to his parents, which had been found on him, the contents of which Josie would never know. A boy of eighteen dying alone, bleeding alone, writing to his parents—how did all this happen? How was this allowed? Josie wanted no more of this. This idea of knowing people. Knowing people meant telling them what to do or not to do, providing advice, encouragement, guidance, wisdom, and all of these things brought misery and lonely death.
“Mom?” It was Paul.
Josie turned. Her son was in yesterday’s clothes, and had somehow gotten out of the Chateau, walked through the woods, across the parking lot and found her there, on the shore.
“We’re hungry,” he said.
—
They ate in the camp cafeteria, the eggs and sausage excellent and costing only fifty-five dollars before gratuity. The Norwegians ate nearby, waving again.
There was a television hanging from the ceiling, showing a loop of the park’s services—iceberg tours, glacier tours, whale watching, each excursion costing somewhere in the thousands per person—and every so often there was a public service announcement featuring Smokey the Bear. Josie had forgotten about his very existence, hadn’t seen him since her Girl Scout days, and between then and now something had happened: he’d been working out. The cuddly and round-bellied old Smokey was now a burly bear with a flat stomach and arms like bent steel. In the animated message, his friends were trying to give him a birthday party, and they carried out a cake full of lighted candles. Smokey didn’t like this. He gave them a disapproving posture, his huge arms on his waist, and Josie felt a stirring within her. Did she have a crush on this new Smokey?
Her table shook. Someone had bumped it. An older man turned to apologize but his wife spoke first.
“Nimble as a cat,” the woman said, her voice a patrician purr. Josie looked up to her, laughed and took in the woman’s face: it was beautiful, with an upturned nose, a delicate chin. She had to be seventy.
Hearing Josie’s laugh, the woman turned again to her. “I’m sorry. He’s just lost a step lately. He was a very debonair man—even last month.” The woman smiled, turned away, evidently embarrassed. She’d said too much.
“Who are those people?” Ana asked.
Josie shrugged. Her daughter’s face was streaked with dirt and dried snot. Josie had seen a sign for showers available at the campground, somewhere in a vast log cabin in the woods, so after breakfast they put on flip-flops, bought the necessary tokens and brought their shampoo and soap and towels.
They undressed, leaving their clothes high in a cubby, and stepped across the plywood floor to the women’s shower area, where there were two young women, each of them facing out, unabashed and vigorously shampooing their hair. They were ravishing creatures, taut and tanned with tiny breasts alive and alert, and their teeth were white, their asses high and shiny and pubic hair artistically groomed. Josie stared at them as she would a pair of unicorns. What are you doing here? she wanted to ask, though she had no better idea of where they should be. Where does young beauty belong? Maybe stepping through fountains in Rome calling
Marcello! Marcello!
Or on a plane. Piloting a plane. Josie pictured the two of them flying a plane through pillowy clouds, each wearing white, their legs uncovered and so smooth.
One of the young women now was looking back at Josie, who in her reverie was caught staring, and now she was telling her friend they were being watched, and soon they were hustling out of the shower and into towels. Josie thought of her parents, both nurses at a veterans’ hospital, how they taught her how to dry herself after a shower. Her mother and father mimed the brushing of all excess water from their arms and legs, left arm, right arm, left leg, right leg, saving the towel for whatever was left. Josie thought of their demonstration—they’d done it in the living room when she was
“Mom?” It was Paul.
Josie turned. Her son was in yesterday’s clothes, and had somehow gotten out of the Chateau, walked through the woods, across the parking lot and found her there, on the shore.
“We’re hungry,” he said.
—
They ate in the camp cafeteria, the eggs and sausage excellent and costing only fifty-five dollars before gratuity. The Norwegians ate nearby, waving again.
There was a television hanging from the ceiling, showing a loop of the park’s services—iceberg tours, glacier tours, whale watching, each excursion costing somewhere in the thousands per person—and every so often there was a public service announcement featuring Smokey the Bear. Josie had forgotten about his very existence, hadn’t seen him since her Girl Scout days, and between then and now something had happened: he’d been working out. The cuddly and round-bellied old Smokey was now a burly bear with a flat stomach and arms like bent steel. In the animated message, his friends were trying to give him a birthday party, and they carried out a cake full of lighted candles. Smokey didn’t like this. He gave them a disapproving posture, his huge arms on his waist, and Josie felt a stirring within her. Did she have a crush on this new Smokey?
Her table shook. Someone had bumped it. An older man turned to apologize but his wife spoke first.
“Nimble as a cat,” the woman said, her voice a patrician purr. Josie looked up to her, laughed and took in the woman’s face: it was beautiful, with an upturned nose, a delicate chin. She had to be seventy.
Hearing Josie’s laugh, the woman turned again to her. “I’m sorry. He’s just lost a step lately. He was a very debonair man—even last month.” The woman smiled, turned away, evidently embarrassed. She’d said too much.
“Who are those people?” Ana asked.
Josie shrugged. Her daughter’s face was streaked with dirt and dried snot. Josie had seen a sign for showers available at the campground, somewhere in a vast log cabin in the woods, so after breakfast they put on flip-flops, bought the necessary tokens and brought their shampoo and soap and towels.
They undressed, leaving their clothes high in a cubby, and stepped across the plywood floor to the women’s shower area, where there were two young women, each of them facing out, unabashed and vigorously shampooing their hair. They were ravishing creatures, taut and tanned with tiny breasts alive and alert, and their teeth were white, their asses high and shiny and pubic hair artistically groomed. Josie stared at them as she would a pair of unicorns. What are you doing here? she wanted to ask, though she had no better idea of where they should be. Where does young beauty belong? Maybe stepping through fountains in Rome calling
Marcello! Marcello!
Or on a plane. Piloting a plane. Josie pictured the two of them flying a plane through pillowy clouds, each wearing white, their legs uncovered and so smooth.
One of the young women now was looking back at Josie, who in her reverie was caught staring, and now she was telling her friend they were being watched, and soon they were hustling out of the shower and into towels. Josie thought of her parents, both nurses at a veterans’ hospital, how they taught her how to dry herself after a shower. Her mother and father mimed the brushing of all excess water from their arms and legs, left arm, right arm, left leg, right leg, saving the towel for whatever was left. Josie thought of their demonstration—they’d done it in the living room when she was
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