Chapter 8: The Harbor Song

I should have closed the window.

I stood there with my hand on the sash and looked at that small dark head in the car seat.

For three years that head had slept on my shoulder through every ear infection.

"Wait there," I said.

The stairs down to the street were steep and narrow.

I went down them sitting, one step at a time, with the crutches sliding ahead of me.

Scott didn't come up to help.

He held the street door open at the bottom and watched.

The night was still warm. Belmont was quiet except for a bar at the far corner.

I got up on the crutches at the curb and went to the back window of the SUV.

Joey was asleep with his mouth open and the bear crushed against his cheek.

The chain was still knotted around the bear's neck.

His face was blotchy from crying. There was dried spit-up on the front of his pajamas.

Nobody had changed them.

I leaned in close to the gap in the window.

I didn't need to think about the words.

"Little boat, little boat, the harbor light is on."

I sang it low, barely above a whisper.

"Little boat, little boat, the night will soon be gone."

Joey's eyelids twitched.

His fist loosened on the bear.

"Row on home, row on home, somebody waits for you."

Scott had come around the back of the car. He stood a few feet away with his arms folded.

"Little boat, little boat, the harbor light is true."

I sang it three times through.

By the second time, Joey's breathing had gone slow and deep, and his mouth closed.

By the third, he'd rolled onto his side toward the door, toward the sound, the way he always did.

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