Secluded Cabin Sleeps Six(15)

Henry’s mom was not like them. She was apart somehow, would not just slide easily into that group with a casual self-introduction and some friendly comment. I’m Henry’s mom. We’re new, but we just love it here!

He was apart, too, just like her.

“Have everything?” his mom, Alice, asked. Her hair was mousy and pulled back tight at the base of her neck. Her glasses were large. She wore a skirt—a too-big denim thing with buttons down the middle, a cardigan though it was warm, a big leather satchel slung across her body. All wrong.

“Homework? Lunch?” she said when he didn’t answer.

He nodded, feeling a little guilty because he wanted her to leave.

“Okay, then,” she said with a dip of her chin. “Be a good, quiet boy.”

He gave her another nod.

The other kids ran wild on the playground behind him. He, like her, would not just slide easily into the group. He was invisible, more or less, they both were. Somehow gray ghosts in the wildly colorful, brightly sunny, and warm going on hot Florida school day morning. Already there were waves of heat off the asphalt, the sun a burning ball in the sky. He didn’t mind the heat, had inherited a dread of the cold from his mother.

Quiet. That was the most important thing to Alice. She startled easily, looked around them always, like someone might be following, watching. But no one ever was.

“What are you so afraid of?” he’d asked her once.

She’d looked at him, the way she did sometimes. Blankly at first, then thoughtful. “The world, Henry. I’m afraid of the whole world.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s full of monsters. I have to keep us safe.”

What kind of monsters, he wondered. But he didn’t ask. He didn’t really want to know.

“Henry,” she said, snapping him back.

“Yes,” he said. “I will be. Good and quiet.”

“Okay.”

She seemed to want to say more, like I love you or you’re my special guy. But she must have intuited that he didn’t want that, pressed her mouth into a tight line. It was okay at night when she was tucking him in. But not here, not at school when the other kids were off and playing, moms forgotten for the day. He was aware of a desperation to be free of her—just for a while. He edged toward the school.

She moved away, too, getting it. “See you at three?”

“Okay.”

She turned quickly and walked away.

In the group of moms she passed, one of the women raised a tentative hand in greeting. But Alice didn’t seem to notice, kept her brisk pace. The woman, a green-eyed redhead with a full face and nice smile, looked a little embarrassed.

“She didn’t see me,” he heard her say.

“Shy, maybe?” said the slim brunette.

Not unkind or anything. When Henry looked after her, she was gone. Though he’d been eager for her to leave, he felt a brief, familiar flutter of panic. It was a complicated feeling. He desperately wanted her to go, and when she did he was afraid, always afraid that she might not come back.

He pushed the fear down, the way he’d learned to. Then he turned and walked purposely toward the playground where the other boys tore around with abandon. The girls stood in clutches, like the moms, chatting, giggling. One girl seemed to prefer the company of boys, playing soccer over on the far end. She was fast, agile, tough. He watched her for a while, her blond hair blazing, skin flushed.

There was no heaviness to them. They were not watchful, any of them. Not mindful, like him. It didn’t seem that anyone had ever told them to be quiet. He marveled at this for a moment, standing by the fence.

When the bell rang, there was a great jostling rush to get inside and he was pushed along in the current of bodies. He was new here. The new kid—again. Not his first day, which was always the worst. But the first week.

He didn’t fit. He knew that. His hair was wrong. His clothes were off. The boys wore Levi’s and Chuck Taylors, polos, and tees. Not khakis, and pressed plaid shirts, stiff off-brand sneakers that his mom got for him. If he was going to “fit,” he’d need to wear what the other kids were wearing. And even then he’d still be apart. He knew that. But less so.

What saved him from being bullied like some boys who didn’t fit was his size and his natural athleticism. He could catch, throw, and run. He was strong. He could scale the rope in seconds, beat most of the others in a sprint. Gym was a proving ground where he’d already earned at least the respect of the other boys. He knew how it went. He was in eighth grade. This was his fourth—or was it his fifth?—school.

Math was first period and he took the seat he’d been assigned by the window, just behind the pretty girl who liked to hang out with the boys. Math he understood. There was a calming simplicity to it, a comfort in following clearly stated rules and getting things right. Numbers were the opposite of people. People were mysterious.

The boy beside him gave him a nod, which he returned.

The teacher stood up at the board. He couldn’t help but notice her body, the way her blouse clung to her breasts, the shape of her calves beneath the hem of her skirt. The boy next to him gave him a knowing look, and Henry felt the heat come up to his cheeks. He looked down at his notebook and copied what she was writing on the board.

After a while, he looked out the window. He was surprised and embarrassed to see Alice standing across the street. She had both her hands around a coffee cup, leaning against the side of the building, nearly hidden in the shadows.