Osprey Island

“Oh, Ma, come on.” But Eden had already turned away, into the house. She went to her bedroom and closed the door behind her.

It had been long enough since she’d called the Squires that she didn’t even remember the number. She looked it up, dialed, readied herself for Lance, and then let the phone ring and ring and ring. She hung up and tried again. This time he answered.

“What?” he said. “What now?”

“Lance, this is Eden Jacobs calling . . .”

“Oh, yeah, Eden. Sorry, thought you were my mom.”

Eden was nothing if not straightforward. “Firstly, Lance,” she said, “I’d like to express my greatest condolences to you. Lorna meant a great deal to me, and though we weren’t on much of terms these last years, I think of her daily and will continue to do so. She’s always in my prayers, along with you and Squee.”

“Oh,” Lance said. “That’s nice. Thanks.”

“Which brings me to the other reason for my call, which is to talk with you about Squee. I understand from what Roddy’s told me that you’re looking forward to having him home with you at the Lodge.”

“Yes, I am,” Lance said decisively.

Eden plowed on. “And while I understand your wishes at this time,” she said, “I can’t help but feel that you’d think differently about bringing him home if you were to really only think about him for just a moment, about his well-being . . .”

“Look, Eden,” Lance said, more forcefully now, “Roddy already tried, and the answer’s still no. I want my son home—what’s the big fucking deal? I come home, he comes home too. Done, OK?”

“No,” Eden said, “no, it’s not OK! Suddenly you decide he’s your son . . .”

“Jesus Christ!”

“I am terribly sorry that Lorna is dead, mister. Maybe mostly because of what is going to happen to that little boy”—Eden remembered Squee again, out in her living room, and she lowered her voice— “without her around to be some sort of a parent to him . . .”

Lance spoke loudly, and bitterly slow. He said, “I am coming to get my son now.” And he hung up the phone.

Eden sped by Squee on the couch and went out the back door. Roddy was sitting at the picnic table, cleaning his fingernails with a pocketknife. “I made it worse,” Eden said, coming down the stairs.

“Shit.” Roddy sighed. He closed up the knife. “What happened?”

Eden shook her head. “He’s coming over to get Squee himself.”

“Aw, Christ.” Roddy stood, then sat back down, then stood again. “Christ!”

Eden had her hand on her hip and was nodding, as though running a conversation through her head. Then she straightened pointedly, her jaw set in fury, and made a noise like a growl of frustration through her teeth. She went up the steps. “Squee!” she called out as she went through the screen door. Her voice was changed entirely. “Hey, Squee, time to get packed up, mister. Dad’s on his way over to get you, bring you home.” She was trying to sound cheerful, and the effect was almost ghoulish.

Five minutes later Lance pulled into Eden’s driveway, left his truck running, and climbed the front steps. He rapped good and hard on the door, then opened it without waiting for anyone to answer. He looked around.

Squee came out of the guest room. He looked at his dad, looming large in the doorway of Eden’s little home. It was the first they’d seen each other since the fire.

“Hurry up,” Lance said, and Squee went back into the room to finish gathering his things into Eden’s old suitcase. From the kitchen doorway Eden stood and watched Lance without a word.

Squee came out of the bedroom a minute later, suitcase in hand. He didn’t speak either, not to his father, not to Eden. Didn’t even run out back to say good-bye to Roddy before he got into Lance’s truck and was driven away.

THEY PUT THE MATTRESS ON THE FLOOR. That worked better. Or used the chair; the chair worked too. It was a good, sturdy chair. But honestly, it didn’t much matter what they did it on, just so long as they did it. Because that’s what it was like: urgent and necessary and inappropriate and clandestine. They couldn’t get past it, neither of them, couldn’t get past just how incredibly good it felt. Jesus, it just felt so incredibly good: the kind of sex that took over everything, so that whatever else you were doing, you were never really doing that thing, you were just not having sex. It divided the world for them: there was the sex, and there was everything else. And everything else felt—oh, well, who the hell even knew what everything else felt like? They knew what the sex felt like, and beyond that, well, there was death and drinking and runaway children and fires and washing machines and rooms to be cleaned and parents to be placated and hotels to be run and what-the-fuck-ever else, because how could you possibly care about anything else when there was sex that felt like that sex felt?