Osprey Island

Lance squinted open one eye and half raised a hand in greeting.

Roddy hovered a few yards away from them, the way he hung on the periphery of his mother’s house, not wanting to get too close, become too involved. “I’m only going to stay a minute,” he said. “I just had something I wanted to talk to you all about.”

Merle glanced to the TV.

Lance opened his eyes and lifted his head from the back cushion of the chair. “You bring Squee?” he asked.

Roddy stuck his hands deep into his pockets. “That’s what I wanted to come ask you about . . . is Squee. I’m . . . I know you’re ready to have him home with you here, which I respect, and understand. But he’s been having a hard time, like you might expect, and I’m worrying about bringing him back here so soon, what with the . . . the fire . . . the site still all . . . well, before we’ve been able to get everything cleared away, you know? I’m wondering if you think maybe he should stay back at my mom’s a little longer, till things get cleaned up here?”

Lance swept a hand around the room. “Pretty fucking clean in here,” he said.

Roddy nodded. “Suzy and the girls did a real nice job.”

“You know,” Lance said, looking to his mother now, “Suzy, in high school . . . Roddy here was just about creaming in his pants about every five minutes for that girl.” He laughed, mocking.

“Lance!” Merle shushed him playfully, disapproving the way a woman her age might flirt with her own husband: You filthy old goat, you!

Roddy tried to ignore Lance. It was just like high school again, really. “Look,” he said, directing his plea to Merle now, “I wanted to know if it would be OK with you if we kept Squee at my mom’s place a couple more days, just until . . .”

“My son belongs here,” Lance declared.

Roddy looked at him a second, then turned back to Merle. “I’m not saying . . . just, maybe it’s too soon for him to be here at the Lodge . . .”

Merle opened her mouth to speak, but Lance got there first. “He’ll have to get used to it at some point. Might as well be now.” Everything he said had the weight of a decree, as though with Lorna’s death he had ascended to royalty.

“Look”—Roddy spun toward him—“could you please try to think about the boy for one damn second . . .”

“Well, now you fucking sound like Lorna!” Lance jeered.

“Dammit, Lance,” Roddy swore. “The kid won’t even stay at his own grandparents’ place.” He looked to Merle, remembering who she was. “He went out the window in the middle of the night and ran to my mom’s.”

“Well, I don’t blame the kid,” Lance said smugly. “Who the fuck wants to stay with Art and Penny?” He warbled their names in singsong mockery. “I’d run too.”

“Lance,” Merle cautioned.

“Jesus Christ! It’s my fucking house, Ma!”

Merle stood decisively. “I’ve had about all I can take of you, Lance Squire.” She looked to the television to once again register the contestants’ scores, then flicked off the set, grabbed her car keys from the table, and went toward the door. Passing, she clapped Roddy on the back. “Good luck with this one.” She jutted her chin at her son. “Lance, could you try not to be such a goddamn bastard for once, OK?” And with that Merle turned and went out of the cabin and down the steps.

Lance had closed his eyes again and leaned his head back. He raised one hand and flipped the bird to his mother’s back as she walked away.

“Look, Lance . . .” Roddy prepared to try again.

“Look, Rodless,” Lance mimicked. Rodless was from junior high. Rodless, Dickless, stupid adolescent-boy humor. “I said no. Which part of that didn’t you understand?”

“Oh, Jesus, Lance, would you look at—” Roddy’s anger was barely contained. “Could you just look at what you’re . . .”

Lance was about to blow. “You know what I see when I look at myself, Rodless? You know what I fucking see? I see a man whose wife just died! A man whose wife just fucking died . . .” He started to break apart then, his voice cracking into words that came out with no sound. “She just fucking . . .” He dissolved.

Roddy took his cap off his head, ran a hand through his hair. He gave a nod, one. “I’ll go get Squee.”

Back at Eden’s, Squee was also watching Wheel of Fortune on a TV that hadn’t been tuned to anything but PBS since Roderick Senior had died. Roddy rapped on the back door and summoned Eden to the porch. She came out of the kitchen drying her hands on a dish towel, passed Squee on the couch, and glared at the TV. “Do you know how much television that child is accustomed to watching?” Eden said to her son.

“No, I don’t. Look, Ma . . . I tried. I don’t what else there is to do . . . Lance is losing it.”

“All the more reason that child should be nowhere near him,” Eden hissed.

“Fine, but what am I supposed to say? My mother says he’s not your kid anyway and you know it, so go shove it, Lance? What exactly—”

“I’m calling him,” Eden declared.