at. Edgar wished he had something to offer. He touched his pocket where he had the little knife.
But since the knife had come from Conrad, it wouldn’t be a real gift.
He reached into his other pocket and pulled out the diamond—which he clutched in his fist for several seconds before holding it out toward Conrad.
“No, that’s yours.”
“Really. I want you to have it.”
“Shhh,” said Conrad.
“I’m not crying because I don’t want to,” said Edgar. “Take it.” He shook his hand, not caring if his generosity looked like anger. “Take it.”
* * *
The water was dark now, and Edgar understood that they wouldn’t be rowing to shore. The lights around the bay were sparse and seemed to have no effect on the blackness of the water. Buoys with reflectors bobbed in Little Egg Inlet, catching the stray beam of a faraway lighthouse.
Edgar’s head was throbbing, and he was still worried about the breakers. In the darkness they seemed much whiter. Louder, too. They were definitely closer than before.
“I think we’re drifting.”
“Tide maybe,” said Conrad. He was lying down and didn’t sound concerned. He told Edgar to lie down, too.
But the toy world back on land was impossible to turn away from: toothpick trees; traffic lights small as earrings; tiny cars moving across a faraway bridge. Closer, there were flashing red lights, like something bad had happened. Every once in a while you could hear a voice or a dog—but the sound was echoey and insubstantial.
“What about Jack?”
“He’ll be okay.”
“Because we’ll go back soon.” Edgar made this a statement, to limit Conrad’s authority.
Little waves rocked the boat—but it wasn’t calming like the rocking Edgar sometimes did with his own body; it was more like someone pushing you, or slapping you in the face. Edgar felt his mouth filling with saliva. He leaned over the side of the boat.
“Are you okay?”
“I don’t know.”
“Lie down.”
“Maybe I’m sick from the waves.”
“Come here.”
Edgar didn’t resist as Conrad pulled him down to the floor.
* * *
Edgar clenched and unclenched his fists, silently counting each squeeze. He was small enough to fit comfortably between the two raised planks that served as seats—but Conrad had to pass his feet under the lower planks like shackles. They both lay on their backs, looking up at the sky. Sleep came and went in starts—sudden fallings and sharp awakenings that seemed to follow a set pattern, but was as indecipherable as some foreign language. The stars were jumpy, shifting position, and Edgar couldn’t tell if the buzzing he heard came from them or from inside his head. It was very confusing—and at the same time familiar, as if he’d been here before.
Now and then Conrad spoke, talking about serious things (his grandfather, his father, Kevin), or just little things, like the fish in the bay (gobies and wrasses and bluefish). Sometimes he hummed a song that he’d sung to Edgar when Edgar had been sick from the little pink pills.
If it
weren’t for the leaping confusion inside the boy’s heart, being here with Conrad might have seemed almost normal, like a scene from some movie about fathers and sons. Maybe even the leaping confusion was normal. How would Edgar know, who’d only ever had a ghost for a father?
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“What for?”
Edgar wasn’t sure. Instead of answering, he reached out his hand.
He should just have left it at that—gone to sleep holding Conrad’s fingers. But he couldn’t stop thinking about the breakers. When he lifted his head to look, he was sure they were closer—and he said so.
“Really, Edgar. We’re fine.”
“We’re not fine.”
Conrad grunted and crawled to the stern of the jon boat. He opened a little box and pulled out a piece of metal shaped like a mushroom—which he dropped into the water.
“Is that an anchor?”
“Yes. Happy now?”
Edgar was not—but at least they would stay in one spot. “I can say things,” he said defensively. “If I’m scared.” Conrad’s hands were dripping with dark water—that in some other story might have been blood.
“Yes. Of course.” The man’s fingers touched the back of the boy’s neck. “You can say anything, kiddo.”
“I’m not a coward.”
“No,” said Conrad. “You’re not.”
Edgar tried to breathe, gauging the truth or untruth of this. He closed his eyes, and when he was settled again on the floor Conrad clutched him. Edgar didn’t pull away. He could hear Conrad crying, so he clutched him back.
Maybe it was right and maybe it was wrong—Edgar wasn’t sure.
Either way, it was all pretty terrible.
* * *
The clouds had blown offstage, and the stars were brighter. Edgar held his hands above his face. They were white again, like before.
He wasn’t another boy. He was only Edgar.
And he was selfish, the way he wanted people to love him. He blushed now with a ferocity like fever—his whole body burning with shame. Was it possible a person could have too much love in his life? Could you get sick from it, like from eating too much sugar? As the boat lifted on a swell, Edgar could hear the metal mushroom scraping the bottom of the bay. They were still drifting.
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