Barefoot: A Novel

considered him eccentric, borderline maniacal—though every conversation about Drake Edgar ended with the disclaimer that he would “probably laugh himself al the way to the bank.”

Why not take screenwriters seriously? Josh thought. Everyone loved the movies. And movies had to be written.

“A screenplay?” Josh said to Brenda. “That’s fascinating. I’m a writer, too. Wel , I’m studying writing at Middlebury with Chas Gorda. You know of him?”

“No,” Brenda said.

“He’s great,” Josh said. “He wrote this novel cal ed Talk when he was only twenty- six.”

Brenda smiled knowingly. “Oh, he’s one of those. You know, prodigies who peak early and then never write another thing worth reading. God, I could teach an entire class on those people alone.”

Josh felt uncomfortable hearing Chas Gorda insulted, and he considered defending his professor, but he didn’t want to argue with Brenda.

Instead, he said, “What are you working on?”

“Me?” Brenda said. “Oh, I’m trying to adapt this thing . . .” Here she stroked the gold-leaf lettering of her old book, The Innocent Impostor. “But I don’t know. It’s not going that wel . It’s like this book doesn’t fit the screenplay formula, you know? There is no car chase.”

Josh laughed—too loudly, probably, and with the unsettling eagerness of Drake Edgar. Stil , what were the chances? He was a writer, sort of, and so was Brenda. Sort of.

“I can help you if you want,” Josh said. “I can offer my opinion.” ( That’s our currency here, Chas Gorda was always reminding the class.

Opinions. ) “I can give it a read.”

“It’s nice of you to offer,” Brenda said. “But who knows if I’l ever finish. Are you writing a screenplay, too?”

“No, no, no,” he said. “I’m more interested in writing short stories, you know, and novels.” The way Brenda stared at him made him feel ridiculous, as though he’d just told her he was dressing up as Norman Mailer for Hal oween. “But I could read your screenplay if you want feedback.”

“Maybe,” Brenda said. She tucked The Innocent Impostor back into its nest of bubble wrap and closed and locked the briefcase. “Maybe when I’m further along.”

“Okay,” Josh said. She was humoring him. He was a child to her, and yet he couldn’t stop himself, each and every morning, as they helped Blaine pick the pebbles up off the flagstone walk, from asking how the screenplay was going. Some days she said, Oh, fine, and other days she shook her head and said nothing at al .

Another variation of Josh’s day-to-day was what Vicki made for breakfast. Every morning it was something elaborate and delicious: blueberry pancakes, applewood-smoked bacon, cheddar omelets, peach muffins, eggs Benedict, crispy hash browns, cinnamon French toast, melon and berry salad. Josh and Vicki were the only ones who touched the breakfasts. Melanie was too queasy, she said, especial y first thing in the morning.

Al she could handle was ginger tea and dry toast. Brenda didn’t eat in the mornings, though she was a prodigious drinker of coffee and fil ed a thermos of it, doctored with a cup of half-and-half and six tablespoons of sugar, to take to the beach. The kids didn’t eat the breakfasts because they were respectively too smal and too picky. Vicki fed Porter pureed carrots or squash while Blaine ate Cheerios at the kitchen table. So the morning feasts were left to Josh and Vicki.

At first, Josh protested. “You don’t have to go to al this trouble for me,” he said. “I can grab something at home. Cereal, you know, or a bagel.”

“You’re doing me a favor,” Vicki said. “I need to keep my strength up, and I would never make any of this for just myself.” For Vicki, every forkful was an effort. She had no appetite, she felt specifical y un-hungry. She gazed at the tiny portions on her plate and sighed. She picked a blueberry out of a pancake, she considered half a piece of bacon or a single cube of fried potato. “Here goes,” she said. “Down the hatch.”

Josh couldn’t say how long it had been since someone had made a meal just for him; it was, he realized, one more part of having a mother that he missed. Vicki and Melanie watched him eat with appreciation, or maybe envy. They loaded his plate with seconds. Melanie nibbled her dry toast in the seat across from Josh; Vicki ate as much as she could, then she did the dishes, lifted Porter from his baby seat, washed his face and hands, changed his diaper, slathered him with lotion, and put him in his bathing suit. Blaine liked to dress himself—always in the same green bathing suit and then, as the days passed, in a shirt the same color as the shirt Josh was wearing. Yel ow shirt for Josh, yel ow shirt for Blaine. Green, red, white.

Blaine cried the day Josh wore his Red Sox jersey.

“I’l have to buy him one,” Vicki said.

“Sorry,” Josh said.

“It must be tough being his hero,” Vicki said.

Josh ruffled Blaine’s blond hair, uncertain of what to say. There was no point denying it. Blaine hadn’t given Josh a single bit of trouble since the first night of babysitting; he was resolutely wel behaved, as though he were afraid that if he did something wrong, Josh would leave and never come back. Most days, Josh took the kids to the town beach right there in ’Sconset and sat in the shadow of the lifeguard stand (at Vicki’s insistence).

Josh and Blaine would dig in the sand, building castles, looking for crabs, col ecting shel s and rocks in a bucket. Porter spent time in his pack ’n’

play under the umbrel a chewing on the handle of a plastic shovel or chugging down a bottle or taking his morning nap. Blaine clearly liked it best when Porter was asleep; he wanted Josh al to himself. Other kids sidled up to Josh and Blaine with varying degrees of confidence, peering in the bucket, sizing up the sand castle. Could they play? Blaine shrugged and looked to Josh, who always said, Sure. And then, in the interest of fostering good socialization skil s, he said, This is Blaine. What’s your name? Josh had learned to be careful, though, not to show anyone more attention than Blaine—otherwise