The Boy Who Drew Monsters: A Novel by Keith Donohue Page B

across the table and took his hand in hers.
    “You are an angel. You both are, and I can’t thank you enough for taking Nick for the holidays. Fred and I need to get away. Some time to ourselves, patch things up a bit. You know how it can be, sometimes you just want to start all over. And, failing that, a few days on the cruise will make the winter that much shorter.”
    He squeezed her fingers and then withdrew. For the length of a cup, they talked about the Caribbean trip, the ports of call, the likelihood of shuffleboard and endless buffets. Her excitement bubbled along, and he found himself watching how she spoke instead of what she actually said. He’d give a nod now and again, a smile to keep her there. He remembered that same contented look from years ago, animated by their secret. At last she looked at her watch, let out a sharp gasp, and said a hasty good-bye. From the open door, he watched her go, standing at the threshold long after she had driven away, an ache small and persistent in the pit of his soul. He waited till he caught himself shivering when the chill crept up his pajamas.
    The boys did not answer when Tim called them, and he had no idea where they might be. In Jip’s room, most likely, but perhaps they were prowling around below in Tim’s workshop. He went to tidy the kitchen, pausing to look at the beach through the bay window, his thoughts drifting back to that summer’s day, the last time all of them had been outside together. Holly lost in a paperback on a distant rock, Fred asleep on a bright yellow towel. The boys, seven that year, were down in the water, as usual. A gull or two, white as paper, roamed the blue skies. Nell was stretched out facing him, a gesture intimate but guileless. Her maroon bathing suit clung to her curves, and they were talking of summer’s end, idly chatting in that circuitous way they spoke to each other, saying nothing that was not coded in a language of longing. No one saw what happened. No one could say for sure when precisely Jip and Nick had gone missing.
    He turned from the view of the water, and there the boys had suddenly appeared at the kitchen table, intent on a notebook. In unison, they looked up at him and flashed two grins. The tip of Nick’s nose was red from sniffling, but they otherwise seemed quite normal. How had they managed to sneak in without his notice? He shook the befuddlement from his brain.
    “You’re like a couple of ghosts. Time for me to hit the shower, boys. You two be all right without me?”
    With a wide grin and a slow nod, his son dismissed him.
    Curlicues of steam rose from the sink as he lathered his cheeks with shaving cream. He dipped the razor into the stream of hot water and began to shave in confident strokes. Just as he scraped the last bit of foam, the dull blade nicked his skin and a bright red berry of blood appeared on his throat. A short agitated cough escaped his lips, for he could not remember the last time he had cut himself shaving. He pressed his thumb to the spot on his neck below his left ear, and in a moment, the bleeding stopped. The hot water had fogged the mirror, and behind him, a cold breeze fluttered the curtain. Someone had left the window open, so he forced it shut. The snow had given way to pale sunshine. He shrugged out of his robe and stripped to the skin.
    The room was freezing, so he let the water run till great clouds of smoke rose, and then he slipped into the shower and closed the glass door behind him. The heat and humidity unkinked his muscles and relaxed his joints as readily as a sauna. Working shampoo into his hair, he massaged his scalp. Images of Nell on the beach crossed his mind, how she leaned toward him close enough to touch. A line of perspiration runs between her breasts, and the fine hairs at her nape glisten in the sunlight. He cupped his scrotum in his free hand. Where are the boys? She was the first to notice, springing to her feet, casting a shadow over him as he turned on