David Frauenfelder

Hesperia

It was farther from the dock to the island than it was from the parking lot to the dock, but Greg could see both the island and the car from the dock as they set off. The car was rusty red with wooden panels on the side. The island was green pine trees and rocks, and somewhere in the trees was their summer house in Maine.

The captain sat next to Dad in the back of the boat and held the stick for the outboard motor that went putteluttelputteluttel. Greg and Rich sat on suitcases near the front. Mom sat on a side bench, her skirt tight over her knees. Edward held on to Mom with his knees tight against her side. He kept turning his head, towards shore, then towards the island, then back again.

Edward pointed to the foamy water, said, "da," and burrowed his head into Mom's neck.

"That's Casco Bay, Ed," said Greg. "Dad, do you think they call it Casco Bay because you cast your fishing line in it?"

Rich shook his head as if to say don't be stupid.

Edward swept his hand around him like a king. "Da."

"It smells like there's lots of fish."

The captain winked at Greg, then turned to Dad, but didn't say anything. "No cars on the island," Dad told them as the captain pushed a cart up a slope to the summer house. It was all long boards, with two windows coming out of the roof, a chimney on one end, and stairs going up to a red door.

"Got mosquitoes big enough to ride, though," said the captain. His hand flashed out, and he showed Greg a bloody smudge with wings. In the back yard, crickets creep-creeped in the high grass at the edge of the trees. In the shed, Rich found a stick with handles and a curved blade.

"You're too young to use this," said Rich, trying his grip on the handles. Rich knew everything now, ever since he'd torpedoed the octopus at Disneyland. "It's called a scythe."

Greg knew about scythes, because there was a TV show called the Four Scythe Saga Mom and Dad watched every Sunday night.

As Rich waded into the grass, the crickets stopped creeping. He made a couple of passes at the stalks closest to him. The scythe twirled to the ground and made a flash of red. Rich winced, covered his shin and ordered Greg not to tell.

The scythe hid in the weeds, keeping the secret like Greg.
Their bedroom was the whole upstairs, with a window at one end, a slippery floor, and a big double bed. That night, Rich, band-aid on his shin, tuned his transistor radio.

"Havlicek stole the ball! It's all over!"

"That isn't a real game," Rich whispered. "It's just a replay." They listened to men argue about the socks, and Yaz, until they fell asleep.

That week they roamed the island, played, and swam, while their father went fishing with his friend, Art from Falmouth. Art from Falmouth's wife Penny joined Mom while Edward crawled on a quilt in the grass. Rich's new girlfriend, who was tan all over except for her bathing suit, raced along the stony beach to show Rich and Greg the swimming rock. At high tide, she could dive from it into deep water. At low, they used it for a fort. The other team danced a war dance underneath them, barefoot on the slick stones.

"Wicked!" screamed the girl over and over as she gathered glass on the beach the same color as her eyes.

Greg thought Rich was old enough to have a girlfriend, but he wasn't. Dad came home sunburned and happy. "Two dozen mackerel," he announced one evening. Greg peeked through the wicker of Dad's creel. The mackerel were as skinny and bright as a knife.

Art and Penny were going to be Edward's godparents. Everyone sat at the kitchen table eating fish and potatoes, then the moms took the plates and scraped the bones and skin into the trash can, and the dads smoked pipes and talked about Nixon, Sigh gone, and casting votes. The sweet of the smoke, and the fish, smelled like indoors. The wet grass and the slick stones smelled like outdoors.

"How do you like this? After Ed's christening, we've got to go to Penny's cousin's memorial service," said Art. "He was West Point."

After dinner, Greg went outside to smell the grass. It was still warm, no wind. A few crickets creeped. He found the scythe, which seemed to rise by itself; when he twirled it in front of him like Rich had, a line of stalks fell. He tried a back swing, and a leafy weed shuddered and toppled. Its milky blood stuck to the blade.

He cut, imagining he was a knight. The grass fell at his feet, tickling his shins.

Stars came out. He craned his head back, twirled, and cut, and the stars made a crown over his head.

Edward's christening was back across the water, in Falmouth. The same captain held the stick and eyed Greg.

"Catch anything?" he asked Greg.

Greg shook his head and pointed to Dad.

The minister wore a kilt, and knee socks like Greg's, except the minister's were folded down under the knee. He took water in a silver pitcher and poured it over Edwards's head.

"We remember the blood of Christ, shed for men."

That night, Greg awoke, a scythe whistling just above his head.

"Skeeto?"

The crickets were asleep, and so was Rich. He tried to wake him. Rich lay there, a stone, and words came in the dark, from nowhere: "Everyone is asleep but me. Even the night is asleep."

The words didn't help. He crept out of bed, his feet cold on the slippery floor, and peeked outside the open window into the blue-black night. He searched for the moon, and as he craned his neck, he bumped his head on the window sash.

The pain and dizziness made his stomach spin. Stars swam in his eyes like silver mosquitoes.

We remember the blood of Christ, shed for men. The words bit into the back of his neck, icy-cold.

He felt his way downstairs in the darkness, holding onto the banister. He stopped on the stairs once to rub his head. It was so dark he could not see his own hand in front of his face. By memory he made his way to his parents' room, crawled on the floor so he wouldn't bump into the big bed. When he sat down on it, his heart was the only thing moving in the night.

He imagined he could see his mother, her black hair jumbled up on the pillow like mackerel skins on a plate. His father's hairy arm would have draped over the hump she made in the quilt. He wanted to go to Mom's side, and touch her hair, but she might be mad if he woke her.

"Da."

Greg turned in the direction of the noise. "Ed?"

"Ah, da," Edward said.

"You're not scared."

Greg crawled over to the baby's crib, gripped the railing. He felt smooth wood, and Edward's warm fingers went around his.

"Ah, da da da." Edward smelled like the bathroom after their father had read the paper in it in the morning.

Greg held his nose. "Pee-yew! That's a whopper!"

Edward picked up a rattle and knocked it against the railing. Whizz, went the balls in the rattle. He hummed to himself and hit the rattle again, then shook it. Whizz, whizz.

The springs in the bed squeaked.

Now Greg had something to tell Mom. This was waking her up for a reason. "Mom, Ed's got a whopper."

More squeaking, then Mom turned on a bedside lamp, and the world was real again.

"Mom, it's Ed. It's a dirty diaper."

"Da."

Mom swept the covers off and rose, blocking the lamplight. Greg shielded his eyes, but he saw her as she came near, naked, the bare skin whiter than the skin of Rich's girlfriend under her bathing suit. She walked past him, the hair on her head hiding her face, the hair under her belly close enough to touch.

Across the hall came the hissing of pee into the toilet.

"Da?" said Edward.

The light made the stairs easy to find, but Greg clutched the banister, his legs weak. Behind him, a whizz and a bonk as the rattle fell on the floor. Edward began to cry.

In the morning, he woke to the sun and the smell of blueberry pancakes and warm maple syrup. He ate pancakes and stared at the shapes Mom's body made in her sundress.

"Did you sleep well, sweetheart?" she asked him, setting orange juice at his plate.

He sipped the juice. It tasted sour after the syrup. "Why do you think they say holy mackerel?" he asked. "What's holy about a mackerel?"

Edward picked up a piece of pancake and said "Da."