“Yes. She has her grandson to support. I don’t think social security is enough.”
“Let’s not get all political—” Mom paused to take a sip.
“It’s not political. Anyhow, the father is out of the picture. Not much of a father, if you ask me.”
“Well, that’s hard to argue against. Abandon your son like that? After the mother dies from cancer?”
“From what I heard from Oliver’s dad, he’s always been quite the drinker.”
Part of me had thought of Sawyer right then, apprehensive as to how I would act around him. Would he know that I knew? The other part enjoyed listening to them having a harmonious conversation. It eases children to hear their parents banter so smoothly. I would eventually revere these moments.
There was my own especially after.
Especially after what was to come later that week.
I looked at Sawyer as he sat up, staring out into the entrance of the woods. His hair was lighter from the pool’s chlorine. A tan line showed at the nape of his neck. Did he ever hate his father? How could he be the Sawyer that he was? How could he go on as he did, after what had happened back in Wyoming? How had he not once brandished his pain or anger in front of anyone else, not even one ounce of it?
How could he not say one word to me about it?
I closed my eyes. I let the last of the sun’s gleams probe my skin. When I opened them, Sawyer and Marlow had stood up.
“We should go,” he said, taking Marlow by the hand. She was eight but he still treated her like a baby sister, a protectiveness that never faltered.
“Sawyer, will you eat with us for breakfast, though?” she asked, looking up at him.
“Maybe. Grandma Ada usually sleeps in.”
I followed them, watching our three shadows in the field as we got closer to the trail leading back to our neighborhood. A sharp, ringing pain hit my finger. I looked down to see a wasp fly away, whizzing past my left ear. I didn’t cry out. Instead, I froze and held my index finger up. The spot right under my nailbed throbbed.
“What’s wrong?” Sawyer looked back to me.
“I think I got stung.”
“Stung?”
“A wasp.”
Marlow put her hand over her mouth. “Oh, Isla!”
He dropped her hand and, within a few strides, picked up my own and held up the finger. Without hesitating, he stuck it in his mouth.
“What are you doing?” I jerked my hand back.
“Sucking out the venom. Remember?” He half grinned and then spit on the ground. “Better?”
“No. It still hurts. A lot.”
I wrung my hand a few times and then scrunched my hand in a fist.
“You’re tough. I remember a boy back in Wyoming got stung and he wailed for an hour.”
“I could use a wail.”
“No. You’re tough.”
Our street was getting dark as we approached it. A red truck was parked in Ada’s driveway. She came out as soon as she saw us, the screen door slamming behind her.
Sawyer halted.
“I know that truck,” he muttered.
“Whose is it?” I asked.
But I already knew the answer.
The driver’s side door swung out, followed by a long skinny leg. A man with shaggy hair and a beard climbed out. He stood with his hands in his pockets.
“Hey, son,” he said. A cigarette glowed in his hand. He took a drag and then flicked it.
“I’m sure you’re going to pick that up, Jeremy.” Ada’s voice boomed. She stood on the front porch. Even in the poor lighting I could sense her glare.
The man looked down at his boots and then up at the three of us. “Sure thing, Ada.”
He made no move to pick it up. “Hey, son,” he said again, as if the first time had been for practice.
Sawyer took a step back.
“Why are you here, Jeremy?” Ada began to walk down the driveway.
