Ernest, Ernest, my God, I’m so sorry—
How could she have said that? She was glad the boys weren’t in the room to hear her say that. She couldn’t imagine what James must think of her for saying something like that. Even a man as understanding as he couldn’t possibly—
“It’s okay,” James said, and his hand was on hers. That was all he said, and he said it again: “It’s okay.”
His blue gaze held hers, without judgment or expectation, just simple acceptance. He was in the forgiveness business. She knew she could trust him. She knew despite her baggage, their religious differences, despite everything, he was interested in her, the entire her. Although it had only been two years since her husband’s death, she knew she could be interested in him.
She knew it all in that moment, and only for that moment.
Because as soon as she relaxed her hand under the reverend’s gentle fingers, Nathan walked into the room. He saw the man’s hand on Lila’s, and his eyes went wide.
“NEVER DO THAT,” he screamed. “DON’T TOUCH HER! I’LL KILL YOU!”
James’ hand sprang from Lila’s, leaping away like an independent entity, landing hard back in his own lap. Lila sprinted toward her son, but Nathan turned and ran, still shrieking his disapproval. She chased him down the hall, but he slammed his bedroom door behind him and wouldn’t let her in. She sat in front of the door, pleading, but he just kept screaming.
When James came to check on her, Lila waved him away, eyes desperate. He left, quietly. She sat outside Nathan’s door all night, until he finally stopped screaming. Then she opened the door, which her son had passed out against. Careful not to hurt or wake him, she pushed the door open enough to step through it, picked him up, and whispered apologies into his hair as she put him in his crib. Howie watched the whole thing from the hallway. He had to wait on the fit to end, too; the boys still shared a room.
James did not come for dinner the following Sunday.
Or any Sunday thereafter.
9
Chapter 8: HOWARD
Nathan was way, way too big for his crib. He was six years old – a kindergartener! – and for some reason refused to transition from his baby crib to an actual big kid bed. Howie was getting incredibly irritated about the whole thing.
For a smart, allegedly “advanced” kid, Nathan sure was stunted on this front.
Howie shared his thoughts on the bed issue, over and over: You’re too big for a crib. It’s weird that you still sleep in one. As with most things that Howie said, Nathan ignored him. But this particular morning, Howie pinpointed exactly why it bothered him so much: It reminded Howie of when Baby Nathan was in the incubator, at the hospital.
The very first time Howie ever saw his brother, he’d been disturbed to view him trapped in a box and hooked up to machines. It was just wrong.
“You’re too big for a crib,” Howie tried again over breakfast, as both boys shoveled cereal into their mouths. “It’s a baby crib. You’re in kindergarten.”
“I like my crib.”
“It’s for babies.”
“It’s not for babies. Other cribs are for babies, but mine isn’t. It’s for me. It’s mine.”
“Why do you like that stupid crib so much?”
Nathan took another bite of cereal, chewed slowly, swallowed, then looked at his big brother. He spoke deliberately, as if reading from a memorized text.
“My crib is secure. It’s where I can do my best thinking.”
“You’d think just as well in a big-kid bed. Maybe even better. You need a new bed.”
“No, I don’t.”
With that, Nathan pushed his chair back, and slid out of it, leaving Howard alone at the table. Their mother entered the room as Nathan exited; she stepped around him, letting him continue on his path uninterrupted. Nathan preferred not to be touched, and his mother and brother were conditioned to automatically honor this preference. Lila absently dragged her hand through Howie’s hair, tousling it on her way to the coffee maker.
“Mom,” Howie said, trying to keep the whine out of his voice. He wanted to sound reasonable. Adult. At nearly nine, he figured this should be doable. “Why is Nathan still allowed to sleep in his stupid baby crib?”
(He realized too late that saying stupid baby crib diminished the chance of him sounding like a reasonable adult.)
“He likes the crib,” his mother shrugged, having clearly already conceded this battle. “He says he wants to keep sleeping in the crib as long as he can fit in it. If it makes him happy, nu… it makes him happy.”
“But doesn’t it bother you?”
“No, baby,” Lila said. Usually Howie didn’t mind her calling him that, but when he was trying to underline the fact that his brother was, in fact, the infantile one, it stung.
“It doesn’t bother you, at all?”
“Howie,” Lila said, a bit bemused. “Why does it bother you so much?”
“It’s just… stupid,” Howie said unconvincingly.
“Ah,” said his mother, before turning her full attention to the coffee maker.
Later that morning, as the boys walked to school together, Howie was still irritated.
“Hey, Howie!” Phil D’onofrio called out from behind them. “Wait up!”
Phil D’onofrio was their next door neighbor, seven and a half years old, right between their ages. Howie thought Phil was nice, but he knew Nathan thought Phil was an idiot.
“Can I walk with you guys?”
“Sure,” Howie said.
“Thanks! Hey, Nate.”
“NATHAN,” Nathan snapped. “Not Nate. NATHAN.”
“I have a cousin named Nathan, but everyone calls him Nate,” Phil said blithely. “Whaddaya got against
‘Nate’?”
“I’m not your cousin,” Nathan said, without looking at Phil. He began purposefully dawdling, putting a half block between himself and Howie and Phil, unsubtly exiting the conversation.
“Sheesh,” Phil said to Howie, rolling his eyes, can you believe that guy? “Hey, you wanna play after school today?”
“Sure,” Howie said, grinning.
The best thing about playing with Phil was that Phil had a dog, a big yellow Labrador named Mack. Going out for hikes with Mack, tossing a tennis ball for him to chase, rolling around; there was something easy and joyful about romping around with the dog. Nathan, of course, thought dogs were dumb. (Mack’s frequent butthole-licking made Nathan’s case a strong one. As did the dog’s tendency to run smack into walls when he got excited.)
“Great,” Phil beamed. “You can bring your little brother, if you wanna. I know he doesn’t always like coming over, but if you want to bring him, you can. I’ll call him Nathan, not Nate. And we can put the dog up so Nathan won’t scream.”
“He might want to come, but probably not,” Howie shrugged. Nathan found both Phil and butthole-loving Mack banal, but he also hated being left out or excluded by the older boys. He still wanted them to see him as a big kid.