able to hide their horror. They’d never heard of such a thing.
“I didn’t know that was possible,” the man said.
“I ran away once,” the woman said. She was wearing capris. “I slept at a girlfriend’s house and came back in the morning.”
Another time, at Moms’ Night Out—no three words more tragic—Josie had mentioned the Peace Corps and Panama, how she’d known someone, Rory, who had managed to become a heroin addict there. Josie thought she told the story in a funny way, an American smuggling drugs
into
Central America, but again there was the chasmic silence that implied Josie was bringing some hint of apocalypse to their fine town.
But Deena understood. She was a single mother, too, though her husband was not a deserter, but dead. He’d been a contractor in the Nigerian delta, was kidnapped, ransomed, freed, and, upon returning to the U.S., died two months later of an aneurysm. Deena’s other child, also named Ana but spelled Anna, was adopted, and between that and the dead father, Deena, too, had been threatened with Anna being adopted by the scarf woman from All in This Together.
Josie and Deena talked about being the only people in the school that anything had ever happened to. Josie felt right telling Deena anything, but she hadn’t gone far into her own childhood, her parents’ broken world. Those were untouchable years. It was one step too strange, so with Deena they left it at the particular absurdities of being a single parent—the making of money to pay children to watch their children so they could make money to pay these people to watch their children. The confiding in their children, complaining to them, lying too long with them at bedtime, telling them too much.
“We should move to Alaska,” Deena said one night. They were at Chuy’s, a burrito place where the kids could run around and scavenge and Josie and Deena were free to have their mojitos and take off their shoes. Deena was watching her daughter spill a basket of chips on the floor, pick them up and eat them. She didn’t move a muscle to help, she didn’t utter a word in admonition.
“Why would Alaska be any better?” Josie asked, but the idea stuck in her mind, in part because Sam lived there.
—
On the beach, the family in colorful new windbreakers disappeared behind a boulder down the shore, and Josie’s relief was great.
Ana approached carrying something carefully with two hands. Paul was right behind her, then by her side, his hands hovering around hers, ensuring that whatever it was they’d found would not fall. Josie stood, hoping to discourage them from dropping it in her lap. “Look,” Ana said with the utmost solemnity.
“It’s a head,” Paul said.
And now the stray dogs were among them, sniffing the head. Josie’s kids barely took notice of the dogs, and the dogs seemed to have no interest in eating or harming the skull.
“One of dem otters,” Ana said, and waved toward the bay. She had a skull in her little pink hands, and Josie noticed with horror that it had not been picked clean. There was still cartilage on it, and whiskers, and fur, something viscous, too. Josie conjured Socrates and thought of a question. “Why in hell did you pick this up?” In solidarity, the dogs lifted their heads to Ana and Paul, then ran off.
—
At night they went to a real restaurant in town. Josie retrieved the velvet bag from under the sink, retrieved six twenties, feeling it illogical but inevitable that she would spend most of them that night.
When they hit the main strip, they saw that a cruise ship had docked and Seward was full of identical couples in their seventies, all wearing slight variations on the same windbreaker and white sneakers. The town had been breached, the restaurants had surrendered, and Ana was running through the streets again. Josie and Paul caught her and Josie tried to appease her with a piggyback. No. Her little body, all muscle, moved like a barracuda: bending, twisting,
“I didn’t know that was possible,” the man said.
“I ran away once,” the woman said. She was wearing capris. “I slept at a girlfriend’s house and came back in the morning.”
Another time, at Moms’ Night Out—no three words more tragic—Josie had mentioned the Peace Corps and Panama, how she’d known someone, Rory, who had managed to become a heroin addict there. Josie thought she told the story in a funny way, an American smuggling drugs
into
Central America, but again there was the chasmic silence that implied Josie was bringing some hint of apocalypse to their fine town.
But Deena understood. She was a single mother, too, though her husband was not a deserter, but dead. He’d been a contractor in the Nigerian delta, was kidnapped, ransomed, freed, and, upon returning to the U.S., died two months later of an aneurysm. Deena’s other child, also named Ana but spelled Anna, was adopted, and between that and the dead father, Deena, too, had been threatened with Anna being adopted by the scarf woman from All in This Together.
Josie and Deena talked about being the only people in the school that anything had ever happened to. Josie felt right telling Deena anything, but she hadn’t gone far into her own childhood, her parents’ broken world. Those were untouchable years. It was one step too strange, so with Deena they left it at the particular absurdities of being a single parent—the making of money to pay children to watch their children so they could make money to pay these people to watch their children. The confiding in their children, complaining to them, lying too long with them at bedtime, telling them too much.
“We should move to Alaska,” Deena said one night. They were at Chuy’s, a burrito place where the kids could run around and scavenge and Josie and Deena were free to have their mojitos and take off their shoes. Deena was watching her daughter spill a basket of chips on the floor, pick them up and eat them. She didn’t move a muscle to help, she didn’t utter a word in admonition.
“Why would Alaska be any better?” Josie asked, but the idea stuck in her mind, in part because Sam lived there.
—
On the beach, the family in colorful new windbreakers disappeared behind a boulder down the shore, and Josie’s relief was great.
Ana approached carrying something carefully with two hands. Paul was right behind her, then by her side, his hands hovering around hers, ensuring that whatever it was they’d found would not fall. Josie stood, hoping to discourage them from dropping it in her lap. “Look,” Ana said with the utmost solemnity.
“It’s a head,” Paul said.
And now the stray dogs were among them, sniffing the head. Josie’s kids barely took notice of the dogs, and the dogs seemed to have no interest in eating or harming the skull.
“One of dem otters,” Ana said, and waved toward the bay. She had a skull in her little pink hands, and Josie noticed with horror that it had not been picked clean. There was still cartilage on it, and whiskers, and fur, something viscous, too. Josie conjured Socrates and thought of a question. “Why in hell did you pick this up?” In solidarity, the dogs lifted their heads to Ana and Paul, then ran off.
—
At night they went to a real restaurant in town. Josie retrieved the velvet bag from under the sink, retrieved six twenties, feeling it illogical but inevitable that she would spend most of them that night.
When they hit the main strip, they saw that a cruise ship had docked and Seward was full of identical couples in their seventies, all wearing slight variations on the same windbreaker and white sneakers. The town had been breached, the restaurants had surrendered, and Ana was running through the streets again. Josie and Paul caught her and Josie tried to appease her with a piggyback. No. Her little body, all muscle, moved like a barracuda: bending, twisting,
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