For some reason, Max’s mother finds all this very funny, and she laughs and laughs. Nicky’s mother smiles at her curiously. Nicky’s mother then says, “Do you think you’re the first mother who couldn’t love her child?”
“What?” And suddenly she feels so cold. “What?”
“The children are having such fun,” says her new friend. “Look.” Max’s mother watches. “But what are they doing?”
“One of Nicky’s favorites. And he’s so good at it! They’re playing the Drowning Game.”
The rules to the Drowning Game are very simple. A boy dives under the water. He stays there for as long as possible. Whilst he does so, the other boys stand around the poolside in a circle and clap and chant.
“Shouldn’t we help them?” she says.
“I think they’re playing it very well without us, don’t you think?” And so it seems. They watch in silence as one child stays beneath the water for four minutes, the next very nearly five. They pass the binoculars back and forth, they smoke and drink and eat strawberries.
“Ah,” says Nicky’s mother. “Let’s now see whether your son is better than any of mine.”
Max turns to look up at the balcony. He calls out to his mother, but she can’t hear what he says above the chanting. She waves at him, she tries to get him to stop. He seems to misunderstand—he waves too, he grins, he gives her a thumbs up. He gets into the pool. He looks so frail and lonely now he’s in there on his own. He takes a deep breath, then pops his head under.
“But of course Jesus had a childhood,” says Nicky’s mother. “Whether the Bible chooses to ignore it or not. And some of the stories got out.”
She watches the surface of the water. There is not a ripple on it. And she can’t help it, she steals a look at her watch.
“The stories aren’t very nice ones. Maybe that’s why the Bible didn’t want them? Jesus killing children who so much as bump into him, blinding the parents who complain. I suppose you can’t blame him. Having all those great powers, must be very confusing for an infant.”
She checks her watch. A full ninety seconds has passed.
“This is my favorite story. Is it true or not? Who can tell? Jesus liked to play with his friends from school. One day he thought that the most fun would be to play on the moon. It was a crescent moon that evening and it was so close, he knew if he jumped high enough from the cliff he could reach it. And so he did. There he was, now he was the man in the moon, sitting back within that crescent as if it were a comfy chair. Come and join me, he called to his friends. Come and jump. Don’t be frightened. Don’t you trust me?”
Three minutes now. She tries to get out of her chair. She has to get down to the pool. She can’t. Nicky’s mother has got her arm. Nicky’s mother has a story to tell.
“The children all fell to their deaths. Their little bodies smashed to pieces at the bottom of the cliff. Jesus was angry about that. He wanted his friends! If he didn’t have friends, who could he play his games with? Who did he have left to impress? So he brought them all back from the dead, every last one of them.” Five minutes. Max’s beaten the high score now. He’s beaten the target Nicky set. Surely they’ll let him come to the surface now? Surely they’ll stop their chanting, their cat calling, their hallelujahs and hosannas?
“Their bodies were broken, of course. And they couldn’t speak any more. But what of that? He didn’t need friends who could speak. His parents were angry. They knew he had to be stopped. The father spoke to him. Hey, superstar. We can’t go around killing our friends and resurrecting them, can we? Then where would we all be? All right? Promise you won’t do it again. But fathers are so weak, aren’t they? They may love the child, but it’s easy to love something when it’s not been inside of you eating away for nine months. It’s down to the mother, always, to discipline it. It’s the mother who knows it, understands it, and can be disgusted by it.”
Eight minutes. Even the children look worried now. They’ve stopped clapping. They’ve stopped their songs. All except Nicky, he sings his heart out, and how his eyes gleam.
“It’s left to the mother. As always. She says, you let those children die right now. You put an end to this, or it’s straight to bed with a smacked bottom. How Jesus sulks! He threatens her. He’ll drown her. He’ll curse her. She’ll never die, she’ll just suffer, she’ll be made to walk the earth forever. But he does what he is told. The children collapse. Their hearts all burst at once, and their faces look so grateful, they fall to the ground and there they rot.”
And now—yes—she sees Max’s body. And for a moment she thinks it’s just the corpse bobbing to the surface, and it’ll be full and bloated—but no, no, up he comes, and he’s laughing, he’s splashing out of the water in triumph! Nine minutes twenty! Nine minutes twenty, and all the boys by the side of the pool are clapping him on the back, and none of them with greater gusto that Nicky, and Max looks so proud.
She wants to cry out she’s proud of him too. She wants to cry out she loves him. She wants him to know he’s her little champion.
“The point I’m making,” says Nicky’s mother. “Is there a point? The point I’m making. If your child is a somebody, or if your child is a nobody. If they have potential, or are a waste of space. If they’re Jesus themselves. If they’re Jesus. Then there’s still only so much a mother can do with them. Were screwed either way.” She gets to her feet. She claps her hands, just the once, and all her children fall silent, and look up to her. Max too, all the children wait to do whatever she says.
“Nicky,” she says. “That’s enough now. Time we all put our playthings away.” Nicky’s face clouds over. He looks like he’ll throw a tantrum. His mouth twists, and he suddenly looks so ugly. But his mother is having none of it. She stands her ground. He gives in.
Once again, all the boys take their places around the perimeter of the swimming pool. Max takes his place too. Maybe he thinks they’re all going to dive in like last time. Maybe he thinks it’ll all be some Busby Berkeley number, and that he’ll get it right this time. And maybe, given the chance, he would.
The first child doesn’t dive. He merely steps into the water, and on contact he dissolves, the remains of his body look thick and granular in the water.
Nicky’s mother watches with her binoculars as each of her children step into the pool and break apart like fine sand. She eats a strawberry. She licks her lips.
It does not take long before it’s Max’s turn. He looks up. He is smiling. He is happy.
“No,” says his mother.
“No?” says the woman.
“Yes,” she replies. It comes out in a whisper.
Max seems to take longer to dissolve, but maybe she’s biased, maybe he’s no more special than any of the other kids.
The swimming pool now seems thick and meaty, like gravy.
Nicky is the last to go in. He refuses to look at his mother, and as he drops down into oblivion with a petulant splash, he’s still having his sulk.
Max’s mother doesn’t know what to say. She puts down her wine glass, she stubs out her cigarette.