“My mom wrote it. She wrote a lot of really sad stuff before she met my dad. Now her poetry is much more romantic. My parents would be happy if they were the only two people in the world.”
“The only two people plus you, you mean.”
“Of course.”
Calliope’s parents loved her. She knew that. She just always, deep down, had the unshakable sense that they loved each other more.
Coco abandoned her archaeological dig and plopped down next to Calliope on the quilt.
“Tell me about Miles.”
“My brother?”
“No, Miles Standish. The pilgrim.”
Tox chuckled, a low gravelly sound that revved her engine. She liked making him laugh. He was a kaleidoscope of emotions evident only in brief flashes, yet they were all somehow shrouded in a pervasive, looming sadness.
“We were twins. Fraternal. I was the quiet one.”
“Hard to believe.”
“Yeah, he did all the talking. Our mom used to call him the salesman. Said he could sell ice to an Eskimo. He’d get us mixed up in the craziest shit. When we were like six or seven, he had us selling Girl Scout cookies to the neighbors.”
“What? How?”
“He said the neighbor girl was making all this money. So he created this order form with all these crazy cookies on it—I mean the cookies had these weird names like Marshmallow Surprises and Rainbow Scoops—and we went door-to-door and collected cash. Then, maybe a month later, the money long spent, the neighbors started asking my mom about the cookies. She comes storming up to our room and Miles, he gets these giant wet eyes and tells her we love baking with her so much, and her cookies are so good, he thought it would be fun to make cookies for the neighbors. So our mom gets all teary and pink and hugs us and tells us to meet her in the kitchen. And we spent the afternoon inventing Lemon Flips and Waffle Yummies and delivering them to the neighbors. When we were finished we went up to our room to clean up for dinner and Miles closed the door and did his little thing.”
“What thing?”
“It was this little song and dance he would do when he got us out of a mess, a mess that he created. Do you know that cartoon frog with the top hat and cane?”
“Sure.” She propped herself up on her elbows.
Tox pushed to his feet, his big body casting a shadow over Calliope. Then he did a little kick-dance with an imaginary top hat and cane.
“Hello, my baby, hello, my honey.”
He took a bow and flopped back down on the quilt.
“You must miss him.”
“Yeah. I think more than I let myself admit.”
“What do you mean?”
Tox pulled at the button fly of his jeans and sent Calliope’s hormones on a quick trip around the yard. Then he flopped onto his stomach and yanked the denim down over his left hip.
“The non-consensual tattoo?”
There, just above his left glute, was a tattoo of Michigan J. Frog, top hat and cane in hand.
“When we made it through BUD/s and Hell Week, we celebrated. A little too much. Any tattoo indicating Special Forces is discouraged, for our protection—if we get captured, we don’t want the bad guys knowing—but we wanted to do something. I remember thinking something about frogs because they call us Frogmen. I woke up with this guy.” He rolled onto his back and stared up at the sky. “Finn, my swim buddy, laughed his ass off, but when I saw it…”
“You loved it,” she finished for him.
“Yeah.”
“Hello, my baby, hello, my honey.” She searched her memory for the lyrics. “Hello, my ragtime gal.” Her voice was soft, dulcet. In the ensuing, peaceful quiet, Tox reached over without turning his head from the overcast sky and entwined their fingers.