They wandered down a Plexiglas corridor, in and out of the warmth that fell from the overhead heat lamps. At a dead end a gothicky arrow captioned with gothicky letters pointed right, to something called FAUST UND FURIOUS.
“He was German, wasn’t he?” Ernest asked. “Faust?”
After a moment Bruno said, “Technically.”
Eventually they found a room filled with children and their parents, a pirate ship run aground in a shallow pool, hordes of insufficiently dressed mortals. The variety of swimming costumes! Chubby women in two-piece suits, middle-aged women in waterproof dresses, men in flowered trunks, Speedos, ankle-length pants. And the navels: sinkholes, champagne corks, thumbprints. Bruno’s own belly button was inward; so was Ernest’s; the boy’s a little love knot, a souvenir of the day he’d been delivered to them.
Children flew down slides and splash landed. Parents stood watching, or walked babies through the water, or lay on deck chairs as though sunbathing beneath the corrugated roof. Two lifeguards in pointless sunglasses wandered around mid-shin in the water, clutching long foam rescue devices to their abdomens.
The boy started to run in.
“Walking feet!” called Ernest. “Careful, honey.” He turned to Bruno. “Was this a terrible idea?”
“This was your idea.”
“We should get him a life jacket.”
“It’s one foot of water.”
“You can drown in three inches.”
“I know all the ways you can drown,” said Bruno.
“Yes,” said Ernest, “I’m sorry.”
They looked back. The boy was already gone.
Dead, Bruno decided. He felt this any time he couldn’t locate Cody for more than a minute, even in games of hide-and-go-seek, when the boy wouldn’t answer his name: an absolute conviction that he was now looking for a corpse. This was something he had never told Ernest, who believed Bruno too laissez-faire to do any real parenting. Ernest was reasonable, logical, in his worry. He had a sense of proportion. For Bruno, there was nothing between uncertainty and catastrophe. That was his secret.
“Where is he,” he asked Ernest now.
“He’s somewhere—”
They ran sloshily through the water. Behind the pirate ship was a smaller slide shaped like a madcap gape-mouthed frog, and here they found the boy sliding down the frog’s great tongue. The goggles gave him the look of a scientist testing gravity.
They perched on the edge of the pool and watched the frog as it vomited toddlers. Toddlers, and Cody, who went up the steps along the frog’s spine and down its tongue as though practicing for later: that exactitude and joylessness. The air seemed made of screaming and flesh. Bruno was grateful for his swim shirt, which hid his gut. He had the urge to reach out with bent fingers and just brush the inside hem of Ernest’s swim trunks, imperceptibly, though it wouldn’t be imperceptible to Ernest, and Ernest wouldn’t approve.
He did it anyhow.
“Gravy,” said Ernest. But he hooked one pinky into Bruno’s Schlitterbahn bracelet and gave it a fond tug.
Then Cody was at their knees. “I want my river,” he said. “I want to tube on my river.”
“Of course,” said Bruno, and Cody smiled again. His teeth were even, loosely strung. Bruno had always been appalled by parents who lamented the passing of their children’s youth. If you could just keep them this age! And what would be the result? A child like a bound foot, a bonsai tree.
O Cody and his milk teeth: just a little longer, please.
The fact was Bruno was no better than anyone: he knew they’d gotten the best one. The best child, the most beautiful and distinct. The red hair out of nowhere, the ability to hail a waitress across a restaurant. The love of maps, and of birds, the obsession with Charlie Chaplin. The native slapstick. The way he liked to caress with his shoulders and the side of his head. His animal nature. Yes, he loved birds but he wanted to take them out of the sky, too. Sometimes Bruno worried that this was an inheritance from him, how they both wanted everything they loved twitching under the weight of one big paw.
A pair of double doors took them outside into the chill, where a heated pool spun steam from its surface, as though it were the source of Galveston’s fog, on one side a swim-up bar advertising Bud Light. A middle-aged woman sat on a half-sunk bar stool and tipped blue fluid into her mouth from a statuesque glass.
“A bar,” said Ernest, in a voice of wonder, he who had given up bars for parenthood. (Bruno had given them up longer ago, for other reasons.)
“Have a drink,” Bruno said.
“Really?”
“Why not? We’re on vacation.”
They stepped, the three of them, into the slapping heat of the pool. The bartender was a young man with dark skin and dreadlocks, perhaps hired to match the island theme. He was dry, the bar itself a dam that kept back the water. “Under eighteen’s got to be on the other side,” he said, in a Texan accent. He indicated a beaded rope stretched across the middle of the pool. “I’m sorry, y’all,” he said.
“Oh well,” said Ernest, turning around.
“Sit,” said Bruno. “Shall we find the river, Code? While Daddy rests and has a drink.”
“Yes,” said Cody seriously, as though he’d been arguing this for hours.
“No,” said Ernest.
“Have a margarita,” said Bruno, who knew that to be granted permission was a kind of love for the long-partnered. Nothing major, not quitting your job to be an artist, not traveling solo for six months. A drink. Another slice of cake. An hour of foolish pleasure in bed with somebody else. The love of children was said to be unconditional, but it was nothing but conditions. I don’t love you anymore! Cody might shout, when refused more television, and Ernest—the disciplinarian and therefore the
