wretched. Someone, an outdoors someone, came to this shore, knowing it was beautiful and rough. Then they had shat here, even though there was a bathroom two hundred yards away. They had shat in such a way that most of the feces was attached to the maxi pad—the physics of it Josie couldn’t conjure. And then, instead of bringing the shit-covered maxi pad to a garbage receptacle, one only fifty yards away, they had left it under a rock. Which showed some strange mixture of shame and aesthetics. They knew no one would want to see the shit-covered maxi pad, so they hid it, under a rock, where, they surely knew, it would never decompose.
So they walked into downtown Seward and Josie, feeling magnanimous to compensate for the depravity of the rest of humankind, allowed Ana and Paul to explore the souvenir shops, and bought them each horrifying talking-moose T-shirts and snow globes. They walked along the waterfront and after half a mile found a vast green park with an elaborate play structure full of blond and black-haired children.
“Can we go?” Paul asked, but Ana had already run ahead, crossing a parking lot where she narrowly missed being crushed by a truck backing out. For all her young life Josie had had to envision the tiny coffin, the words she would say, life without this girl. Ana was doing everything she could to bring herself to an early end and the force and focus she brought to the endeavor could not be overcome. Oblivious, she ran through the woodchips and would remain among the living for at least another hour.
Josie found a bench, set the bags of horrible souvenirs down, and watched Ana tear through the play structure. Next to her, Paul was standing still, hands at his sides, carefully examining the playground, seeing its many features, judiciously deciding which would be best to experience first. Josie opened the free newspaper she’d been handed outside one of the stores, while keeping an eye on Ana, who she knew at some point would throw herself from the slide or find some new way to land on her head. Soon Ana stopped, had spotted a small skate park nearby, and was mesmerized by the teenagers in their gear. For no reason Josie remembered something Carl had written in a folded note, slipped under the pillow:
I will never tire of your sweet ass
. Was that sexy? His handwriting was a murderer’s scrawl. Otherwise Carl didn’t take sex seriously. He liked to make jokes during and after. “Well done,” he’d say afterward, immediately afterward, obliterating any mood, extinguishing any afterglow. When Josie told him she’d rather do without the jokes, he was so sad. He loved his jokes. After that, whenever he’d finish, she could see him staring up at the ceiling, wanting to say “Good work,” or “I think that worked out pretty well” but unable to. She’d squashed this crucial avenue of self-expression.
“Okay, locals against tourists,” a kid yelled. He was in the playground, standing in an area between Ana and Paul, and seemed to be about twelve, black-haired and handsome, and was organizing all the kids on the playground. He was a leader—if there were ever a true thing it was that some people, some children, some infants, were leaders and some were not—and in seconds he had divided eighteen children into teams and Paul grabbed Ana and all the smaller children were dutifully listening to the boy’s instructions. “This is how it works,” the boy-leader announced, shaking his long raven-black hair out of his eyes. “It’s like tag, but instead of being tagged it’s like you’re a zombie and you die if your neck’s broken, like this.” Then, as Josie watched, horrified and helpless, he took Paul, put his hands on either side of Paul’s head, and twisted, quickly, mimicking the breaking of someone’s neck as done in action films. “Now fall,” the boy said, and Paul dutifully crumpled. “That’s how it works. You’re dead until the game ends then we start over. Everyone
So they walked into downtown Seward and Josie, feeling magnanimous to compensate for the depravity of the rest of humankind, allowed Ana and Paul to explore the souvenir shops, and bought them each horrifying talking-moose T-shirts and snow globes. They walked along the waterfront and after half a mile found a vast green park with an elaborate play structure full of blond and black-haired children.
“Can we go?” Paul asked, but Ana had already run ahead, crossing a parking lot where she narrowly missed being crushed by a truck backing out. For all her young life Josie had had to envision the tiny coffin, the words she would say, life without this girl. Ana was doing everything she could to bring herself to an early end and the force and focus she brought to the endeavor could not be overcome. Oblivious, she ran through the woodchips and would remain among the living for at least another hour.
Josie found a bench, set the bags of horrible souvenirs down, and watched Ana tear through the play structure. Next to her, Paul was standing still, hands at his sides, carefully examining the playground, seeing its many features, judiciously deciding which would be best to experience first. Josie opened the free newspaper she’d been handed outside one of the stores, while keeping an eye on Ana, who she knew at some point would throw herself from the slide or find some new way to land on her head. Soon Ana stopped, had spotted a small skate park nearby, and was mesmerized by the teenagers in their gear. For no reason Josie remembered something Carl had written in a folded note, slipped under the pillow:
I will never tire of your sweet ass
. Was that sexy? His handwriting was a murderer’s scrawl. Otherwise Carl didn’t take sex seriously. He liked to make jokes during and after. “Well done,” he’d say afterward, immediately afterward, obliterating any mood, extinguishing any afterglow. When Josie told him she’d rather do without the jokes, he was so sad. He loved his jokes. After that, whenever he’d finish, she could see him staring up at the ceiling, wanting to say “Good work,” or “I think that worked out pretty well” but unable to. She’d squashed this crucial avenue of self-expression.
“Okay, locals against tourists,” a kid yelled. He was in the playground, standing in an area between Ana and Paul, and seemed to be about twelve, black-haired and handsome, and was organizing all the kids on the playground. He was a leader—if there were ever a true thing it was that some people, some children, some infants, were leaders and some were not—and in seconds he had divided eighteen children into teams and Paul grabbed Ana and all the smaller children were dutifully listening to the boy’s instructions. “This is how it works,” the boy-leader announced, shaking his long raven-black hair out of his eyes. “It’s like tag, but instead of being tagged it’s like you’re a zombie and you die if your neck’s broken, like this.” Then, as Josie watched, horrified and helpless, he took Paul, put his hands on either side of Paul’s head, and twisted, quickly, mimicking the breaking of someone’s neck as done in action films. “Now fall,” the boy said, and Paul dutifully crumpled. “That’s how it works. You’re dead until the game ends then we start over. Everyone
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