J.R. felt certain he could go back to sleep if he kept his eyes closed, but for some reason he was all in a twist. And why was it so hot and clammy, like he was trapped under those lights that keep the popcorn warm at the movie theater? He grudgingly sat up and discovered the back seat of the car fully in focus. He had slept with his glasses on.

“Merry Christmas, son,” his father said from the driver’s seat.

J.R. had forgotten about the holiday, maybe because in his almost 12 years on the planet, this didn’t feel like any Christmas ever. He pushed his fleece jacket away and squinted into the morning sun. “Those are palm trees,” he said.

The car rolled to a stop in front of a small guard shack. The uniformed man inside asked cheerlessly who they were visiting.

“Margaret Fullbright, Tower 1,” J.R.’s father said. “She should have let you know.”           

“And you are?”

“Mark Fullbright.”

The guard checked his logbook, then wrote dates on a parking pass and handed it to J.R.’s dad with vice-principal-like admonitions to keep it on the dashboard at all times.

After they had parked and retrieved their suitcases from the trunk, J.R. collected his flashlight and multi-subject spiral-bound notebook from the front seat. At his father’s suggestion, he had attempted to start a journal during the drive, a journal being one of the requirements for his Communications Merit Badge.

“Jonathan Randall Fullbright!” J.R.’s grandmother gushed. “Look how you’ve grown! What have your parents been feeding you?” She clutched him so tight the glasses hanging from the beaded lanyard around her neck dug into J.R.’s chest.

Grandma Margaret looked different. J.R. remembered her being whiter the last time they were together, at his house for Thanksgiving a year ago.

“Mark,” she said, “you must be exhausted, driving through the night. You boys take your things back to the spare bedroom and I’ll fix something to eat.”

J.R. soon discovered the balcony and took in the view from the 18th floor. Being that high up, it felt like he had better be careful. Watching the people walking on the vast beach below reminded him of the toy soldiers he used to play with. “Everyone looks so tiny,” he said.

“Don’t be fooled,” J.R.’s father replied. “Their problems are as big as they always were.”

Grandma Margaret quickly added, “That’s one of the best views you’ll find on all of Marco Island.”

“Can I go down there?”

Mark looked to his mother.

“Of course you can!” she said, forcing a smile.

Why she was smiling but also looked like she was about to cry didn’t make sense, but adults often made no sense, so J.R. focused on Grandma Margaret’s words. J.R. was a good listener, far better at listening than talking.

“Most everyone in the towers is older,” Grandma Margaret said, “and they are friendly. If you need help with anything on the property, just ask.” She explained how to get to the pool from the lobby and how to access the beach from there. “When you get out to the water,” she continued, “if you turn left you can walk for several miles past all the resorts and condos. Go right and you will come to Tigertail. It’s a protected area with lots of birds.”

J.R. changed into shorts and a T-shirt and applied the sunscreen his father said was mandatory.

“Come back for lunch whenever you want,” his grandmother said. “We’re going to have dinner around 5, Florida-style.” She started to give him another hug and then caught herself. J.R. was relieved for his ribcage. “I almost forgot,” she said, disappearing into her bedroom and returning with a gift.

“Your dad told me about your joining the Boy Scouts this year and how much you are enjoying it, and I thought this would be the perfect Christmas present, especially while you are here.”

It occurred to J.R. how other people seemed more convinced than he was about how much he enjoyed the Boy Scouts, but the thought passed as he discovered that his gift was a pair of binoculars.

“You go and have fun,” Grandma Margaret said, looking truly pleased now. “I want a full report about everything you see.”

Riding alone in the elevator, J.R. thought about how nice it was to be without adult supervision. The walkway to the pool was surrounded by lush shrubs and colorful flowers and shaded by palm trees. J.R. imagined he had walked onto a movie set. The circular pool was empty of people, maybe because it was Christmas, or maybe because it was early, but being in such a new place on his own made J.R. feel grown-up.

He found the boardwalk to the beach, which led uphill over a dune, and as he climbed, the wooden decking became sandy. At the top, the walkway opened onto a rectangular area with benches, under which were several pairs of sneakers and sandals.

J.R. wondered about leaving his own shoes and going barefoot. He was weighing the pros and cons, as his father always recommended, when he looked up to see an old man approaching from the beach.

The man said, “Dr. Livingstone, I presume.”

J.R. had no idea what the man was talking about, but it was clear the comment was directed at him, because there was no one else was around.

Like visitors to the zoo who become mesmerized by the exotic creatures before them, the two couldn’t help but stare at each another. Here was J.R., at that awkward, gangly, growth-spurt age, looking entirely too tall for his body. His black-rimmed glasses gave him a studious, Where’s Waldo look. His new binoculars hung from his neck over a T-shirt that said, “BE PREPARED.”

And here was the man, scrawny and shriveled, appearing entirely too small for his body, given his shock of white hair and prominent salt-and-pepper moustache. The man wore plaid shorts and a clashing plaid shirt that was open at the front to reveal his sunken torso. To top off the outfit, he was sporting sheer, knee-high support socks and leather sandals.

“Arcane reference,” the man finally said, “but appropriate given the binoculars.”

“They’re a gift from my grandmother.”

“Let me guess: You are visiting your grandparents for the holidays.”

“Just my grandmother,” J.R. replied. “Me and my dad. My mom isn’t here.”

“And who is your grandmother?”                                                                                                  

The man grinned when J.R. answered. “We are best friends. She lives exactly two floors above me. That’s how we met, when our mail got mixed up. Come to think of it, your grandmother told me you were coming for a visit. Kind of a spur of the moment thing, I believe she said.”

It occurred to J.R. that this stranger knew as much about the trip as he did.

“I’m Marvin Schlotsky,” the man said, extending his hand. “That’s the New Jersey Schlotskys, in case you’re keeping track.”

J.R. shook hands, careful not to squeeze too hard, lest he hurt the man. But Mr. Schlotsky had a surprisingly firm grip.

“Some people call me The Magician,” Mr. Schlotsky said. “Want to know why?”

“Yes.”

“I make grumpy people disappear.”

Getting no reaction, the man pressed on. “First time to Marco?”

“First time to Florida,” J.R. said.

“I like that shirt, by the way.”

“It was a fundraiser for our Boy Scout troop. My dad’s the assistant scoutmaster.”

“Great organization, the Scouts. I was one a long time ago. You can see what it did for me.”

J.R. could not see what it did.

“My dad says if I work hard enough, I can make Eagle Scout by the time I graduate high school. We’re starting on a couple of new merit badges this week.”

“Is that what the binoculars are for?”

“I guess for the birdwatching badge. Actually, it’s called Bird Study,” J.R. said, thinking Mr. Schlotsky might appreciate the precise use of language his father encouraged. “And I’m supposed to be working on a communications badge, too.”

“I’m a great believer in communicating,” Mr. Schlotsky said. “Just so you know, there are incredible shorebirds here at Tigertail, and the Everglades is an easy daytrip. But the real game at Marco,” he added, lowering his voice as if about to divulge a secret, “is shells.”

“Seashells?”

“One and the same, my boy. Is there a seashell merit badge?”

J.R. didn’t know.

“Well, it’s been a pleasure meeting you, young explorer. Now, if you’ll pardon me, I’ve got to see a man about a horse.” As he began to maneuver around J.R., Mr. Schlotsky paused. “One last thing: How do you feel about cannibal jokes?”

~

Many hours later, when J.R. returned to the condo, the first thing he told his grandmother was not about the large bird with toothpick legs he watched spear a fish right out of the water and gulp down whole, or how he never would have guessed that so many older people had tattoos until he saw them in their bathing suits. No, the first thing J.R. mentioned was that he had met her friend Mr. Schlotsky.

“Marvin does make an impression,” Grandma Margaret said. “Such a character.” She was speaking in a whisper because J.R.’s dad was asleep on the balcony. “Marvin has traveled the world. And there’s no one in the towers who knows more about shells. People say he’s crazy, but I just love him.”

“Crazy because of how he dresses?”

She chuckled. “That’s not the half of it.” Her face took on that same strained smile J.R. had seen earlier. “The poor man lost his wife a year ago, and his kids don’t come to visit. But I’ve never seen him down in the dumps, not even once. Anyway, we’ll wake your father for dinner in an hour. And speaking of which, I don’t want to disappoint, because you might be expecting a traditional Christmas spread with ham and mashed potatoes and all of that. But we do things a little different down here.”

“That’s ok,” J.R. said. “Grandma, who is Dr. Livingstone?”

Thinking J.R. was asking about someone he had met on the elevator, Grandma Margaret said, “I don’t know, but around here, chances are he’s either a cardiologist or a plastic surgeon.”

Christmas dinner, as Grandma Margaret had predicted, was different. As far as J.R. could tell, eating Florida-style meant there was no main dish. Instead, all the items were laid out in bowls and plates, and like the bumper-car ride at the state fair, you headed in whatever direction you wanted. Except for the grouper, everything was served cold, which was fine with J.R.

After dinner, as J.R. and his dad were clearing dishes and Grandma Margaret was bringing out a key lime pie, the doorbell rang, and without waiting for anyone to answer, in stepped Marvin Schlotsky. He was carrying a red and green canvas bag over his shoulder emblazoned with the smiling face of St. Nick and an adjacent word bubble that said, “Ho, Ho, Ho Hoboken.”

Grandma Margaret rushed over to give Marvin a hug. “Merry Christmas!” she exclaimed. “I’m so glad you’re here.” She pulled him into the dining area, where J.R. and his dad had stopped in their tracks, because it appeared to them both that Mr. Schlotsky had arrived in his pajamas.

“When J.R. said he met you today, I was so pleased,” Grandma Margaret explained with what seemed to J.R. like too much enthusiasm. She was speaking to Mr. Schlotsky but darting glances at J.R.’s father. “I called right away to invite you for dinner. You said you wouldn’t dream of intruding on our Christmas meal, but I made you promise to come for dessert, and here you are, perfect timing!”

After introducing Mark, Grandma Margaret paused to catch her breath, resulting in a brief but awkward silence during which J.R. saw that his father’s face had gone skeptical, the same as at home when Mormons and window-replacement salesmen knocked on the door.

Mr. Schlotsky seemed to understand. “The story behind this get-up is that I wear it every year for Christmas dinner,” he said, reaching down to tug at the thin, lavender-colored fabric covering his legs. “These elephant pants are from Thailand. And this kaftan,” he added, rubbing the bottom hem of the linen shirt that stretched to his knees, “is traditional for a lot of Egyptian men. My wife took this stuff out of the closet every year for the holidays and we would reminisce about our travels.”

“What a lovely tradition,” Grandma Margaret said.

Marvin reached into his bag and produced a bottle of white wine, which he handed to the hostess. Next came a box of pecan pralines, and finally a much smaller box wrapped with the newspaper’s comics section. J.R. and his father received similarly wrapped gifts.

“Oh, Marvin,” Grandma Margaret said. “This wasn’t necessary.”

Her gift was a small, cream-colored shell with delicate brown spots, accompanied by a note that said, “Junonia. A special shell for a special lady.”

“Got my picture in the paper for that little beauty,” Marvin said. “Junonia is extremely rare.”

“It’s beautiful,” Grandma Margaret said. “Where did you find it?”

“Right here on Marco. Fall of 2017.”

“What makes it so rare?” Mark asked suspiciously, feeling suddenly protective of his mother.

“The snail that lived in there resides miles offshore and hundreds of feet deep in the ocean,” Marvin said. “Under ordinary circumstances, there is no way this shell makes it to land. The only way is extra-ordinary, which means hurricane. And that’s exactly what happened. We had Irma in October of ’17, and Nate a few weeks later. There were so many shells after that, it was like coming up all cherries on the slots in Atlantic City.”

Mark nodded, conceding somewhere in his subconscious that his mother was not in danger and that he would not be on the hook for new windows.

“Junonia,” Grandma Margaret repeated warmly.

“Named after Juno,” Marvin said, “the big-time Roman goddess of marriage.”

Grandma Margaret looked a bit stricken then and urged the boys to open their gifts.

Mark unwrapped a conch shell with a note that said, “Merry Christmas. Please read aloud from here:” He felt foolish but followed the directions.

“It is said that the Hindu god Vishnu, the protector of the universe, blew into a conch shell and made the very first sound in all of creation. The Hindus believe the conch shell represents our fundamental elements: air, water, fire, space, and earth. Vibrations from the shell can drive away negative energy.”

“Excellent,” Marvin said. “Now, let’s hear from the young explorer.”

J.R. wasn’t disappointed with the purple and white shell he unwrapped. His gift also contained a note: “Merry Christmas. This calico scallop might be the first in a collection that takes you to places you never dreamed of.” A second paragraph began, “Read this next part aloud.”

Confused by what he saw, J.R. hesitated.

“Go on, my boy.”

J.R. read, “Answer: his first taste of religion.”

Mark was now the one who looked confused. “What’s the question?”

Marvin deadpanned, “What did the cannibal get when he bit off the missionary’s finger?”

A deep laugh escaped from J.R.’s belly, not so much at the gag but at his recollection of Mr. Schlotsky’s parting question on the beach that morning. In the mysterious world of adults, it seemed J.R. was for once in the know.

“Best not to encourage him, dear,” Grandma Margaret advised.

By the end of dessert, and much to Grandma Margaret’s relief, Mark had been won over by Marvin, who regaled them with stories of shelling around the world and of the New York Times, where he worked the graveyard shift in the composing room for 40 years. But Marvin didn’t monopolize the conversation. He asked questions about J.R.’s school, and seemed genuinely interested in Mark’s work as an engineer for the Public Works Department.

When Mark turned the conversation to the Boy Scouts, Marvin wanted to know more about the merit badge for communicating.

“Jay, why don’t you grab your notebook,” Mark said. “I printed the information.”

J.R. retrieved the spiral-bound from the bedroom and began reviewing the two pages of instructions his father had neatly folded in half. “There are a bunch of different requirements and a lot of options.”

“Let me have a look,” his father said.

After his own review, Mark acknowledged, “This one will take some time. There are nine requirements overall. We decided on Option B for the first requirement, which is to keep a three-day journal where you identify examples of how you listen to gather information, appreciate or enjoy something, or understand someone’s feelings. The time frame works well for our trip.”

Mark’s eyes scrolled down the list. “We also chose Option B for the second requirement. … Choose a concept, product, or service in which you have great confidence. Build a sales plan based on its good points. Try to persuade the counselor to agree with, use, or buy your concept, product, or service. After your sales talk, discuss with your counselor how persuasive you were.”

“It all sounds perfectly dreadful,” Grandma Margaret commented, drawing an immediate frown from her son.

“Well,” she said, “I’m sure you didn’t want to do all that when you were in sixth grade.”

“Probably not,” Mark said more sharply than he would have liked. “But maybe you should have made me.”

Grandma Margaret gave her son a pleading, cease-and-desist look and seemed on the verge of saying something more when Marvin began to cough, a rasping hack that sent Grandma Margaret scurrying for water and Mark, having been recently Scout-certified in CPR, leaning forward in his chair expectantly.

Marvin waved them off. “I’m fine.”

J.R. wondered if Mr. Schlotsky might have been faking, as a way to keep the conversation from taking the kind of unpleasant turn J.R. had witnessed before between his father and grandmother. Then again, Mr. Schlotsky’s cough seemed real enough.

“Well, I had better be going,” Marvin said, getting to his feet and heading for the door. “Mark, if you and J.R. want to join me in the morning, I’ll show you some of my preferred shelling spots. Your mother knows she has a standing invitation.”

“You boys go,” Grandma Margaret said. “Marvin starts too early for me.”

Mark accepted the offer for himself and for J.R., and they agreed to meet by the pool at 7 a.m.

Mark’s cell phone began buzzing in his pocket. He checked the caller ID, and in a flat voice said, “Merry Christmas.”

Grandma Margaret and J.R. stopped what they were doing to listen.

Holding the phone to his ear for what seemed a long time, Mark finally asked, “Can’t this wait until we get home?” And then, “Fine. Text me the number.” He handed the phone to J.R.

“Mom?”

“Hi, sweetheart.”

“Are you coming?”

“I’m sorry, angel, but I can’t. I’m here with your Aunt Jen. Are you having a good time in Florida?”

“Yes.”

“How many merit badges has he got you working on?”

“Only two,” J.R. said. “Why won’t you come?”

“It’s complicated, sweetheart. The important thing is that I love you very much.”

When J.R. didn’t respond, his mother said, “I want you to have a great vacation, and promise me you won’t worry about anything.”

Later, lying in bed trying not to worry about anything, J.R. was thinking about when he was 10 and how for a long time every night after he went to bed and his parents were having what they called “discussions,” he willed himself to focus on the exact moment he fell asleep. J.R. thought a person could learn something important by such extreme concentration, but it never worked. He would always open his eyes the next morning and think, “What happened?”

“Wake up, buddy,” his father said, prodding him. “Rally time in 30 minutes.”

J.R. pulled on his clothes and stumbled into the kitchen where his father was making scrambled eggs.

“Jay, would it be all right if you went without me? I have to make a call, and I need to get my thoughts in order. I promised your mother.”

“Who do you have to call at 7 in the morning?”

“Not that early,” his father said. “It’s someone your mom wants me and her to talk to together. Apparently, the woman is doing us a personal favor, and this morning first thing is the only time she’s available until February. I’m trying to do the right thing, whatever that is.”

~

When J.R. arrived at the pool and said that his father would not be coming, Mr. Schlotsky didn’t seem to care. He handed J.R. a mesh bag for his shells.

“Now,” he said, “the first thing we do, always and without fail, is to acknowledge the environment around us and the fact that we are connected to all things.” He stepped to his side and gestured with his right arm in an expansive, upward arc, as if signaling imaginary stagehands to raise the curtain so the show could begin.

“How do we acknowledge?” J.R. asked.

“By greeting the flora and fauna,” Marvin said. “Vocally.”

“You mean talk? To the plants?”

“Always and without fail,” Marvin said. “I told you I was a big believer in communication.” He turned to the nearest palm tree and patted its wide trunk. “Top of the morning, air-a-casia. You are looking as beautiful as ever. We appreciate your shade and your fruit, and we take a valuable lesson from you, because you bend but you do not break.”

Marvin looked at J.R. “Your turn.”

The closest flora to J.R. were the shrubs lining either side of the walkway. He rested his hand lightly on one of the bushes but could not bring himself to pet it the way Mr. Schlotsky had. Faintly, he said, “Hello, hedge.” Then he added, “I don’t know what you are, but your leaves are very green.”

“Excellent,” Marvin said. “You’re a natural.”

For the next two hours, Marvin schooled his young apprentice on the finer points of shelling. J.R. had to adjust his pace while they walked the beach, because his guide moved very slowly. Otherwise, the old man was easy to be around, never once asking what J.R. wanted to be when he grew up.

“So how did Christmas turn out for you?” Marvin inquired as they explored a secluded tide pool.

“I think my parents are splitting up.”

When J.R. offered nothing more, Marvin said, “I probably should have mentioned that one of the most important things a new beachcomber should learn is not to collect anything that’s still being lived in. At some point, every one of these shells was somebody’s house, somebody meaning a mollusk—you know, snails and slugs, invertebrates, the guys with no backbones.”

J.R. continued to say nothing.

“You, on the other hand, not only have a backbone but an entire skeletal system to protect you,” Marvin said. “Most people never stop to consider how tough they are made, how much they can endure. You see what I’m getting at?”

“Nobody tells me anything,” J.R. said.

“Not that it’s any of my business,” Marvin replied, “but what’s stopping you from asking?”

The return trip from the beach took a long time. It was getting hotter, and Mr. Schlotsky was getting slower. When they finally reached the pool, the old man nudged J.R. and pointed to his left. “Earlier we greeted the flora,” he said. “Here comes the fauna.”

Three women, all wearing floral coverups and carrying oversized pool bags, were approaching.

“Good morning, Tower Two ladies,” Marvin said. “Isn’t it a glorious day?”

They all smiled at Marvin but quickly turned their attention to J.R. “And who do we have here?” asked one of the women, pushing her large sunglasses to the tip of her nose so she could get a better look.

“This is my friend J.R., grandson of Margie Fullbright in Tower One.”

“Ooh,” said one of the women. “Marve’s special friend Margie. How sweet.”

“Son,” the woman with the perched sunglasses said, “don’t listen to one thing this man tells you.”

As the women walked away, Marvin called out, “Ladies, need I remind you …”

“We know,” one of them chirped back, “don’t forget to say hello to the Biscus.” And then, as if they had rehearsed it, the women joined voices in a singsong chorus, giggling like schoolgirls: “Hi, Biscus!”

Marvin nudged J.R. again. “They can’t resist me.”

~

After lunch, Mark and J.R. were on the balcony, waiting for Grandma Margaret before they headed to the pool. “I’ve been thinking,” J.R. said, “when we get home I can start doing more around the house.”

His father shifted in his chair. “Don’t you already do your fair share, Jay? I mean, the spreadsheet clearly reflects that.”

“I can do better, dad.”

Mark shifted again. “Jay, I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”

Grandma Margaret called from the other room. “Don’t forget your beach towels, boys!”

“But can we discuss it later?” Mark asked. “The last thing I need is to involve your grandmother.”

Later was not that afternoon at the pool, where J.R. was an instant celebrity. A steady stream of Grandma Margaret’s friends came over to introduce themselves and to coax responses from him regarding what grade he was in and how he felt about marrying their granddaughters.

At one point, as J.R. and his dad watched Grandma Margaret dip into the shallow end to cool off, Mark asked, “Did you really have fun this morning with Marvin?”

“Yes,” J.R. said. “I’d like to go again tomorrow, if that’s ok.”

“Sure, and I’ll go, too.”

J.R. felt he should mention that his father would have to talk to the plants, and he added, “I think Mr. Schlotsky and grandma are dating.”

~

The next day, Mark did go shelling, and to J.R.’s surprise his dad spoke to a geranium. And that night, during a walk on the beach, J.R. and his father had their talk, which was mostly Mark saying that no matter how things turned out that J.R.’s parents would always be there for him.

“I just want to know what’s going to happen,” J.R. said at one point, to which his father replied, “You and me both.”

On New Year’s Eve morning, J.R. was at the pool promptly at 7.

“I guess this is our last hurrah,” Mr. Schlotsky said as they made their way to the beach. “Tomorrow you go home.”

“I took your advice,” J.R. said.

“What advice was that?

“I talked to my dad.”

“And?”

“He said a bunch of stuff about how adults have problems that kids don’t understand, but mostly I still don’t know what’s going to happen.”

They stayed out barely an hour because Mr. Schlotsky was not feeling well and he was coughing a lot. At the boardwalk benches on the way back, they rested for a long time.

“I’ve always liked this spot,” Marvin said. “It’s not the beach and it’s not the towers. If you live long enough, you come to appreciate the in-between places.”

He started coughing again, and J.R. asked, “Are you ok?”

Marvin tapped on his chest. “Got this hole in my muffler.”

J.R. didn’t know what that meant.

“I haven’t smoked a cigarette in 20 years,” Marvin said, “but for the 40 before that it was two packs a day.”

J.R. knew what that meant.

~

That night, Grandma Margaret treated J.R. and his father to dinner at a waterfront restaurant before they took in the holiday fireworks. Marvin was invited but he declined. The three generations of Fullbrights all agreed the aerial show was topnotch.

Mark had said he wanted to leave the next morning no later than “0800,” which didn’t give J.R. enough time to go shelling, but he set his watch for 6:30 anyway.

When he arrived at the pool on New Year’s Day, no one was there. J.R. waited until 7:15, then, remembering that Mr. Schlotsky lived exactly two floors below his grandmother, went back to the lobby elevator. At Mr. Schlotsky’s door, J.R. listened for any signs of movement from within and heard nothing. He knocked lightly. Worried now, he tried the door.

Except for a sliver of light streaming through the balcony where the vertical blind had not been fully closed, it was dark inside. When J.R.’s eyes adjusted, he was surprised at how clearly he could see. Mr. Schlotsky appeared to be asleep in a corner armchair. The wall opposite the chair was filled with dozens of pictures. Older portraits, some antique-looking, were ornately framed. Newer images, mostly family snapshots, were tacked up haphazardly with pushpins. J.R. imagined his father organizing everything in neat, level rows, but the jumble made J.R. think of what Mr. Schlotsky had said about the in-between places.

Staring into the dark room the thought occurred to J.R. that one day he would be as old as his father, and his father would be as old as Mr. Schlotsky, and that both men had once been as young as J.R. was now. It was an unsettling thought, a too-sudden expansion of understanding, and J.R. felt that same vulnerable way he had standing on the 18^th-floor balcony with only a waist-high railing to protect him from falling.

“No shelling today, I’m afraid,” Mr. Schlotsky said. “I’m a few quarts low.” He reached for something on the end table next to his chair, which was filled with medicine containers and some kind of machine with plastic tubes. Seeing the machine made J.R. feel like he was intruding.

“I came to say goodbye.”

“I intended to meet you at the pool,” Marvin said. “Guess I dozed off. Must be these new pills.”

J.R. looked at the photo wall. “Why doesn’t your family come to visit?”

Mr. Schlotsky’s voice sounded far away. “I see your grandmother has been telling tales. The truth is, my wife was the glue that held our family together. I think the sadness of knowing she won’t be here is why they stay away.”

“Do they know you are sick?”

“Lord knows I haven’t always been there for them,” Marvin continued, lost in his thoughts. “All those years working nights. And there was a time when I gambled and drank too much. Was always faithful, though. Proud of that. Maybe they don’t understand how much I miss her, too.”

“But then how can you act like there’s nothing wrong and joke around all the time?” J.R. asked, but his question came out more like a demand.

Marvin turned his head toward J.R. and seemed to focus. “If the choice, dear boy, is to laugh or to cry, I choose laughter. It’s the best weapon you’ve got. Maybe even better than love.”

~

Upstairs, Grandma Margaret had packed enough snacks for a trip to the moon. Mark noted that they were on schedule and the weather to the north looked good. “I’ll just make one last sweep of the bedroom.”

Alone with Grandma Margaret, J.R. said, “You should check on Mr. Schlotsky after we leave.”

“Won’t he be on the beach?”

“He’s sick,” J.R. said.

“Oh. I will call him later, then,” Grandma Margaret said. “He never lets me visit his place. He says I won’t like how messy it is.”

“You need to go down there,” J.R. said, startled by the authority in his voice, which Grandma Margaret noticed as well, because she straightened up.

“If you think it’s important, I will.”

She opened her arms then, which meant J.R. was about to be hugged to within an inch of his life. He surrendered, leaned in even, bending down so that his cheek was nuzzled against his grandmother’s neck. As she squeezed, J.R. found himself squeezing back, and something inside him seemed to give way. It expanded in his chest and made his eyes water and nearly took his breath away. J.R. didn’t put a word to this feeling, because he was just a kid who was not even 12 years old. But he held on tight.

“Jay,” his father announced, returning from the bedroom, “it’s time to point our compass towards home. Are you ready?”

J.R. blinked and stood back from his grandmother, still feeling her warmth.