Part 5
In the elevator, Eli held himself together until the metal gate opened on the lobby. Then he bent over the empty carrier and cried into the dispatch sweatshirt.
Ben sat beside him on the tile. People crossed the lobby carrying groceries and laundry, giving the three of them a polite berth. He did not tell Eli that Walter lived only twelve minutes away, or that Saturday visits would come quickly, or that returning Skipper had been the right thing. None of those facts made the carrier less empty.
When Eli could speak, he said, “I hate this.”
“I know.”
“I hate you a little too.”
Ben nodded. “You get to.”
Claire drove home. Eli sat in back with the carrier across his knees, holding it still whenever the road curved. That evening he left Skipper’s cardboard box beneath the radiator. He took his medication, refused dinner, and went to bed without saying good night.
Ben woke twice and stood outside his door. The first time, Claire found him there.
“He’s asleep,” she whispered.
“I should check.”
“The old camera is on. His temperature was normal. Let him sleep.”
Ben kept his hand on the doorknob.
“Returning him was right,” Claire said. “Hiding the date wasn’t.”
“I know.”
“Next time, tell me before the plan is finished.”
“Even if you might say no?”
“Especially then.”
Ben let go of the knob. They went back to bed, though neither of them slept much.
Walter called the following afternoon. Skipper had eaten his midnight kibble, slapped his water twice, and spent the morning asleep in the blue chair. Walter sounded tired. He also sounded less alone.
“Eli there?” he asked.
Ben looked toward the living room. “I’ll ask him.”
At the sink, Claire paused with one hand beneath the running water.
Eli did not want to talk. He agreed to listen while Walter described Skipper’s first hour home: the inspection of every cabinet, the offended howl at finding a closed closet, the discovery that Mrs. Hanley had moved the window cushion three inches. On Wednesday, Eli called Walter himself and asked whether the cushion had been fixed. On Saturday, the Calders went back.
The first visits were awkward. Eli watched Skipper for signs that he was unhappy and Walter watched Eli for signs that he might break. Claire brought food Walter had not requested. Ben checked the time too often. By the fourth visit, Walter told Claire he could make his own soup, Eli told Walter the blue bowl needed washing, and Ben left his phone facedown for most of an hour.
Six weeks after Skipper went home, Ben climbed out of the elevator on Harbor Street carrying a paper sack of corn and tomatoes. He waited while Eli used the spare key, then reminded himself that the boy had called first, exactly as promised.
“We’re here,” Eli announced.
“Kitchen,” Walter called. “And close that door before the admiral escapes.”
Skipper was in no danger of escaping. He occupied the center of the blue chair with one hind leg raised, conducting a thorough bath. A new brass tag rested against the white fur on his chest. Walter Pike’s number was engraved on the front; Ben and Claire’s number, marked BACKUP, was on the reverse.
Eli dropped his backpack and knelt. Skipper stopped washing long enough to press his head into the boy’s hand, then resumed as if six days had not passed since their last visit.
Walter stood at the counter slicing cucumbers. He still kept the cane by the door and went to outpatient cardiac rehabilitation three mornings a week, usually with Mrs. Hanley.
“How was clinic?” Walter asked Eli.
“Stable.” Eli made a face. “They used that word five times.”
Stable did not mean finished: twelve pills a day, regular blood work, and ambulance sirens that could still startle him awake. But he was back at school through lunch, arguing with Caleb Morris over how to load-test their model bridge.
“Stable beats interesting in cardiology,” Walter said.
“That’s what Mom said.”
Claire came in behind Ben with a pie. “Because I’m right. Walter, why are you holding that knife like you’re planning revenge on the cucumber? Sit down.”
“This is my kitchen.”
“Then you know where the bandages are.”
Walter surrendered the knife, but not before cutting one last crooked slice. Ben carried the vegetables to the sink.
After dinner, Eli and Walter worked on one of the ferry models near the window. Walter steadied the hull while Eli painted a narrow green line above the waterline. Ben washed dishes. Claire dried them and occasionally returned one to the sink when he had missed a spot.
Eli’s medication alarm sounded from his backpack. Ben’s hands stopped in the dishwater.
Eli set down the brush, washed his hands, and took out the evening pills. Claire checked the labels without hovering. Walter moved the open paint jar out of reach.
Outside, the evening coach turned onto Harbor Street. Its brakes released a long breath beneath Walter’s windows.
Skipper lifted one ear. Then he lowered his head onto Eli’s sneaker, and the new brass tag settled against the white fur on his chest.