Catching Genius

by Kristy Kiernan

  “I do understand,” he said, his voice patient and formal. “I was in a similar situation myself as a child. Perhaps you might do a bit of research; there is plenty of information about me online. Part of the reason I run this camp is not to find children like Carson, but to make sure that when I do find them, they’re protected. I’ll be happy to send you copies of the e-mail exchange I had with Dan so that you’re comfortable that no boundaries have been crossed. Please, take the card.”

  I tucked it in my pocket without looking at it. “I’ll give it some thought,” I said, though I had no intention of ever getting in touch with him. I climbed into the Escalade without another word and he held the door for me, tilting his head around me to smile at Carson.

  “Take it easy, Carson. Be good on the ride home,” he said.

  “’Bye,” Carson said, waving as I pulled the door out of Marshall Black’s hand and thumped it closed.

  As we drove away Carson looked out the window, following a formation of drummers on one of the fields and waving to a group of horn players setting up on a small outdoor stage. They didn’t see him and he finally let his hand drop.

  “You liked this place, didn’t you?” I asked.

  “Yeah, it was really cool,” he said, slumping in his seat. “Maybe I could come next summer? I’d be really good. I’m really sorry, Mom.”

  I looked over at him, so small in the Escalade, and wondered how he would feel next summer. He was in for a difficult year. I could keep him sheltered from the adults who wanted to use him, but I couldn’t protect him from the fallout of his own parents divorcing. “I know, buddy,” I said. “I think you’ve been punished enough. But you have to remember that you can’t just go along with your friends if they’re doing something dangerous. People could have been hurt, even killed. Do you understand how serious this was?”

  He nodded, his eyes wide. “Did you tell Dad?”

  “I did,” I said carefully, taking a deep breath as we turned onto the interstate. “Sweetie, we need to talk about your dad. Things are going to be a little different when we get home.”

  “How?” he asked.

  “Well, your daddy and I haven’t been very happy with each other—” I began, and then stopped. I couldn’t believe I was saying these things. I wanted to know when each step was going to stop being so painful. It wasn’t something my lawyer could answer for me.

  “Mommy?” Carson asked, his voice wavering.

  “Oh, honey,” I said, my voice shaking too. Gib’s anger had been better than this.

  “We’re getting divorced?” he asked.

  “It looks that way, Car,” I said. I pulled into the slow lane so that I could concentrate more fully on Carson, could say all the lame things that parents said when they ripped their children’s lives apart, about how it didn’t mean that we didn’t love him and his brother, about how it wasn’t his fault, that sometimes mommies and daddies just couldn’t live together anymore.

  It made me feel sick, and it made Carson feel sick too. It made him feel so sick, that just as I was explaining how when we got home his father wouldn’t be living at the house anymore, he suddenly, violently, vomited against the dash. I swerved and narrowly missed hitting a small sedan in front of us. Horns blared behind me as I jammed on the brakes, and a car whipped around me, passengers holding their middle fingers against the windows.

  “Baby!” I cried, trying to watch the road, looking for an exit, while my son vomited again. The smell of it filled the car, and I rolled the windows down and then reached for napkins in the console. I handed them to Carson while he sobbed and dry-heaved as I took the exit ramp and pulled into a McDonald’s parking lot.

  I jumped out of the car and ran around to the passenger side, swallowing down my own reaction to the smell. Carson was already stumbling out, still crying and trying to apologize through his heaving. I picked him up like a toddler and took him to a grassy area next to the restaurant and held him until it stopped, whispering and crooning empty reassurances.

  When he finally calmed down, I peeled his shirt off of him, turned it inside out, and tried to clean him up as best I could. I stuffed the shirt in a garbage can, then rummaged through his bags and found a T-shirt he could wear. I also pulled out one of Gib’s old T-shirts that Carson used to sleep in, and ducked inside the Escalade to change my own foul-smelling shirt. Then we went into the restaurant, and I took him into the women’s restroom with me, ignoring the disapproving stares.

  I whispered to him as I cleaned him with wet, rough, brown paper towels, my arms and hands shaking. He had stopped sniffling and remained silent, merely closing his eyes when I rubbed his face, and hanging his head when I wiped his arms down. Once I installed him in a booth and got him a small soda, I went to the parking lot to deal with the Escalade.

  The dash cleaned easily, and now that Carson was out of sight, I sobbed and cursed Luke as I scrubbed it, dropping the soiled paper towels onto the soaked floor mat. Once every surface was clean, I rolled up the floor mat and stuffed that into the garbage can too. I left all the windows down, hoping nobody would bother stealing Carson’s bags and clarinet.

  We sat in the booth for over an hour, splitting french fries when he felt up to it, then graduating to a burger. I talked, he mostly listened. I again explained all about us loving him, and watched carefully for another episode. I wondered if this was what was happening when the camp director told me he was hiding in the boys’ room.

  He assured me that he was okay, and we hit the road again. I tried to go slowly, tried to avoid bumps and sharp curves, and Carson finally fell asleep, his head wedged between the seat and the door. He woke about an hour before the bridge, and I told him stories about the island, about the pirate treasure, how Tate and Gib would take him fishing and show him the lighthouse.

  He started to perk up a bit, and I continued, adding on swimming and watching dolphins and staying up late to watch the stars come out up on the widow’s walk. I lied and told him that Gib and Mother had come up hoping that he would be able to join us, and that he could eat as many shrimp as he wanted.

  By the time we arrived at the house, I had painted a rosy picture of a happy family waiting to cater to his every whim. The empty house made his smile waver, but when I opened the back door leading to the boardwalk, I saw the entire group on the beach and told him they were waiting for him. I walked behind him as he ran down the boardwalk. To their credit, as soon as everyone saw him they rushed to meet him.

  He flung himself off the stairs and into Mother’s arms, and from there to Estella, with whom he wasn’t a bit shy. After Tate solemnly shook his hand, Gib hoisted him over his shoulder and marched him into the Gulf, shoes and all. Mother hugged me when I finally reached the beach, and I sat down on the steps to watch the boys play.

  “How did he take it?” she asked.

  “Not very well,” I admitted. “He threw up in the car. We hung out in McDonald’s until he calmed down.”

  Mother cast a worried glance Carson’s way. I was glad to see that Gib was keeping him in the shallow water, and Tate and Estella were standing at the edge of the surf, watching them and shouting encouragement as they mock wrestled.

  “I don’t think he should be carrying on like that if he’s sick,” she said.

  I sighed. “He’s okay. I’m just happy to see Gib being nice to him for now. It’ll end soon enough.”

  “I never understood why the two of them couldn’t be better friends,” she said. “Like you two.”

  I looked at Estella, clapping her hands and laughing at my sons in the water. “Mother, Estella and I weren’t friends,” I said.

  “Of course you were,” she said. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “I don’t know how you can say that!” I exclaimed. “You had to have realized how different we were. And you and Daddy sure didn’t do much to help.”

  “What are you talking about, Constance? You girls were practically inseparable. You went through some periods like all siblings d
o—”

  I laughed in disbelief. “Mother, I barely saw Estella after Daddy took her over. He made her into a freak—”

  “Don’t you dare speak of your father that way,” she snapped at me. “I won’t have it. He loved you both. He only wanted what was best for you girls, and he tried to steer you in the ways he thought you were naturally inclined. He did everything he could to see that Estella had people around her who could help develop her gifts.”

  “Oh, she got developed all right,” I said, tempted to spill what I knew about Pretus. “And what did he steer me toward, Mother? Besides you.”

  “And I was so horrible?” she asked, her voice turning cold. “I made sure you had lessons, I made sure you had a good violin. You never once indicated that you were interested in anything else. The only one who stopped you from reaching your full potential was you, Connie. Feeling sorry for yourself again?”

  “No, Mother, I just wish that once in a while you could . . . Oh, forget it.” I stood and fled up the boardwalk.

  She followed me, and I quickened my steps. But she quickened hers too, placing her feet just as emphatically as I placed mine. I broke into a jog; in a moment the absurdity of it hit me and I burst into laughter as she ran after me and caught me just before the door, throwing her arms around my neck as though to wrestle me to the ground.

  She was laughing as I wriggled out of her grasp, catching my breath. It had been a long time since my mother had been so physical with me, and I suddenly remembered how she used to get down on the floor with me, especially after Estella was no longer my playmate. Her eyes now, as then, were full of playfulness, and I felt a rush of love for her.

  “I’m sorry, Mom,” I said. “You were great to be with. Thank you.”

  “Well, that’s more like it,” she said with a grin. “Now, shall we make this group some dinner, or will Tate and Gib go bring down a wild beach cow for us with their bare hands?”

  “I think we can manage tonight,” I said.

  We worked in the kitchen together, making a pot of gumbo, listening to an old Aretha Franklin record, and good-naturedly getting in each other’s way. The clatter from the boardwalk announced that the entire sun-weary group was coming in. The combination of laughing boys, bubbling gumbo, and Aretha was heady music, one I wished I could record and play when I was—as Mother so correctly, albeit cruelly, pointed out—feeling sorry for myself.

  They stomped up the stairs, minus Estella, and I heard the rumble of a shower coming on downstairs. Tate, Gib, and Carson collapsed into chairs on the patio, talking like old friends. Tate was telling them about his pirate treasure theory, and Carson was rapt, wide-eyed and worshipful. I couldn’t help but notice the contrast between his interaction with Tate and with his own father. I knew it wasn’t fair, but I wasn’t feeling very fair-minded at that moment.

  Gib left them on the porch and began to flip through the box of albums. The few times we’d come to Big Dune for vacation neither of the boys had been interested in anything in the house. They were disappointed that they couldn’t get to the widow’s walk, and the library had been off-limits. They never touched the albums, preferring the CDs they’d brought from home. There were no fishing rods stored at the house—Luke wouldn’t have known how to teach the boys to use them if there had been, and Gib in particular would never have been patient enough to learn from me.

  In short, they’d been bored. And bored boys fight, and whine, and make life miserable for each other and everyone in their orbit. Luke had been as bored as the boys after the first couple of days of sunning on the beach. It was no wonder we’d stopped vacationing on Big Dune.

  But the new shape of us, the crisis of their parents’ marital problems, seemed to open the boys up, or maybe it was simply that they were older. It made me think, for the first time, that maybe I, we, could have a life without Luke. My hopefulness, hard on the heels of my self-pity, was a welcome relief, and I even felt my nebulous anger at Estella waning again.

  “What’s this?” Gib asked, holding up an old Embers album.

  “Oh, put that on,” Estella said, just reaching the top of the stairs as Gib asked. Her hair was still wet and lay in waves against her head. She looked toward the kitchen, sniffing appreciably, and caught my eye. I smiled at her, and she smiled back, her eyes widening in surprise. “Remember that one?” she asked me as she came in and lifted the lid to peer in at the gumbo.

  I handed her a spoon. “Sure,” I said with a grin. We’d listened to that record over and over again. It was the one Mother had taught us to dance to, and when we danced at night in the music room we’d whispered the lyrics under our breath until we were exhausted.

  The first song came on, and Mother grabbed Gib by the hand, trying to get him to do the shag with her. Gib blushed and pulled his hand from hers, but she grabbed him again and slowly showed him the steps. Estella brought a spoonful of the gumbo up to her lips and gave a groan of pleasure as she sipped the spicy broth. Her hair stuck up a bit in back, and when I reached out to smooth it down she pulled away from my hand so quickly that she spilled the hot soup down her chin and gasped.

  I pulled my hand back and gave her a napkin, my irritation flooding back as quickly as it had receded. I couldn’t do anything right with her. Carson bounded in from the patio, Tate following, and they stood in line behind Estella, waiting for tastes, as Gib tried to escape Mother’s undulating arms and snapping fingers.

  “Carson,” she commanded. “Get in here and show your brother how it’s done.”

  Carson took a quick sip of gumbo and scampered into the living room, always ready to dance, always ready for music, and I felt my spirits lift again. Estella caught my eye and smiled and I couldn’t help myself; I smiled back. Gib sat heavily on the sofa, while Tate, Estella, and I watched from the kitchen as Mother and Carson danced.

  Estella started to sing under her breath, and then she grabbed my hand and we fell into the old dance as though we’d never stopped. I pulled her out of the kitchen, dancing backward, our opposing hands clasped, and we joined Carson and Mother in the living room.

  Mother cried, “Switch,” and we traded partners, me with Carson, Estella with Mother. Within moments, Tate cut in and danced with Mother, and Estella somehow coaxed Gib up, moving slowly, modifying the steps for him. When the song finally ended, Gib escaped to the kitchen, Mother and Carson collapsed on the couch, and Tate and I continued to the next song, doing silly dances from the seventies, making Carson laugh uncontrollably while we did the bump and the hustle to the beach music.

  Estella cut in, and she and I danced again, spinning expertly until we were breathless, just as we had been as children. I finally called it over, throwing my hands in the air in surrender and lying prone on the floor, panting. Estella lay next to me, giggling and catching her breath, her hair dried into a nimbus around her head.

  “When’s dinner?” Gib called from the kitchen, dipping his spoon in for another taste.

  I hauled myself up until I was sitting and leaned against the shelves, making the album skip. “As soon as everyone is showered,” I said.

  “Where’s he sleeping?” Gib asked, nodding his head toward Carson, who looked at me as though he might start panicking again.

  “You guys are going to have to bunk in together,” I said.

  “Mom,” they both protested in unison. I shrugged.

  “Unless one of you wants to sleep with your grandmother,” I said, laughing at the looks of horror that crossed Gib, Carson, and Mother’s faces.

  “I can always come upstairs with you,” Estella offered.

  “Yeah,” Gib said immediately, “then I can have my room—I mean, I can—”

  “Nice try, Gib,” I said. “You’re not going to kick your aunt out of her room.”

  “No, I don’t mind,” she said. “If you don’t.”

  I looked at her carefully, and finally said, “Okay. Well, Gib, you have to move her stuff up for her then.”

  “Done,” he said, throwing
his spoon in the sink and running down the stairs, closely followed by Carson. I could hear them arguing with each other but ignored it, thankful that neither of them was throwing up, sinking into a depression, or flying into a rage at the moment. They made several trips up the stairs, still bickering, their arms loaded with Estella’s clothes and bags.

  “Nice to have your own personal slaves,” Estella said, watching them. “Do they do windows?”

  “Only when threatened,” I said.

  Tate put another stack of records on, and an hour later everyone was showered and gathered on the patio for gumbo and rice.

  “Can we go fishing tomorrow?” Gib asked Tate, and Carson lit up.

  “Yeah, can we go fishing tomorrow?” he parroted.

  “Not you,” Gib said, shooting Tate a conspiratorial glance.

  Tate frowned at him. “Of course you can come, Carson,” he said. “You ever fished before?”

  Carson shook his head while Gib looked shocked at the betrayal. “I got stuff to do anyway,” he said sullenly.

  “Like what?” Tate asked. “Don’t you want to show your brother how to catch bait?”

  Gib looked thoughtful, obviously considering the use he could make of his little brother, and finally nodded his head. “Yeah, okay,” he said, and Carson bounced happily in his seat. “But you can’t get in the way,” he warned him.

  “I’ve got a few houses to check out, so I’ll come by late afternoon,” Tate said, helping himself to another biscuit and breaking it into his gumbo. Carson carefully copied him.

  “Good,” I said. “I need you boys in the morning. We have to load the car and drop some things off to be shipped back home tomorrow, and then we have to get started on the downstairs.” They both groaned, and Mother put her hand on my arm.

  “Why don’t you let the boys have tomorrow for the beach?” she asked. “Estella and I will help you.”

  “Mother, if you want this house cleared out by next weekend we can’t keep acting like we’re on vacation,” I protested.