Good Harbor

Joyce nodded and leaned back into the headrest. Her eyes were fixed on Kathleen as she talked on and on, telling stories about Pat. Her boldness as a girl. How she liked Buddy right off the bat. How she’d stood by Kathleen’s side, under the bridal canopy at their wedding, which had been a small affair at her in-laws’ house.

After they crossed the border into New Hampshire, Kathleen stopped for gas and coffee. Back on the road, she started talking about her sons. Hal’s shyness, his childhood terror of bugs, his science honors in high school. Jack’s outgoing nature, his fearlessness in the water, his trophies for swimming, for wrestling, and track. The way the boys used to fight over their toys, and the way they looked, side by side, walking out to the car the other night, on their way to temple.

And then, Kathleen found herself telling stories about Danny. He loved trucks. He was pigeon-toed. He fought sleep, even when he was exhausted. When he got his first tooth, he bit Hal’s finger so hard he broke the skin.

There were hundreds of people at Danny’s funeral. People Kathleen had never seen before: customers from the store, acquaintances of Mae and Irv’s. Louisa Bendix had stayed home to look after Hal. “The coffin was tiny. Obscene. It was small enough that just one man from the funeral home could carry it.”

Joyce hugged her knees to her chest and listened intently. They passed Manchester and the road emptied, so that it seemed they were alone in the world.

Kathleen felt a little like she was in a confessional. As a child she hated the dark wooden booths in church. They always scared her, and after she saw her first Dracula movie, they reminded her of coffins. The car was an intimate space, too, a good place for telling secrets, but it held no threat. Maybe it was the changing light, or Joyce’s rapt attention.

“It’s twenty-five years this month,” Kathleen said, her eyes fixed on the road ahead. “Remember you asked me how long ago it was that Danny died? I didn’t want to tell you because, well, I didn’t want you making allowances for me.” She lowered her voice to a mock-reverent whisper. “Poor Kathleen. It’s twenty-five years since her little boy died. Poor woman.”

Joyce started to speak, but Kathleen cut her off. “I couldn’t stand that because, I . . .” She stopped, and Joyce waited.

“Remember I told you the phone rang, and I went into the house? Well, it was Stan on the phone.”

Joyce sat up straight in her seat.

“I ran inside just to see who it was. Just for a second, you know. I thought it might be Pat, who was due to visit that month. But it was him.

“I hadn’t seen him or even spoken to him for five months. He called and said his wife was kicking him out of the house. He said he loved me and wanted to marry me. He wanted to come to the house. He was sobbing.

“I told Hal, ‘Watch your brother.’ I said, ‘I’ll be just a second.’ But it wasn’t just a second. And then I heard Hal scream. Not Danny. Hal.

“It was . . . That was . . .” The car filled up with the noise of the engine, the tires on the road, the air rushing over the windows.

“What a horrible sound. I can’t begin to tell you. Like a siren. Louder than you’d ever think a child could scream. Screaming and screaming.

“And you know what I did? What ‘poor Kathleen’ did? I hung up the phone. I didn’t drop it when I heard Hal. I didn’t leave it dangling. I took the time to hang up the damn receiver.

“I don’t think I said anything to Stan. I don’t remember really. But I do remember replacing the phone on the hook before I went to see why my son was screaming. I never forgave myself that moment. I never will.”

“Why not?”

Joyce had been so quiet, Kathleen almost jumped at the sound of her voice.

“Why wouldn’t you forgive yourself for that half second? It was a reflex. It was nothing. You couldn’t have stopped the car. Even if the phone had never rung.

“Kathleen,” Joyce said firmly, “it wasn’t your fault. Hanging up the phone doesn’t make you a bad person. Or a bad mother. You didn’t kill Danny. The old man behind the wheel of that car killed Danny, by accident. It was an accident. It wasn’t your fault.”

“I should have been there,” Kathleen whispered.

“You were there.”

The physical sensation of that morning returned to Kathleen. With her hands on the wheel of a car hurtling across New Hampshire, Kathleen felt herself back at the scene outside her house. Hal screaming. A lawn mower droning in the distance. The blood on the ambulance driver’s white shirt. The heat.

“It was blazing hot. My neighbors called the police. The ambulance came. Two ambulances. I got into one of them with Danny. Hal was still screaming. I got into the ambulance with Danny and tried not to scream myself.

“Buddy was at the hospital when we got there. Pat came that night. The days in the hospital were . . . I don’t remember them as days; it was a long blur of waiting and crying. But Danny couldn’t . . . He didn’t get better. And then we had to let him go.”

Joyce wiped her eyes and put her hand lightly on Kathleen’s shoulder.

“We donated his corneas and his organs.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“It wasn’t? I told my five-year-old son to watch my three-year-old while I was on the phone with my lover.” Kathleen spit out the words.