“I’m sticking by my guns, Willa.” His calmness ate at me, then he seemed to relent. “But if we have to leave, there’s tons of other lights. Think of all the coastlines—think of it.”
“—the best place for Son—”
The world’s our oyster, I waited for him to say.
“We could live anywhere you want,” he murmured, rubbing his brow again. He listed places: Cornwall, Brittany, the Ivory Coast, Peru, Australia.
“Somewhere, I suppose.”
“It’s only a job,” he seemed to tell himself, sliding his wooden letters into the box. He gave it a shove, the little tiles clicking like Chiclets. “So we have ‘options,’” he said sarcastically, “isn’t that the word?”
“I think you should tell them—the Coast Guard types.” I stifled a sigh. “I mean, the way you’ve been feeling? The tiredness, for one.” Something kept me from spelling it out.
“Sure, doc. Mom.”
The fire settled in the stove. There was a flicker, the lights coming on but dying again, sinking the corners into a deeper darkness.
“Look. I have a son, remember.” My voice was brittle. I picked up a letter—one of the blanks—and rubbed it like a pebble, a worry stone.
“No shit. Maybe it’s his old man’s turn?”
I bristled. It’s not like that. But the words wouldn’t come.
“D’you love me?” he said, point blank. Even in the lamp’s wavy light his eyes gleamed, like bits of cellophane in the sun.
“Of course.” It had a righteousness that I regretted. “How can you ask?”
He studied the linoleum, then leaned back, sighing. “That girl. That … ‘partner’ of mine. Julie. She ...”
What? I thought; she what?
“…wasn’t exactly faithful.”
Such a quaint, unlikely word. It made me stiffen, as if the girl had been some kind of pilgrim.
“So…what happened? Where’d she end up?”
“Gave ’er the boot, like I told you. No big deal, Tess. People come and go, right?” A vague smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “She was…”
“What?”
“Too clingy.”
“Right.” I felt stung. “Nice combination.”
“Guess I know how to pick ’em, eh?” It was as if he wanted my approval, my collusion.
“How’d you ditch her?” I asked, too bluntly. Despite the chill, my face was burning. My temple throbbed. The photos flashed through my head: Wayne and the shadow across the bed.
“Oh Jesus,” he laughed, “there’s a story. Got a year?”
The lights flickered again. With a little shock, for the first time in what seemed hours, I remembered Sonny up in his room with candles.
“Better see what that kid of yours is into,” Hugh murmured, glancing upwards, eyeing me with that wash of a smile.
Rising, I tried moving on. “We need a date,” I said, padding towards the stairs. “They must’ve given you some idea when.”
“Willa.” Hooking me, his voice reeled me back in. His face looked sallow against the shiny, black panes. “You’re forgetting how things work. Let ’em take for-fucking-ever. It’d suit me. You know, sweetie, really, it’s like fuck-all matters. Crazy as that seems.”
***
Christmas was a baby spruce cut from the tea house garden. Sonny decorated it with stuff that had washed up: shells and bits of rope and wood and salt-bleached tampon applicators. He didn’t know what they were; who had the heart to tell him?
I gave Hugh the Saints book and cooked a turkey in the woodstove; it took all day. Hugh played “Blue Christmas” on the sax. His present to me was a round grey stone with an eagle painted on it.
“You don’t like it?” he said.
“It’s…amazing.” I couldn’t bring myself to touch it. “The detail!” The bird’s yellow eye seemed to follow me. “Wherever did you find it?”
“A girl down the shore—an artist,” he said, pulling on the mitts I’d knit for him.
Sonny spent the day in his room, drawing pictures of battle scenes in the sketchbook he got, from Santa, I insisted, though he’d quit believing by grade three. He taped Charlie’s card above his bed, after I’d peeked inside it.
To my No. 1 Son, LOVE Dad, Charlie’d printed. Don’t spend it all in one place!!! Sonny had stuffed the hundred dollars in a sock, to put towards videos—if we ever saw a TV again, he griped.
After dark Hugh and I went outside with the binoculars to view the navy ships in port, lit up like department stores. You could just make them out, like gaudy Northern Lights against the shifty sky. I tried coaxing Sonny to come have a look, but he wouldn’t budge.
I suggested he invite Derek for a holiday sleepover.
“Why’d he wanna come here for? Nothing to do in this crappy place.”
He ripped a drawing from his book and taped it next to Charlie’s card. It was one in a series. Since school had let out, he’d taken to plastering walls with his art—spidery creatures with jagged, bloody wounds.
“God, gory enough for you?” Hugh made us both jump, peering in from the landing. Who knows how long he’d been standing there. Sonny crumpled up the picture he’d started and pitched it; we watched it skitter across the floor. Then he ploughed me out the door, winging it closed behind me. I heard him kick Oreo off the bed.
“Man, that kid’s into violence,” Hugh remarked, looking up from his book. It was opened to the page on Saint Elmo. “What the fuck goes through his head, you think? You oughta look into it, Tessie. Bad news, any kid acting like that. Where d’you suppose he gets it from?”
22
BEACONS
We met Derek on the other side when he came over. His mom wouldn’t leave till she saw him wearing a life jacket, which Wayne bummed from someone tied up nearby. Hugh had come over, too. Instead of returning with us, he disappeared inside the eco-shed to wait for his friends; they were supposed to jam. This time he had his sax.
Amusing the boys took my mind off things, though I could’ve left them to their own devices. The dog acted like he’d never seen a child before. That afternoon we took a hike, though neither kid was dressed for it. They pelted rocks at the frozen pond to see who could make the farthest hole. Watching them reminded me of when Sonny was tiny, the hours I’d spent at playgrounds, breathing on my hands to warm them.
After supper we roasted marshmallows over the stove. The boys ran outside waving the flaming ones like torches.
“This is like winter camping,” Derek said. “Me and Dad did that once. We froze our butts off.” The two of them reeled with laughter. “What do you guys do for entertainment?” he wanted to know. “I can’t believe you don’t even got a TV. You musta really fugged up at math.”
“Fudged.” Sonny looked at me. “He said ‘fudged.’” They giggled hysterically.
I told myself: breathe.
“Man,” Derek wouldn’t shut up, “I couldn’t live with no TV, my mom neither. I’d be dead meat.”
Sonny peered into the fridge. “Dead meat’s about it.” Then they thumped upstairs, complaining.
I made cookies, chocolate macaroons you didn’t have to bake, and took them up on a plate.
“Dog turds.” Sonny chortled, taking one.
“Shit cakes!” Derek spewed coconut. Sonny’s mouth was ringed with brown. “For the love of GOD!”—I lost it—“You two better go to bed.”
“Nuttin’ else to do,” they grumbled.
“Tomorrow we’ll show Derek the forts.”
“Whoa, baby. Whoop-de-doo.”
They were still up there snickering when I went to sleep, the bed a tundra, cold yet peaceful without Hugh.
***
In the morning they hated the pancakes and pestered me for coffee. (“My mom lets me drink it.”) The day gaped; eating my pride I’d asked Wayne to aim
for three o’clock to take Derek back, figuring Hugh would be with him.
On our trek, Oreo sniffed and lifted his leg at everything as Sonny marched ahead, clearly wishing I’d stayed behind. “What if something happened?” I called, remembering the fish hook incident. “I’d never forgive myself.” Nor would Derek’s mother.
The path was frozen, the moss like green fake fur with a dusting of snow. Instead of the fort, Sonny insisted on the rifle range. No big deal; the island was strewn with rusty reminders of war, rubble scattered through the woods like bones. Hidden by summer’s lushness, in the bleakness of winter they sprouted everywhere, weeds from a forgotten world.
The boys trudged along bleary-eyed. I cursed the inventor of sleepovers. Oreo darted after a squirrel, then squatted on some moss. The trail narrowed to a skid of ice between the alders and tamaracks, their feathery yellow a relief from the greyness. Blue jays yammered, as if warding us off. When the path forked, Sonny veered right, dashing ahead.
“Check ’er out!” he hollered.
“Awe-some.” Delight spiked Derek’s grin as the machinery appeared, rusted racks and pulleys growing from the trench. “Fluffing sweet,” he bellowed. The two of them left me crashing through the alders.
“Training,” I heard Sonny yell, his voice almost prideful; okay, so there’s no TV, but the place isn’t a total write-off. “The military used to teach guys to shoot here.”
Derek raised an invisible rifle and blasted a tree. “Take that, ya friggin’ commie!” They slid into the trench, yanking on a pulley. The whole works looked like undersea wreckage, just left there. There was the crunch of shattering ice. Oreo threw his head back, baying.
“Don’t get a soaker,” I started to yell. “Hope you’ve got spare socks.” Derek goose-stepped along the frozen length of the trench. Watching them was exhausting, but enlivening, too. It let me forget everything. That’s the deal with children: you can disintegrate inside, and they’ll glue you back together.
“Not too far!” I shouted. The noise was like an army shooting at gyprock, till the ice gave way to yellowed bulrushes.
“Oh, maa-aan! Check this out!” Their voices rang back. “Awwww—gross! Who farted?” Derek was waving something like a chunk of wood dredged from the swamp. It was a sandal, like something peat people would’ve worn, those mummies found in bogs in Europe. A Birkenstock, small; a woman’s?
The dog crouched there, quiet now, but his tail going like a propeller.
“Call the Smithsonian,” I joked. “Okay, Indiana ...”
“Mooom!” Sonny was disgusted. “Don’t be such a keener.”
Derek was stomping back along the trench, sighting a new enemy. Sonny fired rocks into the trees: grenades. Before I could stop them they scrambled up the opposite bank and into the bushes, flickers of lime green and blue as they wrestled and bayoneted each other. Suddenly there was a whoop: “MOOOOOOOM!” Oreo streaked towards them. I had to follow.
The bunker was dug into a mound overgrown with bushes, its concrete face chalky, its iron fittings dripping rust. What use could it have had—shelter for the fellow setting targets?
“Better not go in,” I warned lamely. They were shoving each other, Sonny grunting like a dying man, then yanking on the iron door, yanking with all his might till it gave way. They squeezed inside, their voices a piercing echo.
“Frea-ky.”
“It stinks, man.”
“Who cares?”
Oreo slid in after them. The hinges crumbled as I swung the door wider, ducking inside. “Get out!” I expected to hear.
A grid of light fell from a grate in the mossy wall. The floor was wet and a dankness rose up: urine? Some initials were chipped into the cement: BG & LM, 1962. In a corner was a pile of singed-looking rags.
“What the —?” Sonny yelped. I could hear the boys’ breathing as Oreo whined.
“Come on,” I said, “the dog hates it.” And, louder, “That roof can’t be safe.”
The cold, fresh air felt like a second chance, it was such a relief to get outside.
“Hurry up, guys—that’s enough,” I hollered, and they darted after me. But then they took off through the brush, heading towards blue. You could see a crinkle of ocean through the woods, but the branches were so tangled the boys soon gave up.
“C’mon pup.” I whistled. Oreo was rolling on his back as if crazed by fleas.
“Stupid dog,” Sonny said, huffing a little. Clicking my tongue, I dug for a treat.
“He’s some cute,” Derek said. “If I had a dog, I’d name him Panzer—Panzer Otti.”
“O-kay.” I whistled again, louder this time. But Oreo kept rolling, his tongue lolling like a slice of ham. His eyes were brown and white alleys. “Heel,” I called, grabbing his collar. Then I noticed something sticking out of the ground, half frozen. Unravelled blue wool—the sleeve of a sweater?—and litter. A leaflet, the sort of thing you’d see at the grocery store, advertising yoga classes or tole-painting. It made me think of Reenie. The print was faded, mostly illegible—except one word: Lamaze. Lovely. Instructions on birthing in a swimming pool, swimming while grinning and bearing the interminable.
Oreo snatched the leaflet and started chewing it.
“Silly dog!” My voice quavered. The boys must’ve heard it.
“Now, guys. Let’s go. I’m leaving.”
Oreo snapped as I grabbed the paper and dropped it. I let go of his collar. He started rolling again.
“Not yet,” Sonny was moaning. “We’ll come home at lunch.”
Oreo growled as I caught hold of him.
“You’re coming now,” I managed. “Derek’s mom’ll be waiting, and Wayne —”
“Wayne the brain,” Sonny tittered. At least he was listening.
But before I could do anything, they ran back to the bunker. Derek scaled the roof while Sonny disappeared inside. Distraught, I yanked the door and it broke from the hinges. There was something in the corner we’d missed, a smooth grey stone and what looked like a kid’s plastic paintbrush, yellow, with hardly any bristles. Sonny picked up the stone, turning it over, rubbing away leaf mould. There was part of a bird on it, what looked like the head of an osprey in a nest, with a tiny, half-formed baby waiting to be fed.
“The stink,” Sonny was yelling up through the grate. “Makes you wanna puke.”
We could see our breath; I felt Sonny’s on my neck. A cold nausea filled my throat.
“Mom? What is it?”
The place was an echo chamber. I shrugged, escaping. The dog was nipping at me, yapping. “The noise,” I said, swatting him. My insides twisted like rope. The woods, the barking, the bright blue sky jumped around me.
“So much for a secret hideout.” Sonny elbowed me. “Me and Derek claimed it for our clubhouse. Tell the freakin’ world about it, Or-e-o.”
“Sonny.” My voice was feeble. “Like who?”
But he and Derek were already shoving through the branches, Oreo snapping at their jeans. I wanted to hug them, put my arms around both of them and draw them to me, the witch rewriting everything. Comforting Hansel and Gretel, apologizing for luring them into the gingerbread house. I just wanted the warmth of Sonny’s hand squirming in mine, if only for a second.
Back at the house, I made grilled cheese sandwiches and, while the boys were eating, crept upstairs. The blue canvas bag was gone. So were the clothes and the school photo. When I slipped outside, the lighthouse door was locked.
***
When Wayne came for Derek there was no sign of Hugh. He’d been gone twenty-four hours. Twenty-four hours without the sound of his voice.
Why are you counting?
He came home sometime during the night, long after I’d gone to bed. The creak woke me; I held my breath as he slipped in beside me. My body froze as his knees spooned into mine and he moved against me. He smelled of smoke. I lay pe
rfectly still until he stopped and his breathing grew shallow. I barely slept after that, and didn’t dream. Instead, over and over, I imagined Charlie rescuing someone, lowering the horse collar to a swollen-bellied mermaid, her seaweed hair fanning out, tangling in the chopper’s landing gear. Me in the water, grabbing for the rising cable, the cable swinging over the rising sea. I imagined the burn of spliced metal through my fingers, and slipping under the waves till salt burned my throat. A stinging effervescence like inhaled 7-Up, but hot, not cold. Tears.
***
In the morning I rose to muffled music, notes that seemed to travel through wool. The bed beside me was empty, the room like a vault. The fire had all but gone out. On the table was a clamshell with a roach in it. I dressed and stoked the stove, plugged in the kettle, made coffee. Then waited. After a while he came in from outdoors, rosy-cheeked, wearing a sleepy smile. I stayed put as he moved towards me.
“Where’ve you been?” I said, fighting the room’s iciness, the slide of his eyes. He shrugged, brushing my shoulder as he went to fill his cup. “Sonny and I were expecting you.”
“Ah,” he said. “How’d your holiday go?”
As if we’d been to Disney World—anywhere but here. “Excuse me?”
He leaned against the sink, eyeing me.
“In case you forgot, I had the boys?” I thought of the bunker and the rags and painted stones, and my stomach kicked. “Where were you?” My voice was shrunken. I felt weightless as a leaf.
“The city,” he said, “here and there. Round an’ about.” He stared above the rim of his coffee, then his gaze slid.
“One day left of vacation,” I said, breathing from the top of my chest. That sting again, like soda. “Sonny’s not going to like going back.”
“Where?” The dullness of his question stopped me.
“To school?” I couldn’t help a little snort.
“Eat shit,” he may have said, laughing like I’d missed something, the beginning of a pun. He eyed me strangely, his look almost one of boredom. “Tell Sonny he can eat shit,” he repeated, and the fuzziness in my sinuses went cold. “That kid gets away with fucking murder. I can’t believe the stuff you take off him.
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