“Looking for his father, primarily.”
“Join the club.”
“He’s read a few newspaper articles. Found something about his grandfather’s death. We’ve put blockers on. But you should know. New things pop up.”
“He’s eight,” Jennifer said. “I’m sure he doesn’t understand what he’s reading.”
“You don’t believe that,” Levi said.
Jennifer took another bite of cake. “No,” she said, “I don’t.”
THAT NIGHT, AFTER DINNER, JENNIFER FOUND WILLIAM IN HIS ROOM, SITTING at his desk, drawing skylines. A new obsession. Back home, he had an old book of Sal’s that he loved—Great Skyscrapers!—that Jennifer had to scour the internet for once they got settled at Loon Lake.
Jennifer sat on the edge of William’s bed. “Sit beside me,” she said, and he did. She put her arms around him, kissed him on the top of his head. “I’m sorry about today. It wasn’t a very fun party.”
“The cake was good,” he said.
“Well, that is true,” Jennifer said.
“I don’t want a new birthday,” he said.
“I know,” Jennifer said.
“They make you sad,” William said. “You always seem sad when you fight with Nana Maryann and Papa Levi.”
“I know, baby,” she said. “We just don’t always see things the same way. But we will. It’s not bad when adults disagree with one another. It’s just one of those things you learn to accept.”
“Daddy wouldn’t let them talk to you like that.”
He sure fucking wouldn’t.
“Daddy’s not here. It’s just us. And we don’t solve problems the way Daddy did. Okay? The way Daddy handled business is the reason we’re not in Chicago anymore.” Jennifer recognized she was dumping too much on William, again. Knew that if they ever got out of this place, neither one of them would be recognizable if she kept up with this shit. “And you don’t need to worry about any of that, okay?” Jennifer brushed the bangs from William’s forehead. Stared into his eyes. “I love you so much,” she said.
“I know that.”
“Your father loves you,” she said.
“I know that,” he said, “because you’ve told me.”
“He does. I know he does.”
“What if,” William said, “he’s dead?”
What if.
“I’d know,” Jennifer said.
“How?”
How do you explain to an eight-year-old boy that some things you just know, that you’d feel some shift in reality, that you’d wake up and know he was beyond your reach?
“Do you think he’s dead?” Jennifer asked.
“No,” William said.
“See? You’d know.”
Jennifer looked out of William’s open window, which faced the water, and saw Uncle Steve walking across the lawn, pole in one hand, cooler in the other, headed toward the dock.
Uncle Steve dressed in camo and always had two guns on him. One in a shoulder holster, one on his ankle. He was one of those guys who had lots of opinions about the Old Days, which were always better than Today, and which, if the country was to ever get back on track, needed a quick return to, in his opinion, or else The Future Was Deeply Fucked Pardon My Language.
His cover for being geared to the teeth and decked out like he was taking Normandy was probably not that far from reality in this region: he belonged to a quasi-militia made up of ex-military guys and people who never made it into the services, who liked to playact revolutions and such. Auntie Britt, she only carried one gun, told Jennifer that William’s intelligence was “off the charts!” and that he was “very gifted” but that she was exceedingly worried about his propensity toward sudden violence when angry, frustrated, or scared.
There was an incident with hairspray and a lighter.
There was an incident with matches and a neighbor’s boat.
There was an incident with a boy at church, back when they were trying that, where he tried to bite his ear.
“Does Uncle Steve ever catch anything?”
“He doesn’t bait his hook,” William said.
“Really?”
“I think he just likes to drink beer and pee into the lake.”
“I’ve really fucked up our lives,” Jennifer said.
