The Names They Gave Us(43)
“So, I’ve never played bocce,” I tell him on our way out. “Any tips?”
“You’ve never played bocce?” He turns, incredulous. “I thought it was a white people thing. Don’t you all play while you drink gin? And wear polo shirts?”
It takes me a second to realize he’s teasing me. I do my best attempt at a smirk, shrugging. “Must just be the rich ones.”
“Ha. Okay, my trick is: point your feet where you want the ball to go.”
I nod slowly, understanding. “Nice. I’m gonna do that.”
“You’re going to try to beat the little third graders?”
As we walk outside, I turn to give him a faux-withering look. “Well, I’m sure not going to let them win.”
This delights Jones, but when he glances over my shoulder, his grin drops. We’re at the top of the porch, and I follow his gaze to the car at the end of the drive.
Rhea’s watching as a kid with red hair climbs into a waiting beige sedan. It’s old, with a sagging exhaust pipe. I have no idea who the kid is—the only redheaded camper we have that age is JJ. Did he get kicked out of Daybreak? No way. No lost causes, not at this camp.
“Fuck,” Jones whispers, before clattering down the stairs. The car door shuts, and he’s sprinting toward it. “No. Wait! No!”
I’m right behind him, spurred by the horrible realization that it is JJ. Leaving. Jones almost gets there before the car pulls away, and I can tell he means to chase after it. But Rhea catches his arm in a tight grip. He won’t pull against her.
“Come ON!” he yells at the receding taillights. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
“Henry . . .” I’m close enough now to hear Rhea’s quiet voice, full of pain. “There was nothing we could do. She got paroled and went through legal channels to get him.”
“But she’s a neglectful junkie who—”
“I know, baby,” Rhea says, gently pulling his arm toward the meeting hall. “But she’s his mother. Not here, okay? Come on inside.”
I’m standing back, and I don’t mean to get involved in something so personal. But Rhea motions me forward, insistent, so I follow them into the meeting hall. In the daytime, the space is beautiful in the way of old things: scarred pine floors, and dust dancing in windowpane light.
Jones faces Rhea just a few feet inside the door. “You know she’s only gonna hold down a job for a few months before she starts using again. How many times are they gonna let her do this? How is this shit even legal?”
“I don’t know,” Rhea says. “But Bryan was on the phone with JJ’s aunt and the courts all morning. We can’t touch this one.”
“Do you have any idea how much shit that kid has seen? She’s left him at home for days without enough food! He told me that—”
“I hate this too.” She settles her hands on his heaving shoulders. “We tried, and we’ll keep trying for him the second she messes up. I’m angry too, kid. And Bryan . . . well, he’s locked himself in his office with a bottle of whiskey he thinks I don’t know about.”
Jones sighs, coming down from his tirade. He looks so, so tired. Defeated.
“Go check on my son for me, will you?” Rhea asks.
He heads toward the door obediently, his broad shoulders slumped.
“Goddammit,” Jones whispers to himself, shaking his head. Then he slams his palm against the wall as he exits, one last outburst in private.
The pendants of faith rattle on their nails, and I cringe, waiting to hear metal clank against the floor. But they all stay balanced, if precariously.
“It’s hard to lose one,” Rhea says after a moment. It’s a quiet defense of Jones’s explosion and language, but I don’t need to hear it. I know where his heart is.
I nod, hoping she senses that there is no judgment in me. Not for Jones or for Bryan or even JJ’s mom. Just sadness. Sadness and blistering hope for better. “I’m so sorry.”
When she smiles, it’s so aggrieved that I wish she didn’t even attempt it. “I do try to tell myself it’s good that JJ’s mother loves him. She wants him with her. But it’s a real bad situation.”
With a sigh, she steps toward the door, looking back at me. “Could you keep this to yourself for now? I’ll break it to the campers at dinner.”
“Of course.” She seems to be waiting for me to come along, but I don’t move. “I think I’ll stay here for a few minutes.”
“Thank you, Lucy,” she says, and I have the strongest sense that she knows I’m staying to pray for JJ and his mom.
I’m left alone with the quiet and the aftermath. The symbols are still askew—crooked on their nails like a collective raised eyebrow at whatever just happened.
Some things are more important than the cold shoulder I’ve been turning toward God.
So I start working my way down the line, fixing the delicate cross and the Star of David. These are people’s precious symbols, their holy tokens. And I don’t even know all their names. It’s never occurred to me to be interested.
Shame gusts into me, a window opened.
As I straighten the rest of the lineup, I pray for JJ and his aunt who cares for him, for his mom and her disease. I pray he knows he is loved. I pray for Rhea and Bryan and Jones, for peace and strength. Mostly, I pray they know that their love matters in this place. That it moves through the trees like spreading warmth, cocooning the campers inside.