*
“Don’t forget to pack your things,” his mother said later that afternoon. Sunlight struggled through the dirty windows, and he felt the day was ending all too soon. Alone in his room, he was working on the final pieces of a plastic hybrid man-machine, a postmodern warrior that snapped together in forty-nine easy moves. Lost in the task at hand, Nick did not comprehend at first what she was talking about.
“We have to leave early to make our flight in order to catch the boat on time to make the cruise. We drop you off at half-past eight in the morning, so be ready.”
He tossed the toy on the bed and tried not to look crestfallen. If Baby were here, they would never leave.
“You could have gone to Florida, Nick. Seen your grandparents for a few days. It was your decision.” His mother picked up his discarded soldier. “What’s the matter, pet?”
“Couldn’t I just stay here alone? I can take care of myself.”
“We’ve been over this a million times. It’s just a few days, and he’s your oldest friend in the world. It won’t kill you to be nice to him for a little while. He has no one else, really.” She marched the toy soldier across the blankets and pretended it was attacking her son. He swatted her away playfully.
“Do you want me to help you pack?”
“I can do it myself.”
She rose to leave. “You’re such a big boy,” she teased at the door. “You were always like that, so independent. All grown up before I knew what was happening to my baby.”
He opened the closet, wary of the bodies that had been there, and worried about his parents on that ship far out to sea. He pulled down his suitcase from the shelf and began counting out socks and underwear for each day, and crammed in some pajamas, two jeans, and a couple of shirts and sweaters. On top of the packing, he laid his monster journal and pencils. Sick to his stomach, he did not want to go. Jack Peter was weirder than ever. Mrs. Keenan was hearing voices, and Mr. Keenan was seeing things. The man lurking out there. He put on his pajamas and waited for his parents to tell him it was bedtime.
They were seven years old and playing in the surf that August afternoon, letting the waves crash into their thin bodies while they stood their ground. Up on the shore, his mother was alone with Jack’s father, who seemed to be consoling her, his hand upon her shoulder. A pair of gulls circled overheard in the bright blue sky. The boys were laughing, having fun, daring the sea to defeat them. They went in deeper.
Jack Peter wiped spray from his mouth. “Won’t this be funner when we can bring your baby brother?”
A swell buoyed against Nick’s chest, so he jumped and landed on his toes in the soft sand. “Baby’s dead,” he yelled. “My mother lost the baby.” He had not said so aloud to anyone, and only in so saying did it become real. He wanted to get out, leave right now, and be away from Jack Peter and everyone, so he would not cry.
“What kind of a stupid loses a baby that’s not even born?” The question angered Nick, and his mother was not stupid, Jack Peter was. Stupid, stupid. When the next wave curled over and threatened to swamp them, Nick took a deep breath and pulled him under, dragging him to the bottom. The dark water rolled over them and churned the sand and shells against their skin, and the ocean tossed them like rag dolls, but Nick dug in his feet in the grit and pressed his hand against the boy’s chest with all the strength he could muster. In the green murk, he opened his eyes and saw Jack Peter staring back at him, playing some private game, blank and untroubled, ready to stay down. Nick wanted to hurt him for saying that about his mother. He wanted to make him go away and bring back his mother’s lost child, and so Nick held him there until they both began to thrash for breath and the adults came rushing into the waves to search for their missing sons.
iii.
He had trouble figuring out how to fit the bones together.