He turns off his phone when he’s working, said Eleanor, though the way she said it seemed to indicate that the word working really meant drinking.
Now, on the verge of a dream, Scott hears Doug come home around one, the sound of tires on the driveway waking him with a jolt of adrenaline. There is that animal surge of primitive nerves, eyes opening in an unfamiliar room, unsure for a long moment of where he is. A sewing table sits under the window, the machine a strange, looming predator in the shadows. Downstairs, the front door closes. Scott hears feet on the stairs. He listens as they approach, then stop outside his door. Silence again, like a breath held. Scott lies coiled, tense, an unwanted guest in another man’s house. Outside he becomes aware of Doug breathing, a bearded man in overalls, drunk on artisanal bourbon and microbrews. Outside the window the cicadas are cutting a bloody racket in the yard. Scott thinks of the ocean, filled with invisible predators. You hold your breath and dive into the closing darkness, like sliding down a giant’s throat, no longer even human in your mind. Prey.
A floorboard pops in the hall as Doug shifts his weight. Scott sits up and stares at the doorknob, a dim copper ball in the darkness. What will he do if it turns? If Doug enters drunk, ready for a fight?
Breathe. Again.
Somewhere the air conditioner’s compressor kicks on, and the low duct thrust of forced air breaks the spell. The house is just a house again. Scott listens as Doug walks down the hall to the bedroom.
He exhales slowly, realizing he’s been holding his breath.
In the morning, he takes the boy out looking for rocks to skip. They scour the grounds of the riverbank, looking for flat, smooth stones—Scott in his city shoes and the boy in little pants and a little shirt, each shoe smaller than Scott’s hand. He shows the boy how to stand, cockeyed to the water, and sidearm projectiles across the surface. For a long time the boy can’t do it. He furrows his brow and tries over and over, clearly frustrated, but refusing to give up. He chews his tongue inside his closed mouth and makes a working sound, half song, half drone, selecting his stones carefully. The first time he gets a two-hopper, he jumps in the air and claps his hands.
“Nice, buddy,” Scott tells him.
Energized, the boy runs off to collect more stones. They are on a thin strip of brambly bank on the edge of the woods at a wide bend in the Hudson. The morning sun is behind them, blockaded by trees, on the rise, its first rays cresting the far shore. Scott sits on his heels and puts his hand in the moving water. It is cool and clear, and for a moment he wonders if he will ever go swimming again, ever fly on another plane. He can smell silt in the air and somewhere a tinge of cut grass. He is aware of his body as a body, muscles engaged, blood flowing. Around him, unseen birds call to each other without urgency, just a steady interchange of heckle and woop.
The boy throws another stone, laughing.
Is this how healing starts?
Last night Eleanor came into the living room to tell him he had a call. Scott was on his knees, playing trucks with the boy.
Who would be calling me here?
“She said her name was Layla,” Eleanor said.
Scott got to his feet, went into the kitchen.
“How did you know I was here?” he asked.
“Sweetie,” she said, “what else is money for?”
Her voice dropped, moving to a more intimate octave.
“Tell me you’re coming back soon,” she said. “I’m spending, like, all my time on the third floor sitting inside your painting. It’s so good. Did I tell you I’ve been to that farmers market? When I was a kid. My dad had a place on the Vineyard. I grew up eating ice cream in that courtyard. It’s eerie. The first time I ever handled cash was to go buy peaches from Mr. Coselli. I was six.”
“I’m with the boy now,” Scott told her. “He needs me—I think. I don’t know. Kids. Psychology. Maybe I’m just in the way.”
Through the phone, Scott heard Layla take a sip of something.
“Well,” she said, “I’ve got buyers lined up for every painting you make in the next ten years. I’m talking to the Tate later about mounting a solo show this winter. Your rep sent me the slides. They’re breathtaking.”
These words, once so coveted, were Chinese to him now.
“I have to go,” he told her.
“Hold on,” she said, purring, “don’t just run. I miss you.”
“What’s going on?” he asked. “In your mind. With us.”
“Let’s go to Greece,” she told him. “There’s a little house on a cliff I own through, like, six shell companies. Nobody knows a thing. Complete mystery. We could lie in the sun and eat oysters. Dance after dark. Wait till the dust clears. I know I should be coy with you, but I’ve never met anyone whose attention is harder to get. Even when we’re together it’s like we’re in the same place, but different years.”
After he hung up, Scott found JJ had moved to the desk in the living room. He was using Eleanor’s computer, playing an educational game, moving letter tiles.