Bill sighs, as if this is hard for him.
“There’s just—people are wondering, you know. He was the last one on the plane, and—what was his connection to your sister, really? And then, have you heard about his paintings?”
“We don’t need to talk about this now,” says Eleanor.
“No,” says Doug, “I wanna know. He calls, you know. In the middle of the night.”
Doug looks at his wife.
“You think I don’t know, but I do.”
“Doug,” says Eleanor. “That’s not his business.”
Bill thumbs his suspenders, bites his lower lip.
“So you are talking to him,” Bill says. “That’s—I mean, just—be careful, you know? He’s—look, it’s just questions right now, and this is America. I’ll fight to the death before I let this administration take away our right to due process. But it’s early days, and these are real questions. And I just—I worry about—you’ve been hurt so much—already. And who knows how bad this’ll get? So, my question is, do you need him?”
“That’s what I said,” says Doug. “I mean, we’re grateful. What he did for JJ.”
Bill makes a face.
“Of course, if you—I mean, a who-knows-how-long swim in the middle of the night. And with a busted arm, dragging a little boy.”
“Stop,” says Eleanor.
“You’re saying,” says Doug, picking up the idea like a germ—that the hero maybe isn’t that much of a hero after all—“hold on. Are you saying—?”
Bill shrugs, looks at Eleanor, his face softening.
“Doug,” says Bill, “come on. Eleanor’s right. This isn’t—”
He leans right, trying to see JJ around Eleanor’s blocking body, then keeps bending “comically” until the boy looks at him. Bill smiles.
“You be a good boy,” he tells him. “We’ll talk soon. If you need anything, tell your—tell Eleanor to call me. Maybe we’ll go see the Mets sometime. You like baseball?”
The boy shrugs.
“Or the Yankees. I’ve got a box.”
“We’ll call you,” says Eleanor.
Bill nods.
“Anytime,” he says.
*
Later, Doug wants to talk, but Eleanor tells him she’s going to take JJ to the playground. She feels as if she’s being squeezed inside a huge fist. At the playground she forces herself to be fun. She slides with the boy and bounces on the seesaw. Trucks in the sand, digging it, piling it, watching it fall. It’s a hot day and she tries to keep them in the shade, but the boy just wants to run, so she feeds him water to keep him hydrated. A thousand thoughts are going in her head, colliding, each new idea interrupting the last.
Part of her is trying to put together why Bill came. Another part is parsing through what he said, specifically about Scott. What is she supposed to think, that the man who saved her nephew actually crashed the plane somehow and then faked his heroic swim? Every idea in that sentence is absurd in its own right. How does a painter crash a plane? And why? And what did he mean about Scott’s relationship with Maggie? Was he saying there was an affair? And why drive out to the house to tell her this?
The boy taps her arm and points to his pants.
“You have to go potty?” she asks.
He nods, and she picks him up and carries him to the public bathroom. As she helps him with his pants, it hits her with a sway of vertigo that given his youth there is little chance he will remember his real parents when he’s an adult. She will be the mother he thinks of the second Sunday of every May. Not her sister. But, she thinks, does that mean that Doug will be his father? The thought of it sickens her a little. Not for the first time she curses herself for the weakness of her youth, this need for constant companionship like an elderly widow who leaves the TV on and gets a dog.
But then she thinks maybe all Doug needs is a chance. Maybe inheriting a four-year-old boy will motivate him, turn him into a family man. Then again, isn’t thinking a child can save your marriage the classic delusion? They’ve had JJ with them for two weeks now, and Doug isn’t drinking any less, hasn’t changed his comings and goings, hasn’t treated her any better. Her sister is dead and the boy is now an orphan, but What about Doug’s needs? he says with every thoughtless comment. What about how this affects him?