“You can’t?” The boy’s face fell.
Muddy shook his head.
“Why?”
“I can only fulfill wishes in this life.”
The boy just stood staring at the sand. A lazy wave sloshed over his bare feet and ankles, but the boy didn’t look up or move. In a moment thicker than the tropical air, he squatted down and picked up a couple of the seashells near his feet, then turned one over in his small hand. Muddy had the feeling he wasn’t seeing the shells. When the boy finally looked up at him, it was through the damp eyes of a wounded child. “That was the only wish I had.”
* * *
A little whilelaterMargaret was crouched down on all fours, her cheek pressed to the sand as she stared at a pile of wood that refused to light. She struck another safety match just as the rope at her waist jerked her back.
She turned. “Annabelle! Come here.” She waited. “Annabelle!” The match singed her fingers. “Ouch!” She dropped it and stuck her burned finger in her mouth.
Annabelle was running in circles again.
She sat back on her heels. “Come here right now, Annabelle. Annabelle! I’m talking to you.”
The baby stopped and looked at her, then plopped down in the sand and grinned. After a long pause, she waved her tiny hand. “Hi!”
“Come here, please.” Margaret patted the ground next to her. “Come here.”
The baby stuck her two fingers in her mouth and grinned.
Margaret plopped down in the sand herself and rested her arms on her raised knees. About twenty feet separated them.
Annabelle watched her as if doing so were the most important thing in world.
Margaret returned her look. “Why won’t you do what I ask? Why? I’ve tried talking to you. I’ve been patient. I’ve asked nicely. I’ve asked repeatedly. This is getting absurd. You know that, don’t you?” Margaret poked herself in the collarbone with one finger. “I’m the adult here. Do you understand? Me. You are the child.”
Annabelle raised one hand and wiggled her fingers at her. “Hi.”
Margaret sighed. She couldn’t reason with her. When could one reason with a child? Wasn’t everyone born with the ability to reason?
It was as bad as talking to Hank. And she got the same results. None.
Margaret cast a quick glance at the pot of mussels she had gathered from the beach. Cooking them couldn’t be that difficult, she thought.
Lighting the fire was another matter. She stared at the pile of driftwood. It was too damp to catch from just the small quick flame of a match.
She thought about it for a moment, then picked up a piece of wood and broke it in half. It wasn’t soaked through, just damp from last night’s rain. She tossed it on the pile and tried to light the dry center of the wood with a third match, something she knew she shouldn’t be wasting.
Still nothing. She stared at the wood for a minute. She needed something she could burn long enough to make the wood catch. She looked around for something useless to burn without the worry that she’d be sorry later.
After going through all their supplies, she gave up. There wasn’t one thing she felt she could burn.
The rope yanked on her waist again. She’d had enough. She whipped her head around. “Annabelle!”
The baby was toddling toward her, Hank’s whiskey bottle in her small hand.
“Oh, you brilliant child. There is something completely useless.” Margaret smiled and reached out her arms. Annabelle toddled into them and sat in her lap and let her take the bottle away. “What a good little girl you are.” She gave the baby a gentle pat on the head.
Margaret pulled out the cork, lifted the bottle to her nose, and shuddered. It was strong. She read the label.
One hundred and twenty proof, which as she recalled meant it was sixty percent alcohol.
She smiled.
