Captured(26)

And then I wake up.

I fall back asleep and have the same dream.

I manage to sleep till just past dawn, and then the dream drives me out of the barn. I don’t bother with a shirt, since the day is already warm. Plus, it’s the only shirt I’ve got with me. I uncap the paint can, gather the rollers and brushes, hike up the ladder. Roll, dip, roll, dip. Gray turns to pink, then orange, and I finish one side of the barn with the first coat. The old wood is porous and thirsty, so it’ll take several coats. I start on the other side, get a third of the way done, and run out of paint. Descending the ladder, I find Reagan waiting for me, holding out a plate full of food. French toast, fried eggs, sausage. The woman can cook.

When I finish eating, I glance at her. “I ran out of red paint. I’ll need several more gallons to finish the barn. Some white for the house. Unless you want the house a different color. It’s so faded and peeled away that at this point it can be any color you want.”

Reagan tilts her head. “I hadn’t thought about that,” she says. “Maybe a dark green?”

I shrug. “Sure. Green it is.” I hand back her stoneware plate, the fork rattling across the surface. “I’ll wash up and head into town.”

I angle toward the back of the barn, where the old red well pump is located. This is where I’ve been washing myself.

“Oh, my god,” Reagan says, surprise and consternation in her voice. “I’m a horrible person.”

I stop and turn back. “The hell you talking about?”

“You’ve been using the pump all this time, haven’t you? You’ve been here a week, and you haven’t had a proper shower.” She glances at my jeans. “And you don’t have any extra clothes, do you? God, I can’t believe myself.”

I shift from foot to foot. “Wasn’t sure where I was going except here, so I didn’t bring anything. Don’t have anything to bring anyway. I’m cool.”

“It’s not cool,” she says. “Come inside and take a shower.” I hesitate, and she moves behind me, shoves at me. “Get.”

I get, if only to get away from the fire and uncomfortable intensity of her presence. She follows me up onto the porch, moves past me, and opens the screen door, which slams behind me. I have trouble moving past the foyer. There’s a formal sitting room to the right, a stairway directly opposite the front door, a small den with hardwood floors overlaid by a thick rug, a couch under a window on one wall, a TV on the opposite wall. A doorway leads to the kitchen, and I can see it’s painted yellow with white tile on the floor. White cabinets. Twenty-year-old appliances. There’s a round four-person brown wood table, set with clear glass salt and pepper shakers, Tabasco sauce, and A-1 sauce.

My nerves come back. The cause of my problem is sitting on the couch, drowsy, staring at the TV. Towheaded, with eyes exactly like Tom’s, wide and brown and deep. He’s damned adorable. Gotta be around three by now. Clutching a plastic cup with cartoon characters of some kind on the side, a bright red sippy lid. The TV blares, and I can see little mermaid creatures with huge heads singing a song about going outside.

He’s the lie I told…or didn’t tell, more like.

When Reagan asked me about the letter and if Tom had known about his kid, I freaked. I couldn’t answer. Reagan deserves the truth, and I’m not sure I’m man enough to give it to her.

“Derek?” Her voice is quiet, right beside me. “He’s just a little boy. He’s not gonna—I don’t know. You act like you’re—” Clearly, she’s hedging around the issue. Doesn’t want to say right out that a three-year-old won’t hurt me, that I’m acting scared of a kid. She kneels down. “Tommy? Can you come say hi?”

The little boy slides forward off the couch in a weird, slinky maneuver. He toddles over, clutching the cup under his arm, then stares up at me. “Hi.” He points at the TV. “Guppies.”

I look at the TV. “Guppies?”

He puts the cup to his mouth, takes a long drink, making a whining, gurgling noise from the lid. “Bubb’ Guppies.”

I turn to Reagan for translation. The corner of her mouth is curled up in a smirk. “The show he’s watching. It’s called Bubble Guppies.”

“They don’t look like guppies. They look like big-headed mermaids.”

She snickers. “I know. It doesn’t always make any sense, but he loves it.” She points at the TV. “Take a look.”

Now the little mer-kids are singing about going camping. There’s a fire, made of bubbles. All underwater. They’re swimming around, sort of, but clearly the show has set the laws of physics aside.

“Weird,” I say.

The kid is just staring at me. He puts his cup down on the floor, raises his arms over his head. “Up.”

I take him by the hands, my big mitts engulfing his tiny little fingers. I lift him up, set him down. Reagan laughs again. “No, you big dolt. He means pick him up. Like, hold him.”

I don’t want to. This kid is the reminder of my guilt. But he’s leaning against my legs, arms extended upward, chanting, “Uppy, uppy, uppy.”

“I don’t know how to hold a kid. Do I have to hold his head up or whatever?”

Reagan snorts. “Oh, my god. He’s three. He’s not a baby. Just pick him up by the armpits. He’ll do the rest.”