unhappy?â she asked.
âYes,â Claudia said. âI rather think I have.â
19
June 8
The explosion sent the boat, in a thousand or more flaming fragments, soaring into the inky sky, then descending gracefully, like glowing snowflakes, back down on to the ruffled black waters.
People within a half mile or so experienced the blast as a near-physical shock, but the reverberation rolled further through Miami Beach and parts of Miami itself, waking and alarming some residents and visitors, startling birds and animals, sending humans reaching for their remote controls.
Sitting in the nursery rocking chair at four a.m. on Sunday morning, already awake because her son had begun crying twenty minutes earlier, Grace had been using the peaceful minutes since Joshua had quietened to float an idle hypothesis about the reasons she and Claudia had both become island dwellers of a kind, wondering if it might involve some sort of subconscious moat fixation, perhaps a lingering craving for protection from the bête-noire of their mutual past . . .
The boom of the explosion arrested the musing, started Woody barking and the baby wailing again.
âWhat the hell was that?â Claudia appeared in the doorway in cream satin pyjamas, not a hint of sleepiness in her face.
âEveryone OK?â Sam was there now, shorts just dragged on, Woody trotting in behind him, already over the noise and pleased now to find everyone awake.
âWeâre fine,â Grace said. âItâs all right, Joshua, sweetheart.â
âIt sounded so close,â Claudia said.
âProbably not as close as it sounded.â Sam came into the room, crouched down by the rocker, kissed Graceâs cheek and stroked their sonâs hair. âItâs OK, sweet boy, everythingâs fine.â
Joshuaâs crying was starting to thin again, more of a fretful, weary need for sleep now, his eyes round and anxious, and Grace handed him up to Sam, because it was not uncommon for his dad to be the one to hush him more swiftly, and sometimes Sam crooned softly to him in the fine baritone that had won him lead roles in S-BOP â the South Beach Opera â and Joshua plainly adored his daddyâs voice.
âYou think it was a bomb?â Claudia asked.
âProbably a gas explosion,â Sam said.
Grace glanced at him, had a sense that he didnât really believe that, but like him she said nothing more, perhaps choosing ignorance, at least for a while, because they had a baby son now who they longed to bring up in safety, and bombings of any kind as close as this spelled unacceptable horror.
âMagic touch,â Claudia said, looking at Joshua, already drifting off in his fatherâs arms. âOur two were always like that with Daniel.â
âI remember.â Grace saw the sadness in her sisterâs eyes, felt for her.
Sam lowered the baby carefully into his crib and settled his favourite small stuffed toy bear close by. âCup of tea, anyone?â
âSo long as itâs chamomile,â Grace said.
Claudia pulled a face. âHate the stuff. Iâm going to turn on the news.â
âWhy donât you try going back to sleep?â Grace suggested.
âAfter that?â Claudia said. âNo way.â
20
Cal was huddled naked on his thin, lumpy mattress, eating Cheetos, trying not to make crumbs, and watching the small black and white TV on the floor that his jackass-scumbag âlandlordâ had seemed to think turned the shithole into a positive dump-de-luxe.
Hearing people saying that a boat had exploded, and watching the news crawls at the bottom of the screen confirming that much, was making him more nervous than the weird sound that had dragged him out of his shallow sleep, or even the small shock, two hours before that, of his cell phone ringing with its sharp, bird-like trill â Jewel having decided to pick tonight to call him after weeks of
âYes,â Claudia said. âI rather think I have.â
19
June 8
The explosion sent the boat, in a thousand or more flaming fragments, soaring into the inky sky, then descending gracefully, like glowing snowflakes, back down on to the ruffled black waters.
People within a half mile or so experienced the blast as a near-physical shock, but the reverberation rolled further through Miami Beach and parts of Miami itself, waking and alarming some residents and visitors, startling birds and animals, sending humans reaching for their remote controls.
Sitting in the nursery rocking chair at four a.m. on Sunday morning, already awake because her son had begun crying twenty minutes earlier, Grace had been using the peaceful minutes since Joshua had quietened to float an idle hypothesis about the reasons she and Claudia had both become island dwellers of a kind, wondering if it might involve some sort of subconscious moat fixation, perhaps a lingering craving for protection from the bête-noire of their mutual past . . .
The boom of the explosion arrested the musing, started Woody barking and the baby wailing again.
âWhat the hell was that?â Claudia appeared in the doorway in cream satin pyjamas, not a hint of sleepiness in her face.
âEveryone OK?â Sam was there now, shorts just dragged on, Woody trotting in behind him, already over the noise and pleased now to find everyone awake.
âWeâre fine,â Grace said. âItâs all right, Joshua, sweetheart.â
âIt sounded so close,â Claudia said.
âProbably not as close as it sounded.â Sam came into the room, crouched down by the rocker, kissed Graceâs cheek and stroked their sonâs hair. âItâs OK, sweet boy, everythingâs fine.â
Joshuaâs crying was starting to thin again, more of a fretful, weary need for sleep now, his eyes round and anxious, and Grace handed him up to Sam, because it was not uncommon for his dad to be the one to hush him more swiftly, and sometimes Sam crooned softly to him in the fine baritone that had won him lead roles in S-BOP â the South Beach Opera â and Joshua plainly adored his daddyâs voice.
âYou think it was a bomb?â Claudia asked.
âProbably a gas explosion,â Sam said.
Grace glanced at him, had a sense that he didnât really believe that, but like him she said nothing more, perhaps choosing ignorance, at least for a while, because they had a baby son now who they longed to bring up in safety, and bombings of any kind as close as this spelled unacceptable horror.
âMagic touch,â Claudia said, looking at Joshua, already drifting off in his fatherâs arms. âOur two were always like that with Daniel.â
âI remember.â Grace saw the sadness in her sisterâs eyes, felt for her.
Sam lowered the baby carefully into his crib and settled his favourite small stuffed toy bear close by. âCup of tea, anyone?â
âSo long as itâs chamomile,â Grace said.
Claudia pulled a face. âHate the stuff. Iâm going to turn on the news.â
âWhy donât you try going back to sleep?â Grace suggested.
âAfter that?â Claudia said. âNo way.â
20
Cal was huddled naked on his thin, lumpy mattress, eating Cheetos, trying not to make crumbs, and watching the small black and white TV on the floor that his jackass-scumbag âlandlordâ had seemed to think turned the shithole into a positive dump-de-luxe.
Hearing people saying that a boat had exploded, and watching the news crawls at the bottom of the screen confirming that much, was making him more nervous than the weird sound that had dragged him out of his shallow sleep, or even the small shock, two hours before that, of his cell phone ringing with its sharp, bird-like trill â Jewel having decided to pick tonight to call him after weeks of
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