“Please don’t break mine,” I said.
“I can’t break your heart.” He dropped his blanket and giggled, a little boy again. He thought I was teasing him. “You’re old.”
“Milo,” Jennifer warned.
“It’s all right,” I said. “I am old. I’ve outgrown heartbreak. Right, Milo?”
But he wasn’t listening anymore. He’d zoomed away, his parable delivered. You can outgrow heartbreak only when you don’t love anyone anymore, and maybe not even then. That’s the thought I had, except it came to me like this: Nobody loves me. Nobody will ever love me again. Those two sentences rang in my head, crisp and clear. Like they were a revelation, though they shouldn’t have been. My throat closed as if I would choke. As if I stood at the edge of the pond, pockets full of stones.
My hand was resting on the top of my cane, which I’d held on to, even sitting down, as though I might be asked to leave at any moment. I tell you this because of what happened next: Jennifer reached over and put her hand on mine. I nearly jumped, I was so startled. When was the last time someone had touched me without expecting payment? When was the last time someone had shown me a kindness, any kindness at all, that wasn’t dutiful? Why did she do it? Because I told her about Lloyd, forgetting I’d already told her about Lloyd? Or had my voice wobbled on the word heartbreak? Why do I ask these questions? Why does it matter to me why?
Here came Milo again, back for his blanket cape. Jennifer took away her hand. “Hello, Dark Flame,” I said, trying to play along.
“My name is not Dark Flame!” he shouted.
This despite the blanket back on his head. “Well, how was I supposed to know?”
“So who are you?” Jennifer asked, with a sweetness that was perhaps supposed to counteract my lack thereof. “Are you Mr. Ninja?”
“Mr. Ninja?” he repeated incredulously. “No!”
I said, “Are you Milo Young?”
He looked at me with narrowed eyes. “That is not my name.”
“What is it then?” I smiled at Jennifer in what I hoped was complicit delighted amusement at the antics of her child. But she wasn’t looking at me.
“Milo Carrasco!” he shouted. “Milo Carrasco!” He dragged the “o” out into a wolf’s howl, and ran away trailing blanket and howl behind him.
“I was expecting something more dramatic,” I said. “Child of Chaos. Wolf Boy.” But then I looked at Jennifer, who was staring in the direction he’d gone.
I’ve performed a lot of triage. I would’ve pegged her as gut shot, if she’d come in on a stretcher with that look on her face.
“Carrasco,” I said. “Where did he get that name?”
She jumped. I think she’d forgotten I was there. She shot me a quick glance, swallowed, tried to smile. “Who knows?” she said. “Who knows with kids.”
“Indeed,” I said. “Who knows.”
After that she wanted me to go, though she tried not to show it. She chit-chattered and smiled—she of the neutral impassive politeness, the quick flares of temper like flashes in the dark. Who was this twittering creature, anxious as a bird, asking me if I needed anything besides the egg, if I wanted a cup of tea? I don’t even think she knew what she was saying.
Well, I am not one to overstay my welcome. Nor do I like the sight of a strong person made weak. In truth I am like a child: determined to take something apart to see how it works; dismayed, then, to find it in pieces.
I nestled the egg she gave me in an empty space in a carton. Because of course I actually had eggs. One always has eggs.
The look on her face when the child said Carrasco. When Rumpelstiltskin heard his name, he tore himself in two. Is that what happened to you, Jennifer? Oh, Jennifer, don’t you know that a good detective, given a clue like that, has no choice but to follow it?
In the End