The Joyce Maynard Collection by Joyce Maynard

Evelyn had told us he’d eaten already, but when he saw the French toast, he got excited, so Frank cut a couple of slices into small pieces for him. For the second time in a day and a half, he was feeding someone here, but with Barry it was different. When Frank had placed the spoon between my mother’s lips, the sight had seemed so intimate I had to look away.
    After the meal was over, Frank carried Barry into the living room and set him and his chair in front of the television. His mother had put a windbreaker on him, and a cap, but we took these off. Already, though it wasn’t even seven thirty yet, the air was heavy with moisture and heat.
    You know what I think you could use, buddy? Frank said. A nice cool sponge bath.
    He had gotten a bowl out of the cupboard then and filled it with ice cubes and a little water. He brought the bowl in the living room, along with a hand towel, that he dipped in the cold water before wringing it out.
    He unbuttoned Barry’s shirt and drew the cloth over his smooth, hairless chest, his neck, his bony, birdlike shoulders. He drew the cloth over Barry’s face. The sound Barry made suggested he was happy. His head, that so often seemed to roll around with no particular pattern or connection to the rest of him, seemed more steady than usual, his eyes fixed on Frank’s face.
    It’s got to feel hot in that chair, huh, buddy? Frank said. Maybe this afternoon I’ll carry you up to the tub, give you a real bath.
    More noises from Barry. Joy.
    On the front page of the paper, another story about record temperatures, anticipated traffic jams on the highway to the beach, danger of blackouts from overuse of air conditioners. But all we had was a fan.
    I want to take a look at your leg, my mother said to Frank. Let’s see how it’s healing.
    He rolled his pants leg up. The blood had dried along the cut place. In other circumstances, this would have been an injury that warranted stitches, but we all knew that wasn’t an option here.
    The place on his head where the glass had slashed into his skin no longer looked alarming either. If it wasn’t for the place in his belly where they’d cut out his appendix, Frank said, he’d be splitting that wood for us. There was a satisfaction to be had in splitting wood, he said. Get all your anger out, in a way that didn’t hurt anyone.
    What anger is that? I asked. I didn’t want it to be about me, something I’d done. I wanted him to like me, stay around. I already knew he liked my mother.
    Oh, you know, he said. Late-season Red Sox. Every year, around this time, they start screwing up.
    I didn’t think that was really it, but I didn’t say anything either.
    Speaking of baseball, he said. Where’s that glove of yours? After I help your mother with a few chores, what do you say we throw around the ball a little?
    Barry and I watched Fantastic Four, and Scooby-Doo . Normally my mother would never have let me watch so many cartoons, but this was a special situation. When Smurfs came on, I tried changing the channel to a less babyish show, but Barry started making a squealing noise, like a puppy when you step on its paw, so I let him watch that one. The show was just finishing when Frank came back down the stairs from wherever he’d been, helping my mother, to say he was in the mood for catch, how about it?
    I told him I was terrible at sports, but Frank told me not to say those words. If you act like something’s too hard, it will be, he said. You got to believe it’s possible.
    All those years in stir, he said. I never let myself believe I couldn’t get out. I just bided my time and thought positive. Looked for my opening. Made sure I’d be ready, when it came along.
    None of us had brought up the topic of the escape until this. It surprised me that Frank would talk about it.
    I didn’t know my appendix was going to be my ticket, he said. But I was ready for that