By eleven the sky is filled with a platinum haze and the island is busy. Men on
bicycles crackle along the paths. A girl flies a yellow kite.
Tom?
Ruby Hornaday materialises before him—shoulders erect, hair newly short,
pushing a chrome-and-canvas baby buggy. He stands quickly, and the park
bleeds away and then restores itself.
Sorry I’m late, she says.
She’s dignified, slim. Two quick strokes for eyebrows, the same narrow nose.
No makeup. No jewellery. Those pale blue eyes and that hair.
She cocks her head slightly. Look at you. All grown up.
I got tickets, he says.
How’s Mr. Weems?
Oh, he’s made of salt, he’ll live forever.
They start down the path between the rows of benches and the shining trees.
Occasionally she takes his arm to steady him, though her touch only disorients
him more.
I thought maybe you were far away, he says. I thought maybe you went to sea.
Ruby parks the buggy and lifts the baby to her chest—he’s wrapped in a blue
afghan—and then they’re through the turnstile.
The aquarium is dim and damp and lined on both sides with glass-fronted tanks.
Ferns hang from the ceiling, and little boys lean across the brass railings and
press their noses to the glass. I think he likes it, Ruby says. Don’t you, baby?
The boy’s eyes are wide open. Fish swim slow ellipses behind the glass.
They see translucent squid with corkscrew tails, sparkling pink octopi like
floating lanterns, cowfish in blue and violet and gold. Iridescent green tiles
gleam on the domed ceiling and throw wavering patterns of light across the
floor.
In a circular pool at the very centre of the building, dark shapes race back and
forth in coordination. Jacks, Ruby murmurs. Aren’t they?
Tom blinks.
For a moment it seems Ruby is being dragged away from him, as if he is a
swimmer caught in a rip
You’re pale, she says.
Tom shakes his head.
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