Page 6 of Holding On

This time, Cory points to the ocean, and his little hip smacks harder against the wicker. I’m beginning to understand. I think he’s autistic.

Travis crouches down so they can see each other eye to eye. He’s still in trunks, and when he squats, I have to take a step back and look away for a moment. His ass is perfect.

“Use your words, buddy. What do you want?

Travis’s tone is even, not reprimanding or judgmental. He utters, “Use your words,” as if he were reading off items on a grocery list.

Cory’s dimpled little hand rises to his mouth, and he leans close to Travis’s ear.

Travis cocks his head to accommodate the boy’s whisper. Suddenly, recognition flits across Travis’s face. “Ah. Yes, my man, you are correct.” Travis straightens “Okay, so how do we fix this?”

Cory glances at me shyly.

“Do we need to go someplace else and talk about it?”

The boy nods.

Suddenly, I don’t feel like such a part of the family anymore. The reality is, I’m a stranger. This little boy is a reminder that I only knew the Russos once, a long time ago. I take a sip of beer. They are also part of the reason my family struggled.

“How about you go to the end of the porch”—Travis points behind Cory, and the boy’s head swivels around—“and I’ll go to the other end. And Toni and Andre can meet down on the sand. That’ll work, right?”

Cory grins. Again, his hands rise, and he starts flicking them back and forth as fast as he can.

He’s self-soothing. He must be on the spectrum.

“It’s okay, dude. It’s okay. I know you’re excited. Let’s do this,” says Travis. Travis pretends to start heading down the top step, and Cory watches him, a finger in his mouth. When the boy starts down his three steps, Travis waits half a minute, until Cory turns around and waves for him to come.

Travis launches himself down the stairs toward the boy, and the two run toward the ocean, but in a V toward each other, arms outstretched as they call out names I can’t quite hear. Travis falls to the ground, and Cory climbs on top of him, wrapping his arms around him.

“That’s their Andre the Seal game,” says Claire, coming up beside me, a top-sliced hotdog bun and a paper plate in her hand.

“Who’s who?”

“Cory is always Andre, and Travis is Toni.”

“Toni?”

“The little girl.” She nudges my arms with hers. “What guy doesn’t care about playing a little girl, right?”

Was she saying this for my benefit? Was it because I’m Black too? Did she think we’d make a good pair? Does it matter?

They roll in the wet sand, and Cory’s excited shrieks carry to where Claire and I stand watching. After a minute or two of ridiculousness, Travis stands and hoists the little boy up onto his shoulders and begins walking up the small hill back to the porch. It’s dusk now and the sun is setting.

Travis is a dark shape outlined against the pale clouds behind him. Beyond the two, the sea is an opalescent blue. With one foot on the bottom step, he gently lifts Cory off his shoulders, sets him on the ground, and brushes sand off the boy and then himself.

“Close your eyes, Cory,” Travis says. He blows, raising a finger to wipe off particularly sticky sand from the boy’s eyebrow.

Claire, who has filled the bun with lobster, hands the plate to Laurel. As she settles her son onto a chair, she asks, “Did you find Toni?”

Cory nods, then Mateus sits down next to him. “I got another one too, man. They’re good, right?”

Cory nods and takes a large bite.

This gives me a chance to pull Travis aside for a moment.

“So this is a game?”

Travis nods, looking serious while never shifting his gaze from Cory’s face. “Yes. And we make sure this happens whenever I come home.”