Both boys are in swimming trunks. And it occurs to her that she hasn’t seen Max’s bare body, not in years. She’d always supposed that he was rather a plain boy, the way he carries himself as he slouches about the house made her think he was running to fat. But that isn’t fair. He’s not fat. There’s a bit of extra flesh, maybe, but it looks sweet and ripe. The skin isn’t quite smooth—there are a few scab marks where Max has no doubt scratched away spots—and there’s a little downy fur on his chest that can’t yet decide whether it wants to be hair or not. But she’s surprised by her son—he looks good, he looks attractive.
He is not as attractive as Nicky, standing beside him, and showing off muscles and tanned skin. But that’s fine, that’s not a slur on Max, she rather suspects that in the years to come no one will compete with Nicky.
“Please stay,” Nicky says one more time.
“Yes, all right.”
“You’re staying?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“We got you a card and a present. They’re on the table.”
“Thank you. Well, Maxwell! Are you ready for the pool?”
“Yes,” says Max.
“Oh, watch this,” says Nicky’s mother. “This is good, you’ll like this.”
The boys all take their positions around the perimeter of the pool. Nicky leads Max to the edge; he shows him where to stand, next to him. Max looks apprehensive, but Nicky touches him on the shoulder and smiles; Max looks reassured. Then, at the other side of the pool, one of the boys raises his arms high above his head, tilts his body, and dives in. And as he dives, the boy next to him raises his arms likewise, diving as well. It’s like watching domino toppling, she thinks, as the actions of one boy precipitate the actions of the next—or, no, more like one of those old black and white Hollywood musicals, weren’t there lots of movies like that once upon a time? Because it feels perfectly choreographed, each boy hitting the water a matter of seconds after the last one has jumped, and entering it so cleanly, there’s barely a splash.
And she’s frightened for Max now, as the Mexican wave of diving boys fans its way around the poolside to where he stands waiting. Don’t fuck it up now, she thinks. Don’t fuck it up. Three boys to go, two boys, Nicky himself. Max jumps. He doesn’t dive, he jumps. His splash is loud and explosive and throws water over the side. He fucks it up.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “Max’s not much of a swimmer.”
“Oh, but he’s charming,” says Nicky’s mother. “And he’ll learn.” She taps at her arm lightly with a fingernail. “Come inside. Swimming for the children, and for the grownups there’s wine and cigarettes and fresh fruit.”
“Don’t you think we should watch them?”
“Oh, we’ll watch them. Indoors.” That tap with the fingernail again, and then she turns and leaves. Max’s mum follows her.
“Oh, this is a nice house,” she says. “I like your house, it’s nice, isn’t it?’ In truth, it’s as unprepossessing as its owner—but it also feels homely, and warm, it feels safe. “Have you lived here long, Mrs. …?” She remembers, ridiculously, she has no idea what this woman’s name is. “Are you new to the area?”
“Have some wine,” says Nicky’s mother.
“Well, a glass of white, maybe.”
“I’m sorry, I only have red.” And she does sound sorry too. “But I think you’ll like it, it’s very good.” She pours two glasses of red; she’s right, it’s smooth. “And a cigarette?”
“Oh, no, I’ve given up.”
“So have I! Many times!” Laughter. And out from a plain wooden box on the table two cigarettes, and they are the whitest Max’s mother has ever seen. She knows as she accepts a light that it’s a mistake, she hasn’t smoked in years—how long, not since Max was born, she gave up when she was pregnant! She used to enjoy smoking, that’s something else Max has taken away from her. She prepares to cough. The cigarette is just as smooth as the wine. She recognizes the smell, where does she know that from? It smells like the scent on the birthday invitation.
And she stands there, drinking and puffing away, and on she babbles. “So, do you live here all alone, Mrs. …? I mean, with Nicky, all alone. Is there a Mr. …?”
“How is Maxwell getting on at school?”
“Oh. You know.”
“Tell me.”
“Good at some subjects. Bad at others! You know!”
“Yes.”
She’s somehow finished her glass. She’s poured another one. “He’s not an unkind boy,” she says. “He never was. There’s nothing wrong with him. I think. I just wish. I just wish he could be a bit more likeable.”
“Likeable, yes.”
“The way your son is likeable. Nicky, I mean, he’s obviously very likeable.”
“Nicky has always had a certain charm.”
“You see, you’re lucky! If it is luck. I don’t know, maybe likeable is something you can work at. Maybe being better is just something you can make yourself be. I don’t know. I just look at Max sometimes and think… You had such promise. Right at the beginning. Right when you were born. And then you just got worse and worse. What’s that about? Like something went wrong, and I never noticed, and I didn’t fix it in time, and now it’s too late. But maybe it’ll sort itself out! Kids. They grow up so fast, don’t they?”
“They grow up just as quickly as it takes.”
“Yes. Sorry. Of course. Yes. Do you think? Do you think we should check up on them?”
“Nicky’s very responsible. But we’ll check on them. Come upstairs. We can see better from there.”
In the bedroom there is a sliding door that leads onto a thin little balcony. There are two chairs out there, and a table. On the table there are fresh cigarettes, fresh wine. There is a basket of strawberries. “Sit down,” says Nicky’s mother. “Make yourself at home.” From the balcony they can both clearly see the pool, and hear the squeals of pleasure as the children splash about in it. Max sees his mother, waves up at her. He is smiling. It is good to see him smile.
“I like to watch them from above,” says Nicky’s mother. She has a pair of binoculars. Surely she doesn’t need binoculars; the boys are only a few feet away? She peers at the children through them; she helps herself to strawberries as she does so.
It suddenly occurs to Max’s mum: “Where are the other mothers?”
“There are no other mothers.”
“But, I thought you said…”
“It’s just me. And you.” Nicky’s mother takes the binoculars from her face and gives such a lovely smile. “And all my lovely children.”
Max’s mother thinks the smoke in her mouth tastes soft and warming, it tickles her nostrils as she puffs it out her nose, it tickles her tongue as she puffs through her mouth. Both ways are good, both are nice. “Try the binoculars,” she is told, and so she does—she is startled at first by how close the boys in the pool now seem to her, she can see the very pores on their skin, she can see every sweet blemish. They’re so close they’re just flesh and hair, she can’t tell them apart any more. “Try the strawberries too, they taste better with the binoculars,” and that seems silly, but somehow it’s true.
“I’m sorry,” she finds herself saying. “For what I said. I’m sorry.”
Maybe she was expecting some sort of reassurance. “Well,” says Nicky’s mother, “we’re all sorry, aren’t we?”
Nicky claps his hands, and all his fellows stop what they’re doing. He’s got a new game for them to play.
Nicky’s mother says suddenly, “I mean, what about Jesus?”
She doesn’t know what she means by that.
“Jesus turned out well, didn’t he?” says Nicky’s mother. “Or so some say. And he got off to a promising start. The stable was a bit uncomfortable, but the Nativity, and all the attention of the Nativity, kings coming to pay homage, angels, shepherds, stars leading the way. Well, maybe not so much the shepherds. But that’s a great start for a little boy in a desert. And then what? The Bible doesn’t tell us. It passes over his childhood in silence. Nothing for years. The next time we pick up the story, Jesus is a grown man, he’s suddenly out there preaching, telling parables and healing the sick. At last! his parents would have thought. At last, he’s finally making a name for himself. Because all that early promise seemed just squandered, you know? Get off your arse and do something with your life!”