Chapter 6
The house is dark when I walk in, except for the rippling light of the television screen. Gus is on the living room sofa watching ESPN, unblinking.
“Hey, babe,” I say into the darkness. Nothing. I sit next to him and pull my grandmother’s crocheted blanket over both of us. We’re not touching, but a shared blanket always makes me feel closer. “You okay?” He nods at the TV.
“Aunt Naomi just texted, she wants me to babysit tomorrow night,” he says.
“That’s fun,” I say. “Is it fun?” Leigh and Macy are like the little sisters he never really wanted, but they adore him, and I think he likes being looked up to. They’ve called him Chief since they were little, and I think it’s exactly how he’d like to be feeling in his life right now.
“It’s fine. I mean, we always have fun, but I don’t want to spend the summer hanging out with little girls.”
“Yeah,” I say, because I get it. Whitfield is a place where he has family and history, and I think it’s the perfect nurturing space for him this summer. But I suspect he feels like he’s hiding out, peering around the corner, looking for a more normal social life.
After long enough that I’ve seen the same home run replayed twice, he says, “It’ll be good to start lifeguard camp.”
“Yes!” It’s too enthusiastic. I’ve broken the sanctity of the mood. I dial it back. “It’ll be good to be outside and in a routine.”
“I rode my bike around today and didn’t see any kids my age,” he says.
“They’re probably all inside, resting up for lifeguard camp.” He gives me the look: head down, eyes up, always followed by a shake of the head. I am ridiculous.
“Do you think they give you a hat at this thing? Or should we go to Naomi’s shop and pick something out?”
“I’ll be fine,” he says, and goes quiet again.
A thirteen-year-old boy’s mind is a fortress.
I know his circumstances in Boston. I’ve seen them in action.
His friends have moved on to girls and beer, maybe vaping.
It’s hard to piece together from the little he tells me, but there was definitely an incident.
Since January he’s been home after school, home on the weekends.
It’s not like they dumped him, they just went someplace he doesn’t want to go.
It breaks my heart to see him abandoned for wanting to take a few more sips of his childhood.
I also know the other option is hanging out with the boys in his class who are still trading Pokémon cards.
He’s caught between a rock and a nerd place.
What I can only guess is how he feels about it all.
I don’t know if he thinks it’s hopeless, that he’ll always be on the outside of things, or if he’s biding his time, secretly out scanning the streets of Whitfield for a kid who wants to talk baseball and hunt frogs.
It’s all so agonizing that I abandon my restraint and put my arm around him. He rests his head on my shoulder, and I take in the boy smell of him, unwashed hair and dried sweat.
“Want to drop some lines off the back of the fish house dock tomorrow morning before work?” I ask. “Live worms and donuts?”
He purrs a bit on my shoulder. Donuts were the answer. I nailed it.
“How was Hog Tied?” he asks. He’s still letting me hold him and I wonder if we could sleep like this, in this quiet space where he forgot I’m the worst.
“Good,” I say. “It was really good.” I want to pull out the check that’s pulsing in my pocket and show it to him, watch his eyes bug out of his head. But more than anything I just want to keep holding him. I’ll come clean tomorrow.
“I’m going to catch a bluegill tomorrow,” he says, dreamy.
“Pairs perfectly with a chocolate glazed.”
He looks up at me and smiles. I put a hand on his cheek so I can experience this smile with more of my senses.
I step out into the sleeping porch and flick on the little white lamp by the daybed.
Mrs. Goldberg has her TV on, but the sound is faint compared to the frog song.
There’s a breeze coming through the screens carrying the smell of blooming things, and I could close my eyes and tell you it’s late June.
In July the air out here will be sultry; in August it will be hot.
I put on my nightgown, but I’m not tired.
I’m thinking about what a strange thing it must be to be Stewart Whitfield.
What a strange thing to be an heir to that dynasty and still be a workaholic.
I work hard because I need the money, not to prove something. At least not to anyone but myself.
I take a seat at the old Singer. I practice on a dishrag for a few minutes before I get back into the rhythm, and after that it feels like second nature.
The warm summer breeze moves through the screens.
After a while, I get up and grab a piece of sandpaper and start low in the corner.
Paint that was already peeling comes off in my hands, but the wood is solid below.
Tomorrow I’ll call contractors for estimates on the roof. The porch I can definitely fix myself.
My phone beeps, and it’s Stewart: Busy wants to take you shopping on Monday morning at 10. Are you free?
Me: Yes, that would be great
I’m smiling at my phone, imagining how many exclamation points Naomi would have added to that text.
In the hierarchy of fascinating Whitfields, Busy is at the top.
She’s ten years younger than Naomi and me, so we watched her grow up in the summers.
A socialite and an athlete, she is perpetually tossing her platinum-blond head back in laughter.
Every time one of these photos pops up in the press or on social media, Naomi and I text each other captions: We saw the most hilarious whales from the yacht!
Who ever heard of pancakes without caviar?
My personal favorite: You bike how far to save $110 a month in parking?
That’s what my manicure costs! I think I’ll love meeting Busy; I want to find out exactly what’s so funny.
I take a screenshot and send it to Naomi. I wait for the count of five. Naomi: OMG!!!!!-!!!!!-!! STOP!!!!!!! Can I come? You don’t need me but you NEED ME!!! Please please please!!!!
Me: First of all you need to sign an NDA, and so does Sully, because I know you told him
Naomi: Guilty
Me: And of course you have to come. I’m way out of my depth here