“He appeared in my shower one day. Every time I went in there he was in a different spot.”
“Did you name him?”
Toby shook his head. He watched Shelby wipe ketchup off her lip.
“He kept losing color,” he said. “See how that one’s so green?”
Shelby didn’t move away from the frog, but she didn’t try to touch it either.
“There was nothing for him to eat. I had to let him go.”
Shelby looked at Toby before she finished her hot dog. “That counts,” she said. “That’s a story you shared with me.”
Toby shrugged.
“I’d like to see somebody say it wasn’t.”
Toby looked over at the crowd. The edge of the backhoe scoop was digging into his legs. He had given Shelby something of himself, but he felt like he’d gotten something. He’d given and now he had more. That was the trick. The thing he’d been trying to get from Shelby, whatever it was, he could only get by giving. He could smell Shelby. She smelled like clean, clear water. He moved his hot dog farther away from him. He didn’t want to leave the backhoe scoop. In the scoop, he didn’t have to think about anything he didn’t want to think about.
That night, Toby got his mother’s hand mirror and carried it out of his bedroom, out onto the porch, where he sat heavily in Uncle Neal’s rocker. He set the mirror in an empty chair, the chair he usually sat in. He wasn’t sure how to proceed. He grasped the mirror and looked at himself. His hair had grown to the point where he looked wild, disgraced. Toby had been thrown into the wrong life. He wanted a life where there was nothing between him and Shelby. He wanted to have that life without having to strand Kaley in the bunker. He was a kidnapper and might soon become something worse, but he was still a kid too. He could feel himself as a kid with a ripening heart who looked forward to things, who borrowed his schemes from the same old shelves as everyone else, who loved dumbly like people were meant to.
He would’ve given anything to go back to the beginning of the semester. There’d been nothing wrong with his old self. He’d been blind, about a lot of things. He saw now that he’d needed Mr. Hibma’s detentions. He missed them. In detention, he was a kid. Mr. Hibma was the closest thing Toby’d had to an adult who gave a shit about him. He’d made it seem that Toby’s actions had consequences. He’d sat there with Toby, just the two of them, instead of going home, and sometimes the silent air of the classroom had been tinged with relief — Toby and Mr. Hibma, the both of them, relieved to have a part to play. And look at Toby now. He’d been away from the bunker for five days. He could barely get a bite down. He didn’t sleep, didn’t dream. He knew Kaley was out of food. She was starving and he couldn’t eat. As bad as Toby’s life had been, he’d never seen a situation as desperate as Kaley’s was right now. She was alive, but her thoughts had run out. She probably had no more emotions, not a trace of anger.
Toby looked in the mirror and he couldn’t see anything. He had no idea what he felt toward Kaley, if he would be proud of her if she fought for her life. Toby left the mirror and walked into the woods. Sap oozed down the pine trunks and the azalea patches ogled one another. The only clouds that could survive were the nimble, vicious ones. Toby sensed a disturbance above his head and saw a broad web and a spider with yellow stripes. It had caught some hefty, armored, buzz-sawing beetle from somewhere more tropical than Citrus County. It was amazing that the beetle couldn’t break the web. It was as caught as caught could be. Every couple minutes, when the beetle stilled, the spider shimmied down toward it, knowing it had to do what spiders did, had to wrap the big sucker and administer the poison. When the spider got close, the beetle would flail for all it was worth, quaking the web, almost flinging the spider to the ground. The spider would retreat, wait a minute, then try again. Retreat. Try again. This went on and on.
Shelby had been enjoying a dream about gangs of sly otters who could convince women to do anything. But then she smelled something and the otters were gone. It was morning. The smell wasn’t part of the dream. There’d been a scent in the dream, but not a savory one. There’d been the scent of wet eyelashes. Shelby didn’t know where this new smell was coming from. She kept her eyes shut, didn’t look at the clock. Bacon and maybe something baking. She heard footsteps up the hall and a knock. The door creaked open. Shelby knew it was her father. She rolled and let light into her eyes, her hands shooting down instinctively to make sure she was decent, that she hadn’t writhed her pajamas up or shucked them off. She looked at the head poking into her doorway and it took her an exhausting moment to know that it was indeed her father. He’d shaved his beard. Clean-shaven, Shelby’s father looked vulnerable. The skin on the bottom half of his face was gray, unseasoned.
“Be in the kitchen in five minutes,” he said, and Shelby could see the words being formed in his throat and born out his lips. He made a frisky motion with his eyes, then withdrew his head.
What now? Shelby thought. He’d cooked breakfast, like the old days. No one had cooked breakfast in their kitchen in forever.
Shelby slipped on a pair of her army pants and a tank top. There was so much to shelter her father from, so many threats to deflect. She wasn’t sure she had the energy.
In the kitchen, Shelby saw five or six waffles piled on a plate, more on the way.
“When did we get a waffle iron?” she asked, taking a seat.
“Wedding present,” Shelby’s fathered answered. “It was in the attic.”
“This house has an attic?”
“It’s more of a closet in the ceiling.” Shelby’s father moved the syrup from the counter to the table, pulled two short glasses from a cabinet. He was jittery, as if afraid to lose momentum. He poured Shelby some juice, and then she noticed the juicer and a stack of grapefruit carcasses. There was bacon, too. He pushed a plate of it toward her.
“I didn’t know we had a juicer, either,” Shelby said.
“I got it when we moved down here.” Shelby’s father picked up a napkin and wiped his mouth, though he wasn’t eating anything.
Shelby sipped her grapefruit juice. She squeezed syrup onto her plate and dipped a strip of bacon in it. She ate that strip and then another and then another. She grabbed a waffle. Her father was staring at her — a heavy stare, full of blatant pride.
“I’m going to ignore my real feelings,” he said. “I’m going to make my real feelings think they’re barking up the wrong tree.”
Shelby’s throat was thick with bacon. She wanted to hug her father or say something supportive. She saw herself doing it, hopping up and giving him a big squeeze around his trim waist and saying just the right thing, but she couldn’t get out of her chair. She couldn’t do more than sit there, cutting up her waffle.
“I’m taking you to St. Pete,” he said. “The Dalí museum, then an early dinner at the pier.”
Shelby pushed her plate away, suddenly full. “An outing,” she said.
“That’s what it’ll be.”
Shelby rose and went to her room. She put on lip-gloss and a lime-colored dress, then she brushed her hair.
When she went out to the living room she found her father watching the preview channel, a scroll of all the programs that would air in the next couple hours. He looked overwhelmed. Shelby didn’t see the remote. She went over to the TV and shut it off, stood before it and did a spin, her dress flaring at the bottom. Her father was trying and she was going to help him if she could.
Outside, her father opened her car door, ushering her. They drove down Route 19 in his plain sedan, then cut over to the expressway. They were both daunted by the silence in the car. Shelby had removed Kaley’s car seat weeks ago, but it was still impossible not to notice the lack of Kaley in the back seat, singing and asking questions and thumping the passenger seat with her blunt little shoes. Shelby knew what point her father had reached. He had nothing left but hope and prayer and things like that. He’d reached the point where there were no more physical actions he could take, nothing to do but accept that he’d lost the fight for his youngest daughter and had to move on to other fights. He kept clicking the radio off and on, trolling the static-plagued stations.