One Kind Choice, and Every Year Tasted Sweeter

I found Eli Mercer standing on the porch in socks, holding a can of peaches against his chest. The porch boards dipped under my weight as I stepped out of Matt's truck. Behind me, the engine ticked as it cooled. In front of me, Eli blinked into the late-November rain, his hair damp and flattened to his forehead. "You're Aunt Claire?" he asked. "Close enough." I kept my voice easy. "I'm Matt's wife." He looked past me toward the truck. "Did he come?" "Right here." Matt got out and lifted a hand. "Hey, Eli." Eli didn't smile. The can had a dent down one side, and he held it so tightly his fingers had gone pale. "We brought groceries," I said. "Your dad said you were low." "He says a lot of things." Matt glanced at me. I knew the look. We'd been married for eight years, long enough for him to ask a question without speaking it. I answered with the smallest shake of my head. Not here. Not in front of the boy. "Can we come inside?" Matt asked. Eli stepped back. The front door opened into a narrow hall that smelled of cold wood and something faintly sour. A kitchen light glowed at the end, though it was barely afternoon. The house belonged to Matt's great-aunt once, and after she died, it passed into a family trust that had let his cousin Luke stay there. From the doorway, the place looked more abandoned than lived in. A backpack lay on the floor beside the stairs. A school sweatshirt hung from a nail. On the kitchen table, a bowl held two crackers and a folded sheet of paper. "Are you hungry?" I asked. Eli set the peaches down. "I ate." "Today?" He shrugged. Matt lifted the grocery bags from the truck. "We brought soup, bread, milk, apples. And a few things you can make yourself." "I know how to make food." "I bet you do," I said. I didn't ask what he'd eaten. Not yet. I'd learned that a question could sound like an accusation even when I didn't mean it that way. The refrigerator held a jar of mustard, half a carton of milk, and a plastic container of something gray. Matt checked the pantry while I unpacked. There were two boxes of cereal, both nearly empty. A loaf of bread with one heel left. No fruit, no vegetables, no lunch meat. "Where's your dad?" Matt asked. "Port Harlow." "And your mom?" "Probably at her apartment." "Did either of them tell you when they'd be back?" Eli studied the table. "Dad said he'd come Sunday. Mom said he was supposed to have me." It was Thursday. Matt leaned one hip against the counter. "How long have you been here by yourself?" "Not that long." I kept my hands busy with the groceries. "How long is not that long?" "Since the weekend." The rain tapped at the kitchen windows. I set the cans in a neat row, although nobody needed them arranged. "Did you go to school today?" I asked. "Yeah." "Who takes you?" "I walk. It's not far." Outside, the road ran between dark pines and empty fields. The nearest neighbor's house was set back behind a stand of birch trees. I had passed no sidewalk on the way in. "Eli," Matt said, "are you sleeping here alone?" "Yeah." "And your parents know that?" "They said it was temporary." The word landed between us with the weight of something he'd heard too often. I turned from the cupboard. "Do you have heat?" "Sometimes." Matt looked toward the old wall heater. "What does that mean?" "It turns off. I can get it back on if I push the switch." "Have you been using the stove?" "No." "Good," I said, though the answer left a knot in my stomach. "That's not a safe way to heat a house." Eli crossed his arms. "I'm fine." He was wearing a thin flannel shirt over his school T-shirt. His hands were clean, his nails bitten short. A small scrape marked one knuckle. I thought about the can of peaches, the careful way he held it, and the crackers on the table. "You don't have to prove that to us," I said. He looked at me for a long moment. Then he turned away and pulled the folded paper from the table. It was a school calendar. Several dates had names written beside them. Luke on Sunday. Mom on Wednesday. Dad again the next Sunday. The last mark was from the week before. "Are these visits?" I asked. "Just so I know." "Does your dad know you write them down?" Eli shrugged. "He forgets." Matt took the calendar from me only when Eli held it out. He didn't comment on the dates. "We can stay tonight," he said. "We'll get the heater checked in the morning, and we'll make sure you have a real dinner." "I don't need a babysitter." "I didn't say you did." "People keep saying they're going to help, and then they leave." I crouched enough to meet his eyes. "You're right to notice what people do, not just what they say." His face tightened, as if he hadn't expected agreement. I stood. "Tonight, I'm making chicken soup. Tomorrow, Matt and I will talk to your parents and your school. We won't pretend this is fine." "You can't make them come back." "No," I said. "I can't." "Then what are you going to do?" The answer was more complicated than a promise, and I didn't want to give him another promise he'd have to mark on a calendar. "We're going to make sure you aren't alone with this," I said. Matt set a pot on the stove. Eli watched us without moving, the dented can of peaches between his hands again. When the soup was ready, he ate two bowls. He asked for another slice of bread and looked embarrassed when I gave him half the loaf. After dinner, Matt checked the heater and discovered that the switch didn't stay in place. We turned it off. I called a local repair service and booked the first appointment they had in the morning. Eli went upstairs to get his school things. I stood in the kitchen, listening to the old house settle around us. "This isn't just a quick visit," Matt said softly. "I know." "His parents are going to be angry." "They can be angry after they explain why their son is here alone." Matt looked at the grocery bags, then at the calendar on the table. "We should call them tonight." "I'm not leaving him to sleep here alone while we do it." He nodded. Neither of us said what came next. Upstairs, a floorboard creaked. The porch light reflected in the dark window, shining over the empty road.