In the way some people may pay close attention to a framed oil painting on a museum wall, Havel minds a gutted crab halfway buried in the sand. He wonders about its intestines or how its legs were connected.
"You think a bird got it?" Havel asks Jack, who wades around on the immediate shoreline.
"Yeah, or a squid — or something."
"Squids eat crabs?" Havel asks.
"Yeah, they grab 'em with their arms and smash them against their beak to suck out all their insides!" Jack says.
"Squids have beaks?" Marie asks, sitting in the sand with her legs out, building a sandcastle between them.
"You bet," Jack says, feeling smart.
The heat of the sun is at a daily peak.
Jack watches the ocean. He walks into the nearly clear water, leaving his siblings behind on the beach. If he stands still in the suds of a past wave, he can see small fish braving the water near his skinny freckled legs. He heard his dead mother had similar freckles. The waves rise up Jack's body and soon consume his elbows, saving him from the heat. He is struck by a wave that captures him in its barrel, throwing him around like a doll in a washing machine. For a moment Jack is gone, only to erupt gasping for air like a gannet who dove too deep. Havel runs out and tries to help Jack to the shore, but Jack shakes out of Havel's grip and walks onto the beach by himself, falling into the dry sand.
"What's that?" Marie asks, studying something in the sky above the jungle.
"What's what?" Jack asks as he turns to see.
Over the jungle, a smokestack streams into the sky from the center of the island like it had when they first arrived.
"Looks like smoke," Havel says.
"I saw it from the boat, too," Marie says. "Should we tell Grandpa there's a fire?"
They group loosely outside the reach of the waves.
"Yeah, let's go tell him," Jack says, with his back carrying a heavy coat of sand from when he had laid down.
They trek together along the beach, passing by MaryAnn, who sits on a reclined beach chair soaking in the sun. She wears thick, black sunglasses and her yellow/white polka-dot, one-piece swimsuit.
"Where are you going?" she asks them, lowering a magazine she has been reading.
"Just inside to see Phineas," Marie answers.
MaryAnn thinks of questioning further but decides against it, bringing the magazine back into view without a word. The kids walk the stairs to the front door and wipe their feet on the doormat before entering.
"Hello there, children, what are you getting into today," Phineas asks as he stands from the leather couch to greet them.
"Hello, Grandpa," they say, almost in unison.
Jack pushes to the front of his siblings.
"There's a fire in the jungle! We can see smoke," Jack tells him.
Phineas looks away, deadpan. He shakes his head and smiles falsely like an angry preschool teacher. He holds this look awkwardly as he talks.
"When the sun is scorching, sometimes it can start small wildfires. Today is a particularly hot day, so I am not surprised," he tells them. "It won't last long, though. They never do."
He stares at them, still smiling—waiting for some kind of signal to show they were satisfied.
"Oh, okay. We just wanted to let you know," Jack says, breaking a silence.
They turn back and head out to the beach, passing by their mom, who doesn't see them due to her magazine.
"Was he being weird?" Marie asks.
"Kinda," Havel says.
"No, he wasn't," Jack says as he speeds ahead of the group.
Jack sprints towards Marie's sandcastle, kicking it into an explosion of sand and seashells.
"Hey!" Marie shouts, setting herself down beside the demolished castle.
...
Timon had overslept. As his eyelids separated, he was momentarily disoriented, having had dreams of his own home the night before and now waking up in this place. He recalls the argument he had with Phineas. His throat flares again as he peels away the covers and rolls out of bed. Timon leaves the guest room for the living room, where, to his dismay, Phineas sits on the couch reading a newspaper. Phineas confidently ignores the sounds of Timon's approach, his eyes ingesting the news line by line.
"Have you seen MaryAnn?" Timon asks Phineas.
Phineas turns his head while keeping his eye on a sentence he is finishing.
"She is outside. Watching the children, I think," he says, then turns back to the page, voicelessly mouthing the words he reads.
Timon leaves the cabin and steps into the sand. He shields his eyes from the sun, spotting his wife lying on the reclining chair with her magazine. He wonders why the children are not in sight.
Timon walks beside her, casting his shadow across her body.
"What's going on?" Timon asks.
MaryAnn lowers her magazine and sits up on an elbow.
"Oh—good morning, I thought I'd let you sleep."
"You seem—comfortable," Timon says, gesturing to her sunbathing arrangement.
MaryAnn narrows her eyes. "Is there a problem?"
Timon crouches beside her. "I'm... it's — Jesus," he says, followed by a deep breath. "You know, am I the only one..."
MaryAnn sits up and turns to Timon. He bows away and avoidantly observes the ocean. "Never mind," He says, wiping his face. "Where are the kids?"
"What?" MaryAnn asks, leaning forward to hear him better.
"Where are the kids?" Timon presses with sudden frustration.
"Down the beach a bit." She says, pointing up the beach. "Why? Everything okay?"
"I don't see them. You are supposed to watch them, MaryAnn. I told you to watch them, and here you are with a magazine." Timon says, then he stands with momentum to search.
"Timon, relax. I'll go and get them, okay?"
She stands from the chair and leaves the magazine, only to walk behind Timon and wrap her arms around him.
"Are you okay, darling?" she asks.
"Yeah, I'm okay." he says calmly. "This island is not safe for kids. There could be cougars or snakes—hell even a hog could get them."
"I'll go check on the kids. Why don't you go get some rest? You barely slept all night."
"I can't sleep," he says, "I feel too paranoid."
"Paranoid? About what?"
"No, not paranoid... I just have a lot on my mind," he responds. He glances away from her. "Go find the kids."
Timon steps out of her arms and troops off toward the cabin.
As Timon nears to the cabin, he looks up from his sand navigation and notices his father standing on the porch with a smile, looking out over the horizon like he is judging the tides. Timon feels the conversation coming—he can see it being the entire reason his father stands there. He glances around, hoping to find some distraction or chore to stand out and pull him away. There is nowhere else to go.
"Hey, stranger," Phineas says as Timon approaches from the beach. "Let's try again."
Timon finds his father's tone off putting—like he is practicing a neighborly character.
"I don't think it's completely necessary." Timon says, continuing up the steps.
"Maybe I do. I would like to have a word with you."
Timon tries to walk by him, but Phineas steps in his path.
"We are going to have to talk sooner or later, son."
"Don't test me, old man." Timon says, cocking his eyes over at Phineas.
"Just try," Phineas says. "Come in here and have a seat."
Timon follows Phineas into the cabin, and they sit across from each other at the dining table. Phineas lets out a long breath as he settles.
They sit quietly for a moment. Timon inspects everything around him except his father, while Phineas stares solely at Timon—like a board meeting regarding a termination.
"It's very nice to finally meet all my grandchildren. Appears to me you are raising them well."
Timon ignores this.
"MaryAnn seems like a nice woman too. Beautiful one you got there."
Phineas smiles at Timon—but after realizing he won't respond, Phineas loses hope in his approach.
"Okay, I get it. Look—I'm sorry, my son," he says, his voice lower in tone than his first attempt. "Things got complicated, and I wanted isolation after your mother died, and I know it was selfish... but it's what I needed.".
Timon clenches a fist under the table.
"Are you trying to convince me, or yourself?" Timon snaps.
Phineas leans forward, placing his arms on the table. "Don't be this way. What do you want from me?"
They both fall silent. Phineas' view cowers to the yellow surface of the table. Timon observes the room, everything from the bookshelf to the carpet.
"We never had a funeral," Timon says. "Where is she buried?"
Phineas explores this in his mind.
"There's a graveyard. It's on the island you landed on before you went with Captain Richard."
"You didn't think to invite me? You didn't invite anyone?"
"It was just a priest... and me. I didn't want to make it into an event."
"An event? That's my mother." Timon says. He stands, tipping the chair to the ground. "We both know the truth is you didn't give a shit about her or your kids. You were even having second thoughts about having us come out here to stay with you—even after I told you what was going on back home!"
"Dad?" Jack says from the front door.
Timon turns to Jack, then back to Phineas.
"I'm sorry, Jack. Everything is okay." Timon says, backstepping toward his son.
He takes Jack by the hand, and they leave out the front door. Jack peeks at Phineas in his leave, still sitting at the table with a tear rolling down his cheek.
...
Timon remembers a time from his youth when his father spontaneously told the family he was leaving on a business trip. Though Timon and his mother both knew there were no business calls. Phineas did less work than Timon in his adult years, which is saying a lot because Timon's job is signing his name on company documents about once a week. His mother would sometimes try to stop him from going, confronting him about leaving on false pretense. But she usually ended up on the ground with a bright red cheek, with him halfway to the car. Then she would rise and vanish into her room for a moment of privacy, only to resume the day as if nothing had happened.
But this night was different. Timon had walked into his room after fetching a glass of water, finding his father sitting on his bed.
"Take a seat..." Phineas said, his voice was mean and lonely.
Without a response, Timon walked over and sat himself beside Phineas. This was strange because the majority of their interactions were either a handshake before he left for work or an ass spanking for acting up.
"You know, my father wasn't such a good man," Phineas said. The aroma of fine whiskey and cigarettes seep from his mouth like an exhaust pipe.
Timon had smelt it many times. Even at his young age, he had learned when this smell came around, you get an angry man or a sad one.
"He used to beat the shit outta me. You know?" Phineas continued. "Look," he said, slightly falling over, "ma—me and your mom don't get along. But she needs me," he laughed, "God knows I don't need her." His laugh was cut short by a coughing fit.
Phineas waited for approval, maybe a laugh or at least a smile, but Timon left him unsatisfied.
"Look," he said again, "I'm leaving. I got some business—belch—in town that I need to get done. I might be gone a few days. You two will be fine. Your mom has money. My money," he withered, gesturing to the door. "I'm leaving. Goodbye, Tim boy." and just like that, he was stumbling out of Timon's bedroom door.
He could hear his father shouting insults in the living room, which was confusing because Timon thought he was alone. His mother usually immediately rushed to his room when his father was acting out. He heard the front door slam closed, and through his open window he listened to his father's car peel out of the driveway. The sound hummed into nothingness down the road as his mother burst through his door. She must have been hiding.
"What happened?" she asked, though she could guess half the story.
"He left. He said he would be gone a few days."
She stood by his bed, bowing her head in quiet rumination. She leaned in and kissed his brow before leaving the room.
His father was gone for two weeks. He returned in a fresh suit, carrying a briefcase Timon had never seen, and he appeared well-groomed. Over the years of their marriage, his mother learned it was better not to confront him when he returned from the drunken escapades. She rushed over and wrapped her arms around him. Timon stood watching them from the hallway to his room. He could see his mother's eyes turning red and tearing.
"You would never believe where I have been," Phineas said joyously.
"Where, sweetie?" his mother asked, releasing him from her arms.
"Let's sit down. I want to tell you all about it."
Timon was confused by his father's upbeat attitude. He approached him cautiously, like a caveman approaching a car with a running engine. They sat at the dining room table. His mother brought a cup of coffee to the table for Phineas as he settled down.
"Well, the company opened up a branch in the Philippines a few months ago," he explained with a grin spread across his face like he had not been missing for weeks. "They flew me down there to check on things."
"Sounds so exciting," his mother said.
"Anyways, I met with a few realtors, and..." he looked at his wife and son as if there were a drum roll. "I bought some property," he said excitedly. "I'm going to fly out next month to go and see it for myself. How would you like to come with, dear?"
"Of course I would. Sounds lovely."
"Great. The lady told me all about the property. You won't believe this," he said, "it's an island. We own a whole island!"
"Oh my," his mother said. "I didn't even know that was possible."
Even in this wave of positive news, Timon could see right through his mother's guise. He could see the red eyes and the awkward quivering smile, which was her only defense against disclosing true sadness.
"Yes, it's secluded, and from the photos I saw, it looks gorgeous. It's got this big jungle there too."
"This is so exciting, right, Timon?" his mother said.
Timon nodded. "Are we going to move there or something?" Timon asked.
"We can do whatever we like," Phineas said.