The Juliet Stories by Carrie Snyder Page B

children! How could you be so careless with your precious lives?”
    It is impossible not to feel ashamed. The shame seems unfair, a layer of adult misery burdening their happy day. Neither Keith nor Juliet wishes to share the details — any part of it — with their mother. She would never understand. And they see, suddenly, that it is her they were escaping, her and all the rest of them: the grown-ups.
    The sound of the kettle whistles in the Roots of Justice kitchen, the clatter of coffee being prepared and served, the companionable murmur of voices: Andrew’s and Gloria’s and Heinrich’s. For supper Andrew will make his specialty: omelettes to order, with a choice of tomatoes, onion, and queso fresco , a soft white cheese. There is a surfeit of eggs in San Juan’s market, and a dearth of much else.
    Clara arrives carrying a bottle of red wine, and Gloria and Heinrich join her on the porch. She is not as interested in the story of the foolish children as Heinrich thinks she ought to be.
    “They are here and well, as far as I can tell.” She kicks off her sandals and tucks her bare feet under her on the swinging wooden bench. “They used their common sense. They didn’t attempt to walk back to shore until high tide had passed. Besides, punishment is futile, wouldn’t you agree, Heinrich?”
    “Not if it prevents future disaster,” says Heinrich.
    “And does it?” his wife asks. “I should very much like to know.”
    The grown-ups have not finished eating when the power is cut.
    Ahhh is the sound around the table. The children hear it from the porch, where already it is dark. The hunk of moon reflects off the water in the bay, and the rocks and their cave are far away, vanished, though not from the mind’s eye. They hear the clink of glass on glass and laughter as someone attempts to pour wine in the dark — no, it is Gloria’s laughter they hear.
    Clara comes onto the porch. “We are going home,” she tells her children, who fail to rise. Heinrich follows and presses against his wife, his fingers kneading her shoulders.
    “Stay,” he says, but she shrugs herself away.
    She’s so tired, she says, by the end of the day. Her mind just shuts off.
    Andrew lights candles and drips wax to stick them into plastic cups, which he arranges along the low porch wall.
    “Oh, please, won’t you stay?” Gloria goes to Clara as if to touch her, though she does not.
    It is at this moment that gunfire rattles. It could be coming from the street beside them, that is how near it sounds. Thud-thud-thud-thud-thud , quicker than Juliet can click her tongue. Automatic weaponry. And then a shrieking sound in the air, wailing, cutting the sky as it falls. Silence. And again the shrieking fall.
    Their panic shocks them, the pushing and shoving, Gloria crying for Emmanuel, whom Juliet remembers was near her, sitting on his bottom and playing with a Dinky car, when the gunfire began. She could see him then but not now, though there is no reason for it — has she gone blind? — and she is on hands and knees searching the porch, knocking her head on the swing.
    “Gloria,” says Heinrich in a clear voice. “Gloria, I am holding Emmanuel in my arms. He is right here with me.”
    Andrew blows out the candles.
    “God, we came here to get away from a bomb.” Gloria’s voice shakes.
    Clara calmly calls out the children’s names, one by one, like a teacher taking attendance. She asks them to reply “I am well,” and they obey.
    Andrew points at the lit sky. “It’s not a bomb. It’s tracer fire. Harmless as fireworks. It’s coming from the army base up the hill. They’re looking for something.”
    Rat-a-tat-a-tat-a-tat-a .
    “And what the hell is that?” Gloria is a shadow in the doorway, stroking Emmanuel’s head.
    “Anti-aircraft artillery, also from the base. Something’s come too close to shore. Probably a drone.”
    “American?”
    “We’ll never know,” Clara says briskly. “This is not our