Conner left the Honey Hole and kicked along the edge of Shantytown. He stared down at his father’s boots and thought for the first time on his name and the names of his brothers. Palmer, Conner, Robert. What kind of shit was that to learn? And it was like she’d gotten more blunt over time. Had to be a coincidence. Something her madness had dreamt up after their father’d left. He hoped his mom never told Rob—the kid would be crushed. Would take to calling himself Bobby.
Conner crossed a low dune between a freshly collapsed house and a new one under construction. A handful of men were hauling material from the ruin and nailing it back together two dozen paces away, once again forestalling the inevitable. The most disturbing thing about the scene was how normal it seemed, how many times Conner had watched this play out in Shantytown, a ruin serving as the foundation for new construction. But now his mother had him seeing the commonplace in a new way. If anything, this alien view strengthened his resolve for that night’s plans. It undid what a beer and rabbit stew with Gloralai the night before had started doing to his head.
He cut through a row of apartments that abutted the back of the dive school. Palmer was probably back at his place right now helping Rob unpack and air out the tent. But still a good idea to check the dorms and see if he’d crashed there the night before.
Ms. Shyler waved from her porch as he passed. She went back to sweeping the sand out of her house, when one of her kids stomped inside, transferring some of it back. She turned and yelled at the boy, was her own sissyfoot in a way. They all were. The men building the house from the remnants of a house, all these tasks that required doing over and over with no end in sight, filling canteens and eating, shitting, sleeping, looking forward to a weekend and dreading the week that would come after. Life was lived by sissyfoots, all of them. One bucket of sand at a time.
He had to stop thinking like that. There was progress somewhere. Something better. That’s what the slow stagger of men, women, and families believed as they marched off toward the horizon. They believed in a life far away from the fighting and the bombs. Away from the riots and the patter of morning gunfire. Away from the shops where sunlight and sand filtered through bullet holes in wrinkled tin. Away from Lords with fickle rules and those who meant to topple them with indiscriminate bombs.
There had to be a reason so many left and never returned. It was the allure of a good life. Or simply no longer being able to stand the sound of distant grumbles, drums, and thunder without feeling an urge, a compulsion, to go see for themselves. That’s what his father must’ve believed. It had to be what he felt. Conner’s mom was just trying to poison the memory of the man because she hated her own life. That was it.
The door to the dorms was open, letting the light and a swirl of drift in. Conner stepped inside. There were two dive students in the back of the bunkroom, a clatter of dice. They turned when Conner’s shadow darkened the pips. “Have you guys seen Palmer?” he asked.
One of the boys shook his head. “He and Hap are out on a dive. They’re not back yet.”
“Wasn’t that a week ago?” Conner asked.
“So it was a long fucking dive. How should I know? They were all secretive about it.”
“Yeah,” Conner said, dejected. “Thanks.” Another year of disappointment from their big brother. Poor Rob.
“Yo, please kindly shut the fuck up,” someone called from one of the bunks.
Conner apologized and left. The dice clattered against the wall.
Heading home, he realized it would just be him and Rob that night, which screwed up his plans a little. Still workable, though. It would fall on him to lead the talk and to work the lantern. He wasn’t prepared. Especially not after visiting his mom. All of his stories had been told and retold to death.
He hiked back through the schoolyard and tried to match his memory of his father with his mother’s account. He’d had much more of her version of events than actual time with his dad. He’d been six when his father had left, had spent twice that number of years living in his absence, relying on stories passed down from others. Vic had done her share to muddy his recollection, telling all the stories from when their dad was younger, growing up in Low-Pub, making a name for himself as a diver, the years leading up to his taking over as Lord of Springston, back before his breakdown.