The Lifeguards(9)

They entered the men’s grooming area. “OK,” Whitney told her son. “Pick a razor, some shaving cream, and deodorant.”

Xavier, taller than Whitney and skinny, exhaled. “Mo-om,” he said.

“And how about body wash? Any interest in body wash?” said Liza.

Whitney had taken Xavier’s twin sister, Roma, to the adjoining women’s aisle starting when she was seven. Roma’s bathroom was filled with glosses, polishes, facial scrubs, and lotions. (As was Whitney’s. She and Roma shared an interest in “product,” as Roma called it.)

“Um,” said Xavier, tucking his gorgeous hair behind his ears.

“Body wash? Or no body wash?” said Annette.

“Whatever, Mom,” said Bobcat. “This is humiliating. Can we leave?”

So no body wash. They’d all stopped at the Village Soccer Shop on the way home for cleats (it was more expensive than Dick’s Sporting Goods, but closer…and the women’s time was valuable), then at Tequila’s for nachos. At home, Whitney and Xavier sequestered themselves in what they called “the blue bathroom” (because of the tiny blue tiles). “OK,” said Whitney. “You ready?”

“This is just…” said Xavier. He exhaled.

“So!” said Whitney gaily. She pulled the top off the Old Spice and lifted her arm. “You just slide the stick right here,” she said. “Got it? Now you try.”

Xavier was red with embarrassment. Perhaps this was a job for Jules (or YouTube), but Whitney’s grandmother had never talked to her about anything. “I’ve got it, Mom,” said Xavier.

“Go on,” said Whitney, raising her eyebrow in a schoolmarmish way.

He laughed, lifted his arm, applied the deodorant.

“Perfect!” said Whitney, in the same tone she’d used when he’d gone to the bathroom in his tiny potty. “You’re amazing,” she said.

“Can I go now?” said Xavier. (In the same tone he’d used when Whitney explained the birds and the bees as he’d stared at her, horrified.)

“Nope,” said Whitney. “Let’s talk about shaving.”



* * *



—

NOW, SHE BREATHED IN her husband’s Old Spice, and Jules said, “Mmmm.” Whitney got back in bed, wrapped herself around him. She felt a momentary peace. But then it flitted away.

What had happened on the greenbelt?

She took a deep breath, pulled on her kimono, and wandered through the house, checking on her family. Her parents and twin sister had died in a plane crash when Whitney was eleven and at home with her grandmother. She’d grown up as an only child, yearning for a happy family.

Xavier kept his room locked, but Whitney had a key, which she wore on a chain around her neck. She turned the lock quietly and stood in the doorway for a moment. The boy smell was amazing—pungent, disgusting, beautiful. (With a top note of Wolfthorn.)

Since infancy, Xavier had slept the same way: on his back, arms thrown up—I surrender. Above his queen-sized bed, he had a framed papyrus from Egypt—actually from Amazon, ordered on his seventh birthday during his Egyptology obsession, which had replaced his truck obsession and was followed by obsessions with Rubik’s Cubes (she could still hear the clicking and clacking as he spun the cubes), yo-yo tricks, and skateboarding.

Ribbons from Xavier’s track meets were strung in a row over his bookcase. His lifeguard uniform lay in a heap on the floor. Whitney gathered it up, happy at the thought of handing him a freshly laundered T-shirt and red shorts. His fanny pack (blue—you couldn’t wear a red one until you were sixteen) was tossed next to his whistle on his desk. Shoes were everywhere—sneakers that cost hundreds of dollars (Xavier had his own debit card that pulled from Whitney’s trust), flip-flops, soccer slides—as well as countless socks.

Whitney moved close to her son. He was OK. He was in one piece. He was breathing. Anything else could be fixed, no matter what had happened on the greenbelt.

What had happened on the greenbelt?

Roma was asleep in her room. Ever since Whitney had read an article in The New York Times about nighttime screen use and decided that the twins had to charge their phones in the kitchen, Roma did seem to sleep more.

From the doorway, Whitney watched her daughter. Roma looked so sweet in slumber. They were all here, her family. Everyone was here. No one was hurt. Still, Whitney felt a scary loosening, as if a panicked rat were sprinting around the wheel of her brain. Spinning faster and faster, asking one question with escalating volume:

What had happened on the greenbelt?





-4-


    Annette


ANNETTE STOOD OUTSIDE HER son’s room. He’d hung a sign reading KEEP OUT on the door when he was eight, and she’d tried to be respectful, but she knew she needed to talk to Robert. A body, a woman’s body on the greenbelt. It was the kind of thing you read about in Nuevo Laredo, the border town where Annette had grown up, but not here.

Read about! Not even. When Annette was eleven and had a sore throat, her grandmother brought her to work. (Her father and mother were needed at their custom boot shop.) Annette’s grandmother cleaned gringo homes, and her second stop of the day was a giant ranch on land that spanned both sides of the U.S.-Mexico border. Wandering around the property singing to herself, Annette had seen a man lying on the ground. She ran to tell her grandmother. “Stay inside,” her grandmother had hissed. “Must be someone who was trying to cross. Not our business.”