The Islanders

by Meg Mitchell Moore

  “Dude!” said one of the teenagers as he sprinted past. “Where’s the fire?”

  “Go to hell,” Anthony said, or would have, if he’d had the breath. He could feel his un-taut belly bouncing. He kept running. When he got to the flash of green, he saw that it was the pajamas, and he saw that the pajamas were on the boy, and that the boy had waded out to his knees—almost to his waist. He saw also that the waves had picked up, and that the water was no longer flat. Out in the water, a surfer was optimistically paddling out. Anthony ran into the water and grabbed the boy under the arms, lifting him onto dry sand.

  “Okay,” he panted. “Okay, there you go. It’s okay. You okay, buddy?”

  The boy screwed up his face and started to cry, and now Anthony saw that this was the boy from the grocery store, the one who lived in the cottage next door, with the mother who wanted to borrow sugar and liked to read books by Leonard Puckett. The boy looked to be about Max’s age. Tiny baby teeth, no spaces yet where any had fallen out. Pudge in his cheeks. He cried like Max cried too, as though the world had done him a grave injustice.

  “What are you doing out here all alone?” Anthony asked. Panic made his voice sharper than it would have been.

  The boy sniffled and stared at Anthony. His nose was running and he wiped at it with his pajama sleeve. The pajama shirt had a picture of a Minion on the front. Stuart, or Kevin? Anthony wasn’t sure. When the boy’s breathing became more rhythmic, he said, “I was following that seagull.” He pointed with a chubby forefinger out toward the horizon. “But now it’s gone.”

  “Okay,” said Anthony, as much to himself as the boy. “It’s okay now. Everything is going to be okay. Let’s get you back home. I think I know where you live. I think you live right next to me. Do you know where you live?” Anthony wondered how much this boy had been taught about talking to strangers. He and Cassie had told Max if a man you didn’t know tried to take you somewhere you were supposed to scream. He looked carefully at the boy. He didn’t look like he was about to start screaming.

  The boy shrugged. “In Connecticut, my house is red.”

  “That’s a good piece of information,” said Anthony. “But how about here? Do you know what color your house is here, on Block Island?”

  “In Connecticut,” said the boy importantly, “my friend Colin has a dog named Hooper.”

  “Also good to know,” said Anthony. “My name is Anthony. Do you remember that I was talking to your mother recently, at the grocery store?” The boy shook his head. “Okay, that’s okay. Well, I know your mother, and I’d like to take you home to her now.”

  “Okay,” said the boy affably. He reached up and slipped his little hand inside of Anthony’s. The trust in that gesture, and the warmth of the hand, nearly stopped Anthony in his tracks. An unfamiliar sense of peace and comfort spread through him.

  They reached the cottage next to Anthony’s and Anthony rapped sharply on the back door. When the woman—Lu, he remembered—came to the door she looked from the boy to Anthony and back again, confused. She took in the wet Minion pajamas, and she probably also took in the fact that Anthony and her son were holding hands like a couple of besties.

  “He was all the way down the beach,” said Anthony sternly. “Up to his knees in water. I happened to see him, so I ran after him. And brought him back to you.”

  “He was what?”

  “I was chasing a seagull,” explained the boy. “But he got away.”

  “Are you serious?” said Lu. “I can’t believe it. I thought he was upstairs.” She knelt down and folded the boy to her chest. “Come in,” she said when she rose, and Anthony followed the boy into the kitchen. “He’s only four!” Lu said. “He doesn’t know how to swim yet. He can swim in a Y pool, but not in the ocean . . .” She put her hand to her chest and exhaled. “Sebastian, I thought you were in your bedroom!” Of course, Sebastian. Anthony should have remembered that. “You can’t leave this house without me. Geez, when I think about what could have happened. Where’s Chase? Is Chase upstairs?”

  Sebastian shrugged. Anthony shrugged.

  “Chase!” called Lu. “Chasecomedownhererightnow!” Footsteps thudded down the stairs. The older brother appeared in the kitchen and Lu gathered him into the hug. “Thank God everyone’s okay,” she said.

  “Mommy, I can’t breathe,” whispered Sebastian.

  Anthony felt like he was intruding on a very private moment, but it didn’t seem right to slip out the door with no official farewell, so he let his eyes wander around. This kitchen was much more updated than the one in Fitzy’s uncle’s house; it was painted a cheerful light green and had modest but modern kitchen appliances and a small center island. On the island was an open laptop. Something propelled Anthony toward the laptop, and suddenly Lu was slamming the computer closed before Anthony could see what was on the screen. Interesting, thought Anthony. Lu had a secret. He filed that information away for future consideration.

  “I don’t know how to thank you,” Lu said. Her face had gone pale and her freckles stood out like dark spots. “I have no idea how that happened, and I don’t know how to thank you. You absolutely saved his life. He’s a total space shot. If you hadn’t come along when you did, he would have walked in over his head, chasing that seagull.”

  Anthony found himself at a loss for words. It was an unusual situation; he’d never saved a life before. No problem seemed inadequate. Glad I could help: too insouciant. He studied Lu. Once again Anthony was reminded of Amanda Loring in the fourth grade, with her open, honest face, her pigtails and freckles, her prowess on the four square court. Finally he settled on, “You don’t need to thank me.” Then he added, “Just . . . be well.”

  Be well? He chastised himself later, back in his own cottage. Who talked like that? Citizens of the Victorian era? Now he was unsettled. The image of the boy, so close in age to Max, walking to—not just to, but into—the water, untended. Children could slip past adults so easily. The menaces in the world were so many, so varied and numerous, that it was a wonder any of them made it to adulthood unscathed.

  He thought about Lu and the way she’d slammed down the cover of her laptop. Well, people did things online they weren’t quite proud of. They shopped too much; they cruised pornography sites; they got caught up in headlines that said things like, “You Won’t Believe What This Star from the Eighties Looks Like Now!” and spent a three-hour stretch falling down a rabbit hole. And sometimes their young sons took a walk on the beach all by themselves while people weren’t paying attention.

  Anthony was tired. Partly he could attribute his fatigue to the unaccustomed exercise. In another time, another life, he could finish a five-mile run in thirty-five minutes, easy. But not anymore. Also, it was exhausting, interacting with other people after so many solitary hours. He cast one longing look at the decanter.

  But, no. He wouldn’t. Instead he lay on the couch and fell into a deep sleep in which he dreamed Max was falling over the side of a boat. Max was wearing his red T-shirt with the alligator on it, the Max-o-Saurus shirt that Anthony had given him. It was Max’s favorite shirt; he wore it all the time. When it was dirty, he pulled it out of the laundry hamper and wore it anyway. (It made Cassie crazy when he did that.)

  In the dream, Max had no life jacket on. Who put a child in a boat with no life jacket? Even in his dream state Anthony paused to wonder this. Anthony was in the boat with Max, so he must have been responsible for the lack of a life jacket. When Max fell over the side, Anthony grabbed at the T-shirt, but it slipped through his fingers and Max disappeared into the water. The water swallowed him so quickly: he was there, and then he wasn’t. Max! screamed Anthony. Max! Max! He jumped over the side of the boat—it was a small boat, something low, close to the water—dove down, and opened his eyes. But the water was murky; he couldn’t see anything. He kicked his legs and flailed his arms, feeling with all of his limbs for Max’s body. Nothing. Max! he screamed. But his mouth filled with water and he had to push himself to the surf
ace, sputtering and choking, before going back under.

  Anthony woke up sweating and terrified, the sunlight streaming in through the cottage’s windows. His mouth was dry, his T-shirt was soaked, and he was completely disoriented. When he stood and walked into the kitchen his legs were shaky.

  He reached for his cell phone and called Cassie. Voice mail. He disconnected and called again. Again, voice mail. So Anthony called again. And this time she answered! “What?” she said peevishly. “What’s going on, Anthony? Why all the calls?”

  “Where are you?” he asked. “Why didn’t you answer?”

  “I was in a barre class. I had do not disturb on but you called so many times it disabled and the phone started ringing. Geez, Anthony. I had to leave during ab work. It’s a major infraction, to have a cell phone ring in there. People have been blackballed for less.”

  Anthony didn’t care about Cassie’s barre class. “Where’s Max?”

  “He’s at home, with Hallie.”

  “Who’s Hallie?”

  “The sitter. You know her. That high school girl across the street?”

  “Okay.” Anthony remembered Hallie. She had a rose tattoo on her forearm and always wore a baseball cap. She was nice. “Okay, I was just checking. I had a bad feeling, that’s all.”

  “Anthony.” Her voice softened a touch. “Get ahold of yourself, okay? Just—get ahold of yourself. You’re starting to scare me.”

  Later, Anthony opened his front door. He was thinking of taking a bike ride. On the stoop he found a sturdy paper plate. On the plate were several giant blueberry muffins dusted with cinnamon sugar. And taped to the plate was a note. Trying out a new recipe, it said. I know I can’t thank you enough for saving Sebastian today but I thought this might be a step in the right direction. —Lu

  It was ridiculous—over the top!—how quickly a feeling of goodwill spread through his body from this small kindness. And that was before he took even a single bite of muffin.

  Chapter 9

  Lu

  Lu found a lovely little café to work in. It was called Joy Bombs. The coffee was phenomenal, the Wi-Fi was free (password: makingwhoopie), and the specialty, small whoopie pies that came in a variety of flavors, were to die for. She bought a sampler plate, coffee for herself, juice for the boys. After the incident with Sebastian and Anthony, Lu wanted the boys within sight even while she was working, so Chase had the family iPad and Sebastian had Lu’s phone. Jeremy didn’t like the boys to be on electronics at all, not at their ages—he didn’t think it was good for their brain development. In fact, he’d brought it up just the day before, before he’d left again for the hospital. Lu didn’t think it was good for the boys’ brain development either, but it was easier to have a zero-tolerance policy about electronics when you worked sixteen-hour shifts and sometimes slept at the hospital.

  They spread out at the table, and Lu began to write.

  Readers! Let’s talk mozzarella and tomatoes. I don’t know if you’re lucky enough to have fresh tomatoes where you are. It’s early in the season for many. Here in the Midwest we’re still waiting for our first batches. My garden is telling me that July looks promising. If you have ’em, by all means use ’em! But remember what Dinner by Dad always tells you: a good canned tomato (and there are some, see my affiliate links) is waaaaay better than one of those waxy-looking villains from your produce section.

  Lu wasn’t sure if she’d do the mozzarella and tomatoes for dinner tonight, but she’d definitely make ice cream for dessert. She’d brought her ice-cream maker with her for the summer. The boys would go ballistic. Leo churned his own ice cream, of course. Fresh strawberry in the summer, peppermint stick closer to the holidays. Everything was seasonal on Dinner by Dad. And local, whenever possible. Maybe she could use the balsamic vinegar from the tomatoes to make a glaze to go on top? Yes.

  Lu had begun the blog as a hobby, sort of a lark, when the kids were really little, a way to pass the time and keep her mind sharp while they napped. She’d tossed up a few recipes, written a little bit of background for them, talked about her kids, her home. The usual. Yawn, yawn. Then she’d searched some other mommy blogs and realized that stay-at-home mom bloggers were a dime a dozen. Cheaper, even. You could probably get a dozen for a nickel.

  Stay-at-home dads, though! Less common. Stay-at-home dads were sexy, warmhearted, exotic. And a stay-at-home dad who could cook, who laid a warm and nutritious meal before his two sons and his fingers-to-the-bone attorney wife each night? A dad who took the bacon his wife brought home, fried it up in a pan, broke it over an arugula salad topped by a perfectly poached farmhouse egg and homemade parmesan croutons? A dad who discovered (and then wrote about) such creative ways to conceal shredded zucchini and chia seeds that his sons never even for a second guessed they were there? That guy was worth real money. So she became Leo.

  Leo was super-upfront with his readers about his struggles as a SAHD. The loneliness! The loss of identity! The insecurity! The way he felt after school drop-off when the moms clustered together and never thought to invite him in on their conversations! Sure, they waved and said hello, but he never really, truly felt a part of things. He was an interloper, an intruder, an outsider.

  In the kitchen, though, he felt as at home as a duck in water.

  The blog started to take off. The page views grew and grew: fifty thousand a month, then a hundred thousand, then two hundred thousand. Advertisers started approaching. A few brands popped up to gauge interest about sponsored posts. Then it was more than a few; it got so that Lu could pick and choose among them, agreeing to a sponsored post only when she thought it was something Leo’s readers would genuinely believe in.

  After a time, Dinner by Dad’s family felt as familiar to Lu (sometimes more) than her own. She learned how to use Lightroom software for editing food photos. Most bloggers photographed themselves, their kitchens, their children, but Lu decided to do something different: simple charcoal drawings of Leo’s children, his wife Jacqui, occasionally himself. (There was a time, in high school, when Lu had considered art school over a traditional college; she’d been doing charcoal drawings for almost as long as she could hold a pencil.) She was active on social media: Instagram, Twitter. And now—well, Lu wasn’t making quite as much as she’d made as an attorney, not yet. But she could see her way clear to a time when she’d surpass that. It happened. Look at apinchofyum.com; look at smittenkitchen.com.

  Lu opened a bank account in her own name at a different branch in town and squirreled away her earnings. She hadn’t yet spent a penny of her blog money. She was just letting it grow and grow, and when she had enough, when she was ready to step out of the blogging closet, she was going to write a big fat check to Jeremy’s parents for every dollar they owed them. And then, at last, she’d be free.

  “What’s this?” the Trusdales would cry. “However did you—?”

  “Oh, it’s nothing,” Lu would say, smiling gently, eyes modestly downcast. “I’ve been doing a little freelance work on the side, that’s all.”

  You’re so lucky, Lu’s mom always said. To be able to stay home with your kids. Lu’s mom had worked for forty years as the office manager for a dentist; Lu and her sister had been latchkey kids, eating Doritos straight out of the bag after school and inhaling unlimited quantities of Santa Barbara and Days of Our Lives. There had been no vegan chili: there had been no chili at all, not unless they cared to open a can of Hormel and dump it into a bowl themselves. In fact, that’s why Lu had become a good cook in her mid- to late teens. Necessity really was the mother of invention.

  Lu sighed. Tomato and mozzarella had been done and done again by every food writer in the blogosphere. She’d have to do better. Cube it? Add farro, salami, grill the bread? Make the bread first, and then grill it?

  Leo and his family lived near a beautiful clear lake in an unnamed state. Somewhere vague, midwestern. The lake had glorious sunsets and offered lots of water sports. Leo was teaching the boys to paddleboard. He was a train
ed lifeguard, of course, and they kept the paddleboards in shallow water, so there was no real danger. Leo was really careful like that. You could trust him with anything.

  Some summer nights, when Jacqui wasn’t kept too late at work, Leo packed up one of his delectable dinners and the whole family walked down to eat at one of the picnic benches near the lake. What a blessing it was to live somewhere so civic-minded, where taxpayer dollars went to keeping the town so beautiful and user-friendly. You could even recycle your plastics right there at the lakefront.

  Sometimes they stayed to see the sunset, if the boys weren’t too tired. Oh, those boys did get tired! Outside all day, helping in the vegetable garden and (yes!) swinging from the tire swing Leo had hung from a branch of the old oak tree in the yard. Gosh, that tree must have been there for generations.

  And of course Jacqui rose so early to get to work, and had to look so very presentable. Sometimes it was difficult for Leo to keep up with the dry cleaning. He didn’t let it get him down, though.

  Lu scrolled through Google Images, wondering if she could find a photograph of a lake that would look anonymous enough that she could claim it as her own, as Leo’s own.

  “You got a text,” said Sebastian. He’d come around to stand beside her, holding her phone. Lu chewed her lip. She’d only gotten—what? Four minutes of work done? She took the phone from Sebastian and glanced at it. Jeremy: rough here hows it going there? (Definitely cube the mozzarella, she thought. And farro . . . that could work. That could really work. Remember how Leo’s son Charlie had loved farro the first time he’d tried it? Nobody had expected that! But children were full of endless surprises.)

  Lu tried not to feel like knives were scratching at her vertebrae. She loved her family to the moon and back, of course she did. She just didn’t need to be around them all day, every day. For—how many more years? Chase was six, Sebastian four. Fourteen years until they’d both be away at college. She was a terrible person for thinking that.