Sea Creatures by Susanna Daniel Page A

his chest.
    Read , he signed.
    No book , I signed.
    He pouted. Sing , he signed.
    I was aware of Charlie beyond the doorway, within earshot. I sang the two lullabies I always sang, the two my mother always sang to me: “I See the Moon” and “Sleep, Baby, Sleep.” When I was done, Frankie’s blinks were long. I didn’t see Charlie as I went back into the office, and for two hours I worked uninterrupted. The world was so quiet that the sound of the papers brushing together in my hands had the volume of another person in the room, speaking to me. I found myself humming as I sorted, and I stopped every so often to straighten my back and glance out the window. I made it through another box and opened a third. I’d begun to rethink my strategy of only sorting for a dozen subjects at a time, as it looked as if it could be days before I made a real dent that way, so I started ten new piles. I had to stop and straighten the increasingly messy stacks into a grid on the floor to allow for walkways. My back ached from bending. A boat passed, towing a skier. An airplane rushed overhead. Some of the piles grew to an inch thick, but some were still a single sheet by the time Frankie knocked on the wall between us.
    Charlie appeared in the office doorway. “Is that the boy?” he said. “Ready for lunch?”
    It had not occurred to me until that moment that he might have been lonely for companionship. Of course he was alone almost all of the time, but it seemed to me that a person who chooses a solitary lifestyle might be impervious to loneliness, or at least significantly more so than most of us. Maybe this isn’t always the case. Maybe there are people who choose solitude for different reasons entirely.
    Charlie prepared the same lunch, more or less, as the first time we’d come. Frankie, eyes swollen from swimming and sleep, wedged himself into a corner of the sofa and sucked down a cup of water. Charlie brought the food to the table, then went back to the kitchen. When he returned again, he handed me a cold bottle of beer.
    â€œIt’s like work and vacation at the same time,” I said.
    â€œIt seems you’ll never get through it, I know.” He ate two cherry tomatoes at once. I watched his jawline as he chewed. “I’ve been putting it off for years.”
    â€œWhy now?”
    â€œRiggs has been nagging me. He says there needs to be an inventory, they need to be in storage.”
    â€œHe’s right.”
    â€œHe’s worried about a hurricane.”
    To mind came an image of his magnificent illustrations carpeting the ocean floor. Maybe an eel, flashing by, would catch a glimpse of its own frozen self.
    He chewed on an olive, then pulled the pit from his mouth. “Get the pitted ones next time, for the kid.”
    â€œOkay.” The heat drained me of energy, of appetite. I finished my beer. I said, “How long have you been showing your work?” The words sounded stiff and formal in my ears. It was hard to talk to an artist about his art without sounding like a dilettante or a rube.
    â€œI met Henry Gale years ago,” he said. “His father and my wife—anyway, they know each other. Henry put me in touch with a friend who had a gallery. We’ve done half a dozen shows, thereabout.” He met my eyes and glanced away. “The money is pretty good. My wife—there are medical bills.”
    I’d forgotten that he was still married. He turned away a little, as if closing the door on that line of conversation.
    â€œI’ve found a few options for the show,” I said. I rose to fetch the pieces I’d culled. There were two of clipper ships being attacked—consumed, really—by giant octopi. In both, the modern Miami skyline fanned out behind the ship, giving the piece an apocalyptic quality, as if monstrous creatures and ghost ships might rise from the bay at any time. There was a menacing sea horse, dark