by Paula Munier
A mumble of sleepy hellos hailed from the sofa, accompanied by a cheerful greeting from Patience.
“Henry, we’ve met. I’m your grandmother’s friend. You remember, we played with puppies at my office when she brought in her cat Bangor for a checkup.”
Henry smiled, not at Patience, really, but seemingly more at the memory of the puppies.
“I hope you like cake.”
The boy’s small absent smile brightened into a beam at the word cake.
Mercy had never met anyone who didn’t like her grandmother’s desserts—or anything else she made. “He really hasn’t had much to eat at all today. Peanut butter, mostly. Apparently, he’s a picky eater.”
“Huh.” Patience wiped her hands on the Vermont moose apron she wore tied around her waist over her usual white vet’s uniform jacket.
Mercy smiled. She knew that her grandmother did not believe in picky eaters, only inadequate cooks. She’d see feeding Henry as a challenge.
Elvis’s dark-tipped tail wagged, and Susie Bear’s feathery tail swished wildly at the sight of their beloved veterinarian. Patience scratched between the shepherd’s elegant ears and patted the Newfie mutt’s pumpkin head.
“Yankee pot roast in the oven,” she said, as much for the dogs’ benefit as theirs. Their tails wagged harder.
“Smells great.” Troy was no more immune to Patience’s pot roast than anyone else.
Patience squeezed Henry’s shoulder as she lifted her cheek for Troy to peck. “Ready shortly.” She gave Mercy one of her This man could be yours for the taking looks before whispering, “What’s going on?”
Henry stayed close to Susie Bear as Elvis trotted over to Helena and the tunnel. Susie Bear whined.
“Susie Bear wants to play, too,” Mercy told Henry. “Why don’t you go on over?”
Henry held back. Helena clapped her hands, and Elvis sat at her feet, nudging her tiny toes with his cold nose. The baby squealed. Susie Bear clamored over to join the fun, and Henry followed. Muse darted away from the chaos and out of the room.
Amy untangled herself from Brodie and pulled herself up from the couch. She hustled over to the baby and the dogs. “Go ahead, Helena. Into the tunnel.”
The baby crawled over to the north end of the fabric tube, disappearing inside. Elvis moved to the south end and sat back on his haunches, waiting for the infant to make her way through the tunnel to him. Susie Bear lumbered over to the opening as well. Helena’s peanut gallery.
Amy pointed to the dogs. “They’re playing hide-and-seek with the baby.”
“You can play, too,” said Mercy, joining them as Troy took Patience aside out of earshot to bring her up to date regarding the day’s goings-on in the woods.
Henry looked away from the dogs and the baby as if he were not the least bit interested. He showed more interest in Brodie, who ambled over and slipped his arm around Amy.
The boy pointed to Brodie’s D&D T-shirt, emblazoned with sword and the words Let’s Quest!
“I think he likes my shirt.” Brodie grinned. “That’s cool.”
“I don’t get it,” said Mercy.
“It’s from HarmonQuest,” said Brodie, as if that explained all.
Amy laughed. “It’s a show on streaming about a group of gamers.”
“But, dude, you’re really not old enough to watch it.”
Henry frowned.
“Maybe he’s mature for his age.” Amy punched Brodie in the shoulder. “Not like you ever watched anything you weren’t supposed to when you were a kid.”
Brodie ignored that, his hazel eyes on Henry. “I like your shirt, too, man.”
Henry was still wearing the black sweatshirt with the orange-and-pink knockoff Dunkin’ Donuts logo that read Dungeons & Dragons.
Brodie held up his hand to high-five Henry, but the boy did not respond. “Whatever.”
Henry’s attention shifted to Elvis, who dropped into his Sphinx pose. Helena emerged at the end of the tunnel, giggling when she saw Elvis. She reached out for him, and he licked her fingers.
“Your turn, Henry.” Mercy opened her arms wide. “Only you’ve got the whole house to hide in.” She pointed to the far side of the room, to the left of the fireplace, where a hallway led to the bedrooms and the bathroom.
“Go on.” Amy swooped down and picked up the baby. “Elvis will find you.”
“Stay,” Mercy told Elvis, and then turned to Henry. “We’ll count to fifty, and then send Elvis to look for you.”
Henry looked up at the ceiling. He stared at the thick hand-hewn beams that ran across the high ceilings for what seemed like a long time. Just when Mercy felt sure he was too timid or disinterested to play the game, he shuffled off to the rear of the house. Out of sight.
Mercy counted loudly but slowly, giving Troy time to discuss the day’s events with Amy and Brodie. They gathered around the dining-room table, which sat between the island and the couch.
“Wow.” Amy rocked the baby in her arms as she listened to Troy’s story. Brodie pulled out a chair for her, and together they sat in a huddle with the baby.
“Epic,” said Brodie.
“Poor Daniel,” said Amy.
“Poor Henry,” Patience corrected. “What did he see?”
“We don’t know,” said Mercy quietly in between counting loudly, “Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty…”
“He hasn’t said very much,” said Troy.
“How come?” said Brodie.
“Man of few words,” said Troy with an exaggerated patience Mercy knew was for her benefit. He knew she was doing everything she could not to roll her eyes every time the Dungeon Master spoke. Both Troy and Patience insisted that there was more to Brodie than Mercy gave him credit for. For Amy’s sake, she hoped they were right.
“Henry’s scared,” said Patience.
“This is the first time he’s let Susie Bear out of his sight all day,” said Mercy. She was running out of numbers. Thirty-six, thirty-seven, thirty-eight …
“He should see a doctor.”
“I’m sure Lillian will see to that. She should be here in a couple of hours.”
“We’ll just keep him here until she gets here,” added Mercy. “Feed him, keep him occupied.”
“Well, it’s obvious he feels safe with you two and the dogs,” said Patience.
“Who wouldn’t?” Amy bounced the baby on her knee.
“Indeed.”
Mercy raised her voice again. “Forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty. Ready or not, here comes Elvis.”
She looked down at the Belgian shepherd, who waited patiently for his orders, Susie Bear at his side. “Search. Go find Henry.”
Off he sniffed down the hallway, the big black dog clambering to catch up to him.
Mercy and Troy followed at a discreet distance, not to ruin Henry’s fun—or theirs.
“What do little boys smell like?”
Troy grinned. “Snips and snails and puppy-dog tails?”
She shook her head. “More like dirt and pine needles and peanut butter.”
The dogs passed right by the yellow guest room with its twin white iron beds, which Amy and Helena now claimed, the small workout room where Mercy kept her yoga mat and her heavy bag, and the blue master bedroom with her great-grandmother’s cherry four-poster bed, the one she never slept in, preferring to crash on the couch with Elvis.
At the end of the long hallway, Elvis pushed his way into the bathroom. There was only one bathroom, and Mercy had made the most of it. She transformed it into a spa-like space, splurging on a deep soaking tub with whirlpool jets. Her only real extravagance, apart from the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves in the great room. She loved a good long soak with a good long book—nothing had soothed her sore muscles or her bruised soul more in the lonely months after coming home from the war. Before she’d tracked down Elvis and brought him home, as she’d promised Martinez she would do.
A sea-blue shower curtain—the same pearlized color as the custom tile surround—hu
ng across the edge of the tub. Mercy usually kept it gathered and pulled to one side, the better to display that custom tile work, and to slip unimpeded into a bath full of bubbles. Stretched open like this, you could read the pearlized writing that graced the curtain. Shakespeare quotes.
“Of course,” Troy whispered. “To thine own self be true.”
She put a finger to her lips. Elvis dropped into his alert position at one end of the tub, and Susie Bear settled into a sit at the other end. Each nudged the shower curtain with a nose, pointing to the great find inside the bath.
Henry barked his funny little laugh, the one that was beginning to win her over with its sincere if poignant brevity. She smiled at Troy, who smiled back. He understood this lonely little boy.
“I think it’s safe to say you’ve been found,” she said to the boy behind the curtain.
Henry laughed again—another quick yip.
At her cue, Troy tugged open the curtain and Henry stepped out of the tub. The dogs broke their alert positions and proceeded to embrace the boy. Henry sank to the floor, scratching Elvis’s sweet spot between his ears and allowing Susie Bear to lick his face.
“Well done,” she said.
“Dinnertime,” called Patience from the kitchen.
“We’d better go.”
Elvis tickled Henry’s chin with his muzzle. Susie Bear thumped her tail against the sea-blue tile floor.
“Dinner is one of their favorite words,” Mercy told Henry. “You’d better not keep them waiting.”
Henry buried his face in Susie Bear’s furry neck, then tucked his hand around the collar. The Newfie mutt rose to her feet, pulling the boy with her. Elvis sprinted forward, swiveling around to face them as if to say, Follow the leader.
Troy held open the door for them, and off they went, single file—Elvis, Henry, and Susie Bear—parading down the hallway and back to the great room.
Amy was setting the long antique oak dining table, which separated the living area from the island in the open-style kitchen, while Brodie secured Helena into her high chair.
“Love your pot roast,” said Troy.
“There’s not a man alive who doesn’t love my grandmother’s cooking,” Mercy told Henry as she pointed to a Shaker ladder-back chair. “I don’t imagine you’ll be any different. Take a seat.”
They gathered around the table as Amy helped Patience bring out the food: platters of pot roast and roasted carrots and turnips, bowls of butternut squash and mashed potatoes and biscuits, and boats full of gravy, the better to smother your supper in. As they passed around the dishes, Mercy noticed Henry eyeing every single one with an almost scientific skepticism before precisely doling out a small portion of each offering onto his plate, careful not to let any touch the other. She watched—by now, everyone was watching—as the boy smoothed his mashed potatoes into a perfect oval crater for a perfect lake of gravy.
“Awesome,” said Brodie, admiring his handiwork.
Mercy wondered how Henry would manage to eat it without some of the gravy running into the other foods on his plate.
Amy laughed as she spooned squash into her little daughter’s mouth. “I can’t wait until Helena eats that nicely.” The baby’s chubby fingers were sticky with mashed potatoes and the corners of her mouth splotched with gravy.
“For a kid who gets so dirty in the woods,” said Troy, “you are a remarkably neat eater.”
Henry said nothing, focusing on the food before him. He ate the mashed potatoes and gravy without going outside the oval—a balancing act that impressed Mercy.
“A single-minded young man.” Patience smiled. “You’ll go far, Henry, mark my words.”
Amy chatted about the baby and school and the annual wild-game supper, the social highlight of the autumn hunting season. Brodie tried to engage Henry in a conversation about their mutual interest in role-playing games. Mercy kept her eye on the boy, hoping the exchange might loosen him up.
But Henry never said a word. Brodie gave up, but Mercy was still hoping to get Henry talking. “Brodie, how’s the game going?”
“What game?” asked Troy.
“Dungeons & Dragons,” explained Brodie, as if talking to a child. “I’m the Dungeon Master.”
“Brodie’s created this really cool campaign.” Amy beamed as she tried to coax Helena into eating some mashed turnip.
“You like D&D, too?” asked Troy.
“Dude, girls can play, too,” said Brodie.
“And play well, I’m sure.” Mercy grinned at Troy, enjoying his discomfort.
“I didn’t mean to imply … I just didn’t know Amy was into it.”
“I’m into it, but not like Brodie. It takes a lot of time to do what he’s doing. Create a whole story line, with orcs and elves and wizards and all kinds of creatures and characters and environments. You should see his vision board.”
“Ranger,” said Henry, pointing at Troy.
Everyone turned to stare at the boy.
“You can talk,” said Brodie.
“He can talk perfectly well,” said Mercy. “But he only speaks when he has something to say.”
“Cool.”
“That’s the second time he’s called Troy Ranger today,” Mercy told Patience.
“You’re right,” said Troy to Henry. “Game wardens are like Rangers.”
“What do you know about it?” asked Brodie.
“When I was a kid, my older brother and his friends used to play D&D all the time. I begged and begged before they’d even let me watch. And they only did it then because my mom made them.” Troy laughed.
“Did they ever let you play?” asked Amy.
“At first, they only let me sub when one of the guys couldn’t make it. But eventually I became a one of their D&D gang.”
“Voted in by the nerd council.” Mercy smiled at the thought of a young Troy playing medieval make-believe.
“Exactly.”
“But you didn’t keep it up.” Brodie gave him a look of disapproval.
“No. Turned out I liked the real woods better than the pretend woods.”
Amy waved her fork in the direction of Susie Bear. “And a real animal companion better than, like, a pretend one?”
“Absolutely.”
Brodie considered this. “I get that.”
“Bear.” Henry spoke again, and again everyone turned their attention back to the boy. He ignored them and went back to sculpting his mashed potatoes, bite by bite. Mercy watched Henry as she finished her grandmother’s wonderful pot roast, hardly listening as Brodie jabbered on about the campaign for his game.
“I’m going to give the baby a bath.” Amy scraped her chair away from the table. Helena banged her spoon on the tray of her high chair, a clear sign she’d had her fill and was ready to move on to life’s next adventure.
“Troy and I will clean up,” Mercy told Patience.
“That you will.” That was the rule in her grandmother’s kitchen: You either cook or clean up. You don’t do both.
“Meanwhile,” Mercy said to Brodie, “maybe you could show Henry your vision board. I think he’d like that.”
“Sure. It’s in my car. I’ll go get it.” Brodie loped off toward the front door.
Mercy steered Henry to the couch, where Elvis and Susie Bear were stretched out, snoring, having sated themselves on their usual dinner of high-grade dog food—topped with Patience’s homemade gravy. There was just enough room for Henry to squeeze in the middle, sitting between the two dogs.
Brodie returned with his D&D props and plopped onto the ottoman on the other side of the coffee table. He opened up the vision board—a trifold made up of three eighteen-inch panels, each illustrated by hand with D&D characters, weapons, tools, and more—and laid it on the coffee table. He also carried a roll of laminated paper, which he unfurled below the vision board, revealing a detailed map of an island land called Annwn. It looked a lot like a map of Britain.
“This is Glastonbury.” Brodie pointed to the moun
tain that dominated the map. Brodie leaned toward Henry. “It’s where they say the real King Arthur was buried. You know, the Holy Grail.”
“Ley line,” said Henry.
“That’s right. You’re a smart kid.”
“Of course, he’s a smart kid,” said Mercy. “Now enlighten the rest of us.”
Brodie waited for Henry to explain, but the boy said nothing.
“No worries, bro. I can do it.” Brodie punched his finger at Glastonbury on the map. “A ley line is a line of electromagnetic energy that connects sacred sites.” He ran his finger east from the tip of Cornwall on the western edge of the island through Glastonbury to the Norfolk coast on the other side of the island. “This is the English ley line, which connects lots of ruins of churches and shrines dedicated to Saint Michael and Saint George.”
“Monster slayers,” said Henry.
“I was getting to that,” said Brodie. “Like the kid says, Saint Michael and Saint George were dragon slayers. Their ruins are, like, totally mystical and powerful places.”
“Got it.” Mercy waited for Henry to say something more, but he did not. He ignored her, huddling over the board and the map with Brodie. She retreated to the kitchen as Brodie launched into a long and complicated explanation of his campaign. She only caught bits and pieces of the one-sided conversation as she and Troy began the washing up.
“You’ve got this covered.” Patience handed her a couple of aprons. “I’ll go help Amy with Helena’s bath.”
Her grandmother excused herself and was gone in a flash in an all-too-obvious ploy to leave Mercy alone with Troy. As if she were supposed to seduce the game warden right there at the farm sink while the boys talked medieval monsters and mayhem and a teenage mother bathed her infant with the help of a senior citizen. Mercy could feel herself flush at the thought.
She avoided Troy’s eyes as she tied the apron festooned with red clover around her waist, holding out the manlier apron—the one with the moose—for Troy.
“I’m good.” He took the apron from her and hung it back on the hook on the side of the fridge. “I’ll rinse, you load.”
