Very much to their surprise, they managed to convince Nana to take them to lunch at the Ferryman. It was surprising because (a) Nana, as she herself was forever saying, was very frugal, and (b) as their own mother had always maintained, children didn’t belong in a bar. But the kids kept pointing the place out to Nana whenever they walked by, being sure to call her attention to how clean and spiffy it was, with light shining in the new plate-glass windows onto the marble bar top and the black-and-white tiled floor, and Danny kept talking about how curious he was to know what a thirty-dollar burger tasted like, and one autumn Saturday when their mother was at the language lab and Danny didn’t have basketball, Nana said, “Well, my goodness. You only live once,” and she got her purse and the three of them walked down the block.
Annamae had been a little nervous that the workers would be scandalized at the sight of them, and maybe even tell them children weren’t allowed, but the greeter smiled as if she was delighted to see them, and once they were seated and looking at menus, it turned out the Ferryman served milk shakes as well as beer.
“Everybody looks normal,” Annamae said after swiveling around both ways in her seat, taking careful stock of all the customers.
“What did you expect?” asked Danny.
“I don’t know. Like old men drinking out of paper bags.”
“Why would someone in a bar be drinking out of a paper bag?”
“It’s a thing, Danny. People do it.”
“Not in bars.” He landed on the last word with such gleeful mockery, it made Annamae have to kick him beneath the table.
“Ouch,” said Nana.
“Sorry,” said Annamae.
Their milk shakes came, and first they blew their straw wrappers at each other and then they tried blowing bubbles in their milk shakes, but they were too thick and the kids wound up spurting splotches of milk shake out onto the table.
“Behave, please,” said Nana.
“Yeah, behave, please, Annamae,” said Danny.
“What, you started it!” cried Annamae.
Then someone came in who didn’t look normal. He was so big, big tall as well as big wide, that the room grew noticeably darker while he stood up front, blocking some of the sunlight.
“I know that person,” said Annamae, twisted around in her seat.
“No you don’t.”
He had dark curly hair and a dark curly beard. He was wearing an apple green baseball jacket. The greeter greeted him, then waved him toward the bar.
“Yes I do.”
“What’s his name, then?” asked Danny.
“He’s the ferryman.”
The man sat on a bar stool, his back to them, so they could see the big red wings embroidered on the back of his baseball jacket.
“You mean the owner? But how can you tell?”
“Not the owner. The ferryman.”
Danny gave Nana a look like Don’t worry, she’s always saying loopy stuff.
“Don’t you remember?” Annamae felt a rising distress. “I used to write him letters.”
“Sure, sure.”
“Sometimes you helped.”
“Whatever you say.”
“Danny!” She didn’t know which was worse: that he really didn’t remember or that he was pretending not to remember. Either way, she felt betrayed.
People at neighboring tables looked over.
“Indoor voice,” said Nana.
The ferryman was not among those who’d looked over, but now, accepting a paper bag from the person behind the bar, he got up from his stool and walked out. She followed him with her eyes until he disappeared from view. She felt an excited confusion, also a wobble of doubt. Had that really been him? Would she see him again? Was the ferry-man even real, or just someone she’d invented? And how could she ever know for sure? What would be the test?
“Remind me,” asked Danny, grinning broadly. “What does the ferryman do?”
“Take people to and fro.”
“To and fro to where?”
“The other side.”
Danny did a giant cough into his fist that was really a laugh.
“Stop,” Nana told him.
Tears filled Annamae’s eyes. She pressed her napkin to her face.
“Lighten up, Annamae,” said Danny, but he sounded embarrassed. Then he kicked the bottom of her shoe lightly, meaning I’m sorry, and she forgave him.
Their food arrived. All three had ordered burgers, and they came on shiny brioche rolls and were wonderfully fat and drippy and required all of their concentration.
“Nana,” said Danny at length. When she looked up, he subtly did that thing of pointing to his own chin to show her where she had ketchup on hers. He did it nicely, not making fun of her or anything. Just helping her out.
And it fell on Annamae very hard, the realization that Danny was rapidly becoming fluent in the language of adult manners. He was growing mature. Somehow that betrayal, unintended and beyond his control, hurt worse than his teasing. It was a form of forgetfulness, a sign that soon she would be even more alone.