Chapter 32: Sam Alden Haskell

On the morning Sam turned six, there was no mask on his face.

The doctor had taken it off him herself on Friday, in a clinic room with a sticker on the door.

"Clear," she had said, and tapped the page. "Every number I care about. He can run, swim, eat dirt, whatever six-year-olds do."

Sam had looked at me, and at Vaughn, and said, "Can I eat dirt?"

"No," we said together.

Now he stood on the end of my grandmother's dock in swim trunks and rain boots, because he had refused to choose.

The lake was flat and bright.

My aunt had strung paper lanterns from the porch to the willow, and the neighbor from across the road had brought a cake with a cat on it.

"It's the cat," Sam said, thrilled. "It's him!"

"He's right here," the neighbor said, and held up the actual cat, who looked bored.

Vaughn had been at the lake since Thursday.

He had slept on the porch both nights, on the bedroll, as agreed.

At two in the afternoon a gray car came down the gravel road, slowly, and stopped at the gate.

Ansley's mother got out in a plain blue dress.

She stood by the car with a flat package in both hands, and she did not come through.

I walked down and opened the gate for her.

"You're early," I said.

"I've been parked at the corner since noon."

"I know. Sam saw your car."

She laughed, and her eyes were wet.

"It isn't a bear," she said.

"I can see that."

"It's a kite."

Sam came pelting up the path with his boots slapping.

"Is that for me?"

"Sam," I said. "This is Ansley's mother. She wanted to say happy birthday."

He stopped and tilted his head at her.

"Are you the sad lady?"

"I was," she said. "For a long time."

"Dad says there's a bench for that."

"I'm told there is."

"Come see," Sam said, and put his hand in hers without any ceremony at all.

I watched her face fold, and then stand up straight again.

She let him lead her down the slope, and I followed.

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