Two weeks later, after some of the family made a trip to Chattanooga to visit the aquarium, the children hypnotized by the swirling light and colorful fish that seemed to watch them as they swam past, Izzy had received permission to break off from the caravan of motor vehicles and head back to Coalfield. She was going with Cap and Maxwell (so as not to, in Dr. Grind’s words, “overwhelm Cap with the singular focus of the moment”) in order to visit Mr. Tannehill, the first time she had seen him since Cap had been born.
The two boys sat happily in their car seats, covering their arms and faces with a seemingly infinite number of smiley face stickers that Izzy had found at a gas station. When they pulled into the parking lot of the Whole Hog, she could see Mr. Tannehill standing out back, sorting pieces of wood, talking to himself. She called out for him and he shaded his eyes and smiled, opening his arms as if to embrace the world. Izzy freed the boys from their car seats and watched as they waddled toward Mr. Tannehill, as if instinctually knowing that he would be kind to them. Mr. Tannehill gingerly lowered himself to the ground, resting on one knee, and held out the index finger of both hands to greet the boys. Maxwell and Cap stopped just short of Mr. Tannehill, observing him, their heads slightly tilted, as if he were a puzzle that their eyes could not quite decipher. Suddenly, Cap reached for Mr. Tannehill’s left index finger and gripped it, a child’s handshake. Maxwell immediately followed suit, and Izzy realized that she was frozen in place, had not taken another step in this entire greeting. She wished she had a camera, had forgotten the ease of living in the complex, where there was always at least one person ready to document the proceedings. Mr. Tannehill let the smile on his face broaden into something all-encompassing, a happiness that could not be manufactured. Izzy finally moved toward the boys, who were examining the hair on Mr. Tannehill’s arms, as if scientists experimenting on a heretofore unknown species.
“Cute kids,” Mr. Tannehill said.
“That’s Cap,” Izzy said, pointing to her son, “and that’s Maxwell.”
“Pleased to meet you boys,” Mr. Tannehill said. He pointed to the small recording devices that hung around the children’s necks. “What are these?” he asked.
“A few days a week, the kids wear them and it records everything that they say and everything that someone says to them. And then Dr. Grind and the fellows analyze the recording to tally all the conversations that take place among the kids and then the conversations that occur with the kids and the adults. It’s complicated. I’m not sure I totally understand it.”
“So my voice is gonna be on there?” Mr. Tannehill asked, and Izzy nodded. “You’re part of the study now, I guess,” she told him, and they both laughed.
He then looked up at Izzy and continued to smile, his face readjusting to contain another kind of happiness. “You look good, Izzy,” he said.
“I’ve missed you a ton,” Izzy replied.
“Same here,” he said. “The letters and pictures have been just about the happiest part of my days, honestly.”
Izzy remained silent and watched as Mr. Tannehill lifted both boys into his arms and stood up, his posture slightly unsteady until he readjusted his grip on the children and it seemed entirely natural for him to be holding the boys. She was grateful that Cap, who was sometimes anxious around strangers, had allowed Mr. Tannehill to hold him.
“These boys eat barbecue?” he asked Izzy.
“They eat everything,” she answered.
“Let’s eat, then,” he said, gesturing toward the restaurant. Izzy once again felt the sluggishness of her own legs, which she overcame with loping, awkward steps in order to catch up to them, as if Mr. Tannehill would take her two boys into the restaurant and disappear into an entirely new life that awaited them inside.
True to Izzy’s word, the boys did eat whatever was presented to them. More than the barbecue, Cap seemed to love the salty broth of the collard greens, his face dotted with bits of leafy green, while Maxwell crunched on the burnt ends of the pork. While the boys ate, Izzy told Mr. Tannehill more about the complex, about all the members of the family, while the old man nodded and furrowed his brow. “I believe I need a notebook and a pencil to keep track of all these people, Izzy,” he said.
“It can certainly feel that way,” Izzy said. “The first few months I was there, I would always say hey, you, or hi there to everyone because I was terrified of getting their names wrong. After a while though, it just becomes second nature.”
“And you really seem happy there,” Mr. Tannehill said, a statement but one that had the tiniest element of a question creeping along the edges.
“I am. And Cap is, for sure.”
“That’s good to hear,” he said. He paused for a second, peering into the parking lot as if searching for conversation. “Have you seen your father yet?” he asked.
“No,” Izzy said.