down on the island yet. We are talking
days, maybe,” James says, rubbing his
face. He rubs it with real purpose, pull-
ing the skin into impossible shapes,
before letting it not exactly snap back
onto his head—it takes its time, like
the gnarled skin of a scrotum—and I
fear for him a little, as if his hand might
drag too far and pull his face free.
Together we look around, as we
might if we’d just entered a party.
There’s no one here we know. It’s just
a crowd of ragged travellers, forced
from their homes, with far too many
children running free. The children
seem to believe that they’ve been re-
leased into a cage match. Kill or be
killed—that sort of thing. The cots,
mostly empty, are launching pads for
child divers, exploring their airborne
possibilities. They leap from bed to bed,
rolling into piles on the floor, whoop-
ing. A kind of topless nudity prevails,
regardless, it seems, of age. Certainly
there is beauty on display, but it’s ru-
ined by all this noise. One might rea-
sonably think that there should be a
separate evacuation receptacle for chil-
dren. A room of their bloody own. An-
swering to their special needs. Reliev-
ing the rest of us from the, well, the
special energy that children so often
desire to display. Lord bless their fresh,
pink hearts.
I text Lettie, because there’s no way
she and Richard would put up with
this sort of bullshit. Are they here? In
what quadrant? Could they issue a
specific cry, maybe holler my name?
“Airbnb!” she texts back. “Headed
to Morley’s for clams and bloodies.
Where r u?”
Oh, Jesus, right. People made plans.
People thought ahead. I think it’s best
not to mention this to James, because
that’s something I could have been
doing while he drove—securing our
safe, private, cozy lodging and making
dinner rezzies and otherwise running
advance recon for this sweet adventure
of ours.
James has curled up on the cot and
is staring into space. He looks so tired.
His color is James-like, which is never
that great. I worry that he’s parked for
good now, that the powerful laws of the
late afternoon, which seem to visit men
of a certain age, are pulling him down
into some bottomless, mood-darkening
sleep, from which he will wake crank-
ily, trumpeting his exhaustion, denying
that he ever slept.
“Are you going to be napping?” I ask
him, as neutrally as I can. “Because.. .”
“No, I’m not going to be napping.
Are you kidding me? Here?” He has a
way of shouting in a whisper. It’s his
evacuation-shelter whisper, I guess, al-
though it has caught the attention of
certain of our neighbors, who might
want to scooch their cots somewhere
else, come to think of it.
Yes, I want to assure them. We will
be like this all night, whispering our spe-
cial brand of kindness at each other, so pull
up some chairs and put your heads in our
asses. That’s where the view is best. Per-
haps that’s one way to secure our area
and erect a kind of privacy barrier.
“Maybe you should get up?” I say.
“Jesus, Alice, I’ve been driving for
hours. I can’t relax for a minute?”
“Yes, you can, and even longer. Take
all the time you want. I would just
like to know your plans so I can plan
accordingly.”
“What?” he hisses. “Are you going
to go out and meet some friends? Go
out for cofee, maybe?”
We have a diferent strategy when
it comes to the timing of our emo-
tional broadcasts. James buckles in
public, and a hole opens in his neck
or whatever, and out comes his sour
message for me and the world. Onefeels that he is emboldened in a crowd.
It is possible that he does not see other
people as human, and thus fails to ex-
perience shame when he debases him-
self in their midst. Like masturbat-
ing in front of a pet. Whereas I
frequently wait until we are alone, and
then, in the calmest voice I can man-
age, I quietly birth my highly articu-
late rage in his direction. I certainly
have my bias, but it is possible that
neither style is superior, and that a
steady silence in the face of distress
or tension is the ultimate goal. Si-
lence, in the end, is the only viable
rehearsal for what comes after, any-
way. I mean way, way after. And one
certainly wants to be prepared. One
wants to have practiced.
“Not here, James,” I say, as brightly
as I can.
“What you mean is not anywhere,
right, Alice? Not anywhere and never?”
Not bad. He is learning. Although
I do not doubt that he will share his
feelings with me when we find some
privacy.
We decide to go to the car and talk
this through. The cots will be here as
a last resort, although it feels odd using
the word “resort” with respect to such
a location. James feels that we should
start driving, because there will be
plenty of other people with the same
idea, all of them racing to find the
closest hotel room. It’s kind of like