Flesh And Blood

boys, mostly. Survivors with damaged brains…

I reached the spot. No boy. Had I miscalculated? Where the hell was he? A quick glance back at the shore told me I hadn’t lost my bearings – the woman in the white dress was swimming too. But she’d covered only a third of the distance, was having trouble as the garment bloused about her like a deflated parachute. Behind her, the chubby little girl edged toward the water…

I started to warn her, caught sight of the boy’s head, then his entire body – fifteen feet ahead – tossed like a scrap of kelp as a wave pushed him up and dunked him out of sight, and now he looked scared. I raced toward him, only to see gravity return him to the depths yet again. His arms were thrashing wildly – losing control.

Flinging myself across the riptide that had snared him, I reached out, got hold of wet hair, a skinny arm, then a small, bony torso that writhed in my grip. Circling his body with one arm, I held his head above water and began paddling back toward land.

He fought me.

Kicked my ribs, butted my chest, shouted in my ear. Tiny teeth bit down on my earlobe, and it was all I could do not to let go.

Strong for his size, and despite his ordeal he was feisty. Growling and spitting, intent on chomping my ear again. I managed to pinion both his arms and forced his head away from mine using my chin as I continued toward the beach. He howled and bucked and butted his little skull against my collarbone.

When the water shallowed sufficiently, I stood and held his thrashing little body at arm’s length. His scrunched-up, triangular face emitted a hoarse cry of outrage. Good strong lungs, nice-looking kid. Four or five.

“Down!” he screamed. “Put me down, shit-poop asshole! Down!”

“Soon enough, my little gentleman,” I said, catching my breath.

Behind me a woman sobbed, “Baxter!” and slender white hands tipped by long red fingernails yanked the boy from me.

I searched for the little girl.

In the water up to her knees. The woman in the white dress was hugging the boy, her back to the little girl.

I pointed. “Should I get her, or you?”

The woman swiveled sharply. Young – very young, same triangular face as Baxter. Green-blue eyes followed my finger, and she froze. The baggy dress had soaked her to the skin, gauzy white cotton deepening to flesh tone as it clung to her torso, outlining too-full breasts, the grayish purple assertion of nipples, a sweep of abdominal swell, tiny tidepool of navel pit, the stippled outline of white lace bikini panties, labial cleft visible beneath the lace.

“Oh!” she said, but she still didn’t move, and the toddler was now up to her waist, laughing and splashing. Tiny little thing – two and a half was my guess – with plenty of baby fat, a convex tummy, a bud-mouth open in wonderment. White hair top-knotted, sand crust on her belly. The wind was strong enough to rustle the trees along the bluff, and foot-high breakers slapped the sand.

“Baxter,” said the woman, voice quivering. “Look at what Sage is doing. You guys are going to kill me.” Still holding the boy, she moved toward the girl, tripped, fell, dropped the boy, who ended up with a mouthful of sand and began choking and screaming.

I hurried toward Sage. Hearing the woman call out, “Ohmigod, I’m so stooopid!”

I reached the child just as she fell on her rear and gulped water and broke into sobs. When I swooped her up, she stopped crying immediately. Giggled. Touched my lip with a tiny, gritty finger. Giggled again and tried to poke my eye.

“Hey, cutie,” I said.

“Cootie. Heh heh.” Poke, poke. I restrained the finger, and she found that hilarious.

I carried her back to the blond woman and handed her over. Baxter’s mouth was clean and grinning crookedly. He glared at me, proclaimed, “No fish,” and shook his fist.

“He thinks he was fishing,” said the woman. “He thinks it’s your fault he didn’t catch anything.”

“Sorry,” I said.

Baxter scowled.

“Big fisherman,” said the woman. “I can’t believe he actually did that. He never did it before.”

“That’s kids,” I said. “Always something new.”

“No fish,” opined Baxter.

“Fiss,” echoed Sage.

“What, you have an opinion too, you little wild thing?” said the woman. She bent and stared at both kids. “That was silly – really silly. Both of you were silly, right?”

No reply. Baxter had turned profoundly bored, and his sister’s attention was taken up by the sand at her feet.

The woman said, “You wild, wild things – for all I know there are sharks out there that could eat you! Sharks!” To me: “Isn’t that true?”

Before I could answer she repeated, “Sharks! To eat you!”

The possibility made Baxter smile wider. But for a few sand scratches on his chest, he looked unscathed.

“Oh, you think it’s funny. Would you like that? Huh? Would you? To be eaten by a shark – gobbled up like you’re his Big Mac or something? Would either of you like to be a Big Mac?”

“No way,” said Baxter, cocking one leg. “I eat him.”

The little girl giggled.

“You’re impossible,” said the woman. “You’re both impossible.”

She straightened, folded her arms under her breasts, turning the nipples into twin torpedoes. She had a husky but girlish voice, beautiful, lightly freckled white skin, looked barely out of her teens. Full, soft lips, dainty chin, long neck, and the green-blue eyes were enormous and widely spaced under plucked eyebrows. No makeup, but for the extravagant red talons and toenails glossed in the identical shade.

“Fuckin’ shark,” said Baxter.

“Fug shaaf,” said the girl.

“Oh, Jesus,” said the woman, grabbing each of them by the hand and shaking her head. Breathing hard and fast, but her breasts barely moved. Too big and too firm, and the rest of her was too slender to support a chest that robust. Solidity, courtesy the scalpel.

I don’t think I stared, but maybe I did, because she seemed suddenly to become aware of her body – of being, for all intents, stripped naked by the second-skin wet dress. She gave a tiny, knowing smile, flipped her hair, peered into my eyes as I forced them to keep away from the curves below. Trailing her eyes – now I saw flecks of amber in the big, clear, green-blue irises – down her own body. Then her gaze shifted to me as she conducted a quick appraisal of my wet suit. Smiling again, she turned and, clenching a child in each hand, dragged them back to the spot where she’d fallen asleep. Walking slowly, with a swivel-hipped, tiptoe prance that jiggled her rear.

I followed, and she had to know that, but she paid me no mind all the way to her beach chair. The straw hat lay half-buried in the sand. The shiny thing I’d seen from the kayak was an Evian bottle. I realized I’d forgotten about the kayak and turned sharply.

The boat had come aground, upended, almost square with the spot where I’d brought Baxter the ear biter to shore. I jogged over, pulled it out of the tide’s way, became aware of the throbbing in my ear, touched the lobe, inspected my finger. No blood, but those little teeth had done their job and the flesh was still dimpled and hot.

Back in the spoon-shaped shelter, the woman in the wet dress remained on her feet, saying something to both kids. Sage looked up at her, but Baxter’s attention had drifted back to the ocean, and when he moved toward the water the woman held him back.

Then she waved at me. I jogged back.

“Please tell him,” she said, when I arrived. “There are sharks out there. Right?” Smoothing down the soaked dress, pressing the fabric flush against her skin.