Tatum has apile of black plastic garbage bags, some bottles of cleaner, rags, and paper towels. He has opened the sliding doors to air out the lounge. He has closed Glum in another room. He gave her some water and leftover fish from dinner.
“There weren’t any more survivors,” he says, softly.
I tell him what I did with Cotton. And that Brock should be on his way.
Tatum sits down on the couch, which still lies at an irregular angle. His voice is choked. “The birds shouldn’t have been in here. They should have had a hutch.”
“I know.”
“We shouldn’t have had them at all, actually. No one knew how to care for them. I should have given them away, but—”
“I yelled at you to let Meer have them,” I finish.
“I didn’t need to listen to you. I know Meer isn’t a big one for following through on ambitious projects. And I know wolfhounds have a high prey drive. I just—I didn’t want to be the bad guy. To Meer. Or to you.”
We sit in awkward silence for a minute. Then I start cleaning and Tatum joins me.
We put on rubber gloves. We roll up the soiled carpet and take it outside so we can bring it to the dump. We sweep up the feathers, the split peas, the chicken feed. We spray-clean the blood and the bird poop, scrubbing the leather of the couch with a rough brush.
I say “rest in peace” to each dead bird we pick up. I wrap their bodies carefully in paper towels to save, in case Meer wants to bury them. I say their ridiculous names and tell them goodbye. Hair, Bowling, Fire, Basil, Sunshine, Sour, Foot, Masquerade, and Malt.
We are about halfway through the project when Brock and Meer arrive.
We tell them what happened. “Did you maybe leave the door open?” asks Tatum gently.
“I didn’t,” says Meer. “I would never.”
“But by accident?”
“Don’t say that!” cries Meer. “I didn’t. I fed them after you went swimming and I closed the door all the way. I always do.”
“But—”
“Stop it, Tatum! Don’t make it my fault, because it’s not!” Meer puts his hand over his mouth and runs off, heading toward the woods.
Brock stays to help us clean.
When we are done, Tatum gets the house keys from theSpoils of Warbox, unlocks the office for his phone, and calls the Farm Institute. It’s a teaching farm that offers educational programs to the community. Will they take our duckling?
They say they will, and offer to send someone to pick it up. But knowing June won’t want visitors, Tatum says he’ll bring Cotton to them.
They give him instructions. We line a cardboard box with a towel. We cut some air holes in the lid. We put Cotton inside.
Still covered in dog hair, blood, sweat, and cleaning fluid, we take the Mercedes without asking. We load the box with Cotton onto the floor of the back seat, taping down the lid.
Brock says he’ll stay with Meer. “I’ll help him bury the bodies. And we’ll say goodbye, or whatever.”
—
We are silenton the drive. I am exhausted. I open my window and let the air whip my hair around my face. I stare out at the lush green of the island, the sweating bicyclers, the weathered wood buildings.
Hidden Beach is never going to be my home.
Being here is not going to heal my wounds.
I hoped Kingsley might offer me an identity. Some stability. He built this beautiful castle and has lived here Meer’s whole life. He’s put down roots. But at the same time, he feels no obligation to the place, or the people in it. It’s falling to pieces. Dirty. Overgrown. Neglected.
Something is rotten here. June doesn’t take responsibility any longer and is only around in the middle of the night. Kingsley has abandoned everyone for some reason she won’t explain. There isn’t any money even though his paintings sell for millions. Meer is an aimless, friendless kid who knows almost nothing about life in the world beyond Hidden Beach. Brock is focused on his recovery and unsure how to handle June and Kingsley’s absence, because he idolizes their way of life.
