Chapter 50
That night, when I came to give them their kiss, I found Ida standing rapt before the ugly painting in their bedroom—the requisite acrylic of a beach scene, complete with palm tree and low orange sun. I thought of the Navarro, but quickly pushed it aside: I would fix it; it was nothing.
“It’s so beautiful,” Ida said, as if issuing a challenge.
“It’s magnificent,” boomed Tom; he had stepped into the doorway. “It’s probably the nicest painting in the town of Huasquitico, on the south side of the beach, on Altavista road.” Catching my eye, “At least one of the ten nicest.”
It was a way we often joked, only this time, I didn’t join in.
To my surprise, I discovered I had room in my heart for this tacky painting; that I, too, could love it, if only because Ida did.
I kissed her on her head. I pulled the netting aside for her to climb in beside Henry, saying, “I’m glad you like it, darling. ”
After we had kissed them both many times, and put the tooth under Henry’s pillow, Tom and I lingered a long while beside their bed, speaking softly of happy things, touching and admiring Henry as though he were still a baby, caressing Ida’s sun-pinked cheek.
Finally thinking them asleep, I nodded to Tom. We could have our drink sitting on the beach chairs outside our door, as we’d gotten in the habit of doing. As we were shuffling out the door, out of the stillness, Henry said:
“How did that fish die, really?”
“Probably just old age,” Tom said.
“You’re sure it wasn’t that someone caught him?”
“If they had, they would have kept him. Or set him free.”
“They would let him go back into the ocean,” Henry said wistfully. He’d been silent several beats, and in that time had chosen to let himself believe. Tom and I met the assertion with nods, assenting sounds, of course they would have, people here are kind!
Over our evening drink, we talked about this exchange, debating when it’s compassionate to lie to children and when it’s not.
For some reason, I was hesitant and even upset lying about Santa Claus, whereas the tooth fairy held no such complication.
Maybe because it’s not so swept up in capitalism, Tom speculated, and I laughed: What could be more so?
“It’s just money, straight up, no pretense. ”
“Show me the money,” Tom parroted, and I joined in his laughter. I was grateful he hadn’t returned to the subject of the haircut; it felt like a gift he was giving me. I took a deep sip of my drink, relaxing into the knowledge that he had let it go, all was well.
As we were having a second drink, still musing, I said that perhaps I preferred the lie of the tooth fairy because the story felt less co-opted.
I could evolve elaborate tales—that the fairies use teeth to build elaborate staircases, gleaming artificial limbs, weapons for drawn-out battles with their enemies—and what existing narrative would contradict them?
“People like their own lies,” I concluded. “Maybe if they’re yours, and if they’re offered with love, they’re acceptable.”
Shortly after, I put the coins beneath Henry’s pillow. I hid the tooth in a pouch in my cosmetics bag. Then I crawled beneath the mosquito netting, where Tom was waiting for me.