by Ash Parsons
Except not a parent, because he looks the other way when needed.
Joshua just sits, isolated in the distance he’s pulled around himself in spite of the crowd. I sit next to him but he still feels like he’s not really there. The gap between us is only inches, but inches count when you’re trying to catch someone flying through the air.
Or falling.
Speed sits next to me. We sip our drinks and wait for Joshua to find his way back to us.
Speed holds my hand. The music changes, and now it’s one of Angel Rey’s club songs, light and frothy, bubbling like a fizzing drink.
“Let’s dance!” Speed yells in my ear. He tugs at me like a little kid wanting to ride the merry-go-round.
The bass thumps suddenly in my joints, and I feel the need too. Just to move my body, and be a part of something.
Not apart from everything.
The energy is a frustration, a longing for release. I need to move.
“Yes!” I yell in reply to Speed, and turn to Joshua, to try to help him move, too. “Dance with us.”
“I prefer it here,” Joshua says.
“No, we have to dance,” I yell.
Joshua shrugs, and I kiss his cheek to tell him it will help. Just keep moving.
Speed can’t hold still anymore. He pushes the people on the other side of him—who are these people?—in the booth, and they’re laughing and getting out ahead of us. I’m attached to Speed ahead of me, and Joshua behind me, through my linked hands. We’re children on a field trip.
Hold on to your buddy, children. Don’t get lost. Hold on.
Santiago falls in behind Joshua, the chaperone caboose.
The dancers on the floor are jumping like beads of water on a subwoofer, bouncing to the beat, screaming and celebrating or exorcising, in unison.
They make a path for us.
The lights scatter, whirl, as machine-made fog drifts down over the dance floor.
There’s universal acclaim that we’re here. And it’s not just for Joshua being on the dance floor. It’s for me too.
Because I’m here. I brought him. I’ve captured his wrists and pulled him through.
I suddenly think of Lillian Leitzel. This party is like the ones she went to, the dancing and drinking and excess, all the beautiful people there for love of her.
Here for love of Joshua Blackbird.
“Hey, gorgeous!” a dancer shouts at me. Cristal. Her name is Cristal, I remember, like the champagne. She’s undulating in front of me, looking at me, and she’s so beautiful. Like there are points of warm light from her to me, from her chest, from her eyes, her hips.
I smile at her because I like the way she looks at me.
Speed and I laugh and dance with her, and I turn to pull Joshua closer and realize that he’s marking time, dancing at the edge of the dance floor.
Joshua is moving slow. He could dance any way he wants, could match every ace move being pulled or attempted on the floor.
But he’s contained. Like he’s balancing a cup on his head, and if he moves too fast, something will spill on him.
Or spill out from him.
He’s not looking at anyone. His head is up, and his gaze is fixed over our heads, in the middle distance.
I move to him and notice the not-accidental brushes, bumps, and jostles he absorbs. How everyone on the floor near him deliberately dances into him, brushing against him, hands that reach out, just briefly, or more lingering. How he is this thing—
Thing.
—everyone wants a piece of. A touch of. Like a talisman.
Santiago stands behind him and to the side. An unmoving rock in the dance floor current.
It was wrong, pulling Joshua onto the floor. I tell myself he could have said no, could have stayed in the booth, but I don’t believe myself.
“Hey, Shu.” I touch his arm, and he stops his slow moving and looks down at me.
His eyes tired, empty.
“Let’s leave,” I yell.
Something moves behind his eyes. I can’t recognize it. He doesn’t say anything, just nods quickly.
I push my fingers through his and grip tight.
“I’ve got you, Joshua,” I tell him. “I got you.”
His forehead falls to my shoulder, like we are at the lake back in Marchant, being jostled by the wake of speedboats and Jet Skis, instead of a crowd.
Then Artie is there, and she’s grabbing me, and Speed, and she’s telling our inner crew that it’s time to go to the next party.
“We’re done,” I yell for the both of us. She nods.
“Don’t worry,” Artie yells at Joshua, “I’m taking you to where you can rest.”
We throng out, pile into the stretch SUV. Joshua sits by the door, gazing out the window, and Artie has managed to snag the seat next to him. Others are also there, crowding into the space and air.
I sit next to Santiago.
The car winds away from the city, into the posh mansions that surround it, that crowd the water, regal against commanding ocean views.
Then we’re pulling through a heavy swinging gate and stopping at one of the mansions.
Artie leads the way, pulling Joshua out of the limo and saying, “Ta-da!” like a magician.
Joshua extricates himself from Artie’s grip and takes in the mansion before us.
“Where are we?” he says.
Artie sweeps a hand at the mansion. “This is the mansion you bought for yourself! Remember? I offered to furnish it for you. Welcome home!”
She’s smiling like this is the biggest thing ever.
As far as I can see, it’s just another hotel. Nothing about this enormous place says “home.”
Joshua gives her a weak smile. “Thanks, Artie. I’m sure it’s great.”
Her eyes widen in surprise at the mild thanks for all her effort. But she plays it off anyway. “Only the best,” she says. “Wait till you see it.”
She takes us on a tour of the place, room after room. So many bedrooms and bathrooms I lose count, all furnished luxuriously, expensive-looking knickknacks and art, marble floors, hallways, sweeping staircases, a library, a movie theater, a terraced backyard with an expansive pool—a breathtaking view of the dark ocean, the moon glowing like a gentle spotlight you could touch.
The yard slants down, and there’s a dock and a yacht anchored there, lighted and with the buzzing activity of a white-shirted crew.
“And that’s for tonight,” Artie says, with a particular note of pride in her voice. “Just like you asked. The ocean to rock you to sleep, Joshua. Tomorrow’s a full day off.”
“Thanks, Artie,” Joshua says. “Thanks for arranging everything.”
We walk down the steps, down the winding walk to the dock, to the yacht. Just a small group of us this time. Joshua and me and Speed, Artie and Santiago, and a few other security guys.
Santiago climbs onto the stern of the boat with ease and disappears to perform a security check.
We walk up the ramp set at the midline of the boat. A crew member introduces herself as Mattie and offers a quick tour and safety briefing. She stares at Joshua and then, catching herself doing it, forces herself to look away.
Joshua accepts, so we trail Mattie to the top level, where the lavish bedrooms are, then down to the sitting rooms, the bar, the media room.
Mattie takes us to the sundecks fore and aft, the latter lower to the water. She shows us the ladder they’ll put overboard tomorrow so we can swim in the ocean after we’ve dropped anchor at the private lagoon.
She shows us the life rings and life preservers, tells us about emergency procedures, then displays the scuba equipment stowed in the benches at the back of the boat. She shows us the portable bar cart and the sunshade they will unfurl tomorrow, when we rest in our skins under the sun.
The crew stand at attention as we pass or murmur soft greetings as they prepare to disembark.
“We’re going to cruise out slow tonight, roughly forty nautical miles,” the captain says as we pass the wheelhouse again. “We’ll weigh anchor near a dive buoy sometime in the predawn, so the engines will fall silent. Don’t be alarmed. In the morning you can dive a bit, if you like, then we’ll continue to the lagoon for your lunch.”
Artie thanks him, and we all move to our separate rooms at the top of the boat. A crew member yells, “All ashore who are going ashore.”
But we’re all staying.
The engines thrum to life, and the ropes are loosed, a crew member nimble as a monkey jumping from the dock to the boat deck as it begins to move away.
“Do you remember which one is ours?” Joshua asks me, pinching his eyes as he leans against the doorway.
I take his hand and lead him back. We pass the room Speed will use next to Santiago’s, right next to ours.
Santiago follows us.
“I’ll be right here, Mr. Blackbird,” he says, indicating his door catty-corner to ours.
“It’s okay. Get some rest, Santi.”
We go into the bedroom and collapse across the bed. I ruck up the edge of the bedspread and pull it over us like a taco shell; we’re both too tired to get under it properly.
The thrum of the engines is a hum of movement, nothing more, a murmuring telling us to sleep. To rest.
“We made it,” I say.
“Hooray for us,” Joshua whispers.
I curl around his arm, tucking my chin above his shoulder.
I squeeze him, pulling my arm tight over his stomach. Glance up at his face, which looks so sad it takes me by surprise.
“I’m sorry,” I offer.
He kisses my cheek. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”
He shakes his head and then he hugs me, squeezing long arms across and around my back and side, turning toward me as he lowers his forehead to my shoulder, and the engines churn the water that will take us far away.
I hold him there, stroking the short hair on the crown of his head. His breath is uneven over my collarbone, his arms wrapped tight across the small of my back.
“I’m the sorry one, Rox.” His voice is tight. “About this tour. About all this crap—”
“Shhh,” I murmur, like he’s a wounded creature. My hands on his hair and back are light, stroking reassurance. “It’s okay. Go to sleep. I’ll be here. Sleep.”
And I’m thinking, Without a pill. Real rest, for once. Let the ocean work its magic.
And then, like a miracle, it does. His breathing grows regular, the arms clinging to me loosen, and he tips slightly back, sleeping.
At last. I let my arm rest, and sleep comes for me as well.
Later, I hear the engines turn off, and the silence is like a sacred hush after all the noise of the day. I barely wake for it, just notice it in passing, like I notice Joshua’s quiet weight and heat beside me.
The waves rock me right back to sleep.
In my dream, I hover above the night-dark ocean. I’m flying, spinning through the air like Lillian Leitzel. I sense Joshua with me, moving in the air somewhere, but I can’t see him. So I spin and flutter, weightless.
Then something unseen snaps. A sudden break like a gunshot, jarring my arm, and suddenly the air can’t hold me anymore.
I plummet, the wind snatching the screams from my mouth. I flail into empty air, reaching for something, for hands, for a harness, for a net.
Nothing will save me.
As I hit the water, I jerk awake, heart drumming with a jolt of inhalation. I feel cold and sweaty at the same time.
I reach out for Joshua, for the feel of something solid, real.
The air around me is empty. The mattress beside me is cool to the touch.
Joshua is gone.
12
ORPHEUS’S LAST LYRIC
The yacht is still as predawn light tinges the sky.
I tamp down the panic, a nightmare residue. Dampen the fear that Joshua isn’t beside me.
He’s fine. He’s watching TV or something.
I can’t remember exactly where the media room is, so I start searching as if the yacht were a maze, just keep making right-hand turns every chance I get. At first I knock on doors lightly before I open them, but after a while and nothing but sleeping heads, I stop knocking and just crack open each door silently.
Speed is asleep. Santiago isn’t in his room, although his bed is mussed. His bag sits unzipped on the floor, deflated like he’s unpacked it into the drawers nearby.
I keep my search up, from deck to deck, moving faster and faster.
He’s with Santiago. They’re together, talking or just watching the water.
“Joshua!” I yell, because my heart won’t listen to reason.
My heart knows something is wrong.
I dash down the steps and outside onto the aft deck, where we are supposed to lie on the cushions or dive with canned air strapped to our backs. Where we are supposed to rest and find peace.
Relief. A single towel sits on one of the bench cabinets. Joshua’s shirt next to it. He went swimming.
The ladder is in the water. It knocks gently against the side of the aft deck with the swells. The water is empty as far as the eye can see.
I lift Joshua’s T-shirt. His cell phone rests on the bench under it. My fingers grow numb.
“Shu?” I call. My voice sounds sharp and fear-raw. The only reply remains the hollow slap-slap of waves against the boat.
Why would he go into the water alone? He wouldn’t, I realize. Santiago follows him like a shadow.
Still, I rush to the top deck, squinting out into the dawn-dark water. I call his name until my voice is raw, searching in the empty water around the boat. My fear is a wave, still building up power and speed.
I shout for Santiago now. Over and over. Still nothing.
Joshua was always a careful swimmer, back home, at the lake. Neither of us ever had lessons.
We always stayed close to land. We always stayed together.
He would dunk me, splashing when I came up. Or we’d hold hands, floating on our backs like river otters, water sloshing cool across our stomachs.
He’d catch me, he’d shake his head, and his hair would shed droplets like a rain shower. He’d put his forehead low on my shoulder. We’d feel the wake of the speedboats out in the deep of the lake, the waves rocking us as they raced to shore.
I stare at the peaceful waves, waiting for something to break the surface of the water, for a raven-haired head to emerge, shaking off the dripping water, a smile lighting up that face, laughing at my nightmare fears.
Silence.
And now I’m moving through sludge, holding his phone. But I’m moving toward the water.
Arms grab me and a sun-darkened face, clean, with a wide, smooth forehead, presses into my view. Mattie, the crew member who gave us the tour, holds me back.
“What’s wrong?” she asks. “Why the shouting?”
“Josh-sh-shua,” my voice stutters. I’ve started to shake with dread. “He went into the water. May-maybe Santiago was with him.”
Mattie hears me say it, looks past me at the ladder, bobbing slightly with the aft deck in the water. Sees the towel and his shirt on the bench. She snaps a radio off her belt and calls the captain.
“Man overboard.”
It’s surreal, like a movie sound effect, but a Klaxon blares and crew members assemble. Mattie orders two of them into the transport dinghy. The motor starts with a submerged roar, and they take off to search in the water, going first around the boat and then back the way that we came.
Suddenly the deck is crowded with activity, with people, most in white shirts, but soon the band is here, with panic stamped on their fa
ces.
Speed stands beside me. His arms are crossed tightly as he holds completely and uncharacteristically still. As if willing with all his being, every molecule, for Joshua to appear. Motionless with the contained energy of silent, desperate prayer.
Activity churns around us.
Santiago finally arrives, frowning like an angry god holding thunderbolts. I feel worse at the sight of him. Because he is alone. Because he shouldn’t be. I run to him, crying, raging. “You’re supposed to protect him!” I pound his tree-trunk chest with balled-up fists. “He’s gone! Where were you?” He pulls me toward him and wraps me in an embrace.
“Whoa, whoa, there. He’s probably fine. Just gone out for a swim.” But his voice sounds hollow.
“When was the last time you saw him?”
Santiago is silent for a second that feels like an eternity. Then he sighs. “Last night, Roxanne. With you. I went to sleep right away and was out of it.”
Artie arrives, firing rapid questions, the long sheet of her bleach-blond hair tucked into the neck of the shirt she hurriedly pulled on.
The same excruciating conversation begins again, this time with Artie, painful seconds slipping through, each one stealing breath from my lungs. Every moment that he doesn’t arrive, laughing from having fooled us, or surprised at our concern, is a lead weight dragging on my frantic heart.
“Maybe someone took him back to the house,” Artie is saying. “We’re not that far out.” She turns and gazes at the empty water, as if she could see the mansion she decorated for him across from us, waiting to do her bidding.
Waiting to open its doors and spill him out.
The crew members confirm what I already know: no one took him back to the house. No one left the boat. No one saw him. They dropped anchor near the buoy, and after that only the night crew was on, a watchman and the first mate. No one saw Joshua at all.
I stare daggers at Santiago even though he looks stricken. Also, it’s not like he is paid to watch Joshua sleep. If that was anyone’s job, it was mine.
My breath saws, ragged at the thought. Frantic pain wrenches my heart.
I’d give anything to lose this sinking feeling in my gut. The others look frantic, but no one’s losing it like I am.