Anansi Boys

Not that Rosie minds.

She does some teaching, and some helping out, and a lot of Doing Good, and if she ever misses London she never lets it show. Rosie’s mother, on the other hand, misses London continually and vocally, but takes any suggestion that she might want to return there as an attempt to part her from her as-yet-unborn (and, for that matter, unconceived) grandchildren.

Nothing would give this author greater pleasure than to be able to assure you that, following her return from the valley of the shadow of death, Rosie’s mother became a new person, a jolly woman with a kind word for everyone, that her newfound appetite for food was only matched by her appetite for life and all if had to offer. Alas, respect for the truth compels perfect honesty and the truth is that when she came out of hospital Rosie’s mother was still herself, just as suspicious and uncharitable as ever, although significantly more frail and now given to sleeping with the light on.

She a

Mrs. Noah has a flat in Williamstown, near Spider and Rosie’s house, and twice a week one of Callya

Charlie’s a singer these days. He’s lost a lot of the softness. He’s a lean man now, with a trademark fedora hat. He has lots of different fedoras, in different colors; his favorite one is green.

Charlie has a son. His name is Marcus: he is four and a half and possesses that deep gravity and seriousness that only small children and mountain gorillas have ever been able to master.

Nobody ever calls Charlie “Fat Charlie” anymore, and honestly, sometimes he misses it.

It was early in the morning in the summer, and it was already light. There was already noise coming from the room next door. Charlie let Daisy sleep. He climbed out of bed quietly, grabbed a T-shirt and shorts, and went through the door to see his son naked on the floor playing with a small wooden train set. Together they pulled on their T-shirts and shorts and flip-flops, and Charlie put on a hat, and they walked down to the beach.

“Daddy?” said the boy. His jaw was set, and he seemed to be pondering something.

“Yes, Marcus?”

“Who was the shortest president?”

“You mean in height?”

“No. In, in days. Who was the shortest.”

“Harrison. He caught pneumonia during his inauguration and died. He was president for forty-something days, and he spent most of his time in office dying.”

“Oh. Well, who was the longest then?”

“Franklin Delano Roosevelt. He served three full terms. Died in office during his fourth. We’ll take off our shoes here.”

They placed their shoes on a rock and carried on walking down toward the waves, their toes digging into the damp sand.

“How do you know so much about presidents?”

“Because my father thought it would do me good to find out about them, when I was a kid.”

“Oh.”

They waded out into the water, making for a boulder, one that could only be seen at low tide. After a while, Charlie picked the boy up and let him ride on his shoulders.

“Daddy?”

“Yes, Marcus.”

“P’choona says you’re famous.”

“And who’s Petunia?”

“At playgroup. She says her mom has all your CDs. She says she loves your singing.”

“Ah.”

“Are you famous?”

“Not really. A little bit.” He put Marcus down on the top of the boulder, then he clambered up it himself. “Okay. Ready to sing?”

“Yes.”

“What do you want to sing?”

“My favorite song.”

“I don’t know if she’ll like that one.”

“She will.” Marcus had the certainty of walls, of mountains.

“Okay. One, two, three—”

They sang “Yellow Bird” together, which was Marcus’s favorite song that week, and then they sang “Zombie Jamboree,” which was his second favorite, and “She’ll Be Coming Round the Mountain,” which was his third favorite. Marcus, whose eyes were better than Charlie’s, spotted her as they were finishing “She’ll Be Coming Round the Mountain” and he began to wave.

“There she is, Daddy.”

“Are you sure?”

The morning haze blurred the sea and sky together into a pale whiteness, and Charlie squinted at the horizon. “I don’t see anything.”

“She’s gone under the water. She’ll be here soon.”

There was a splash, and she surfaced immediately below them; with a reach and a flip and a wiggle she was sitting on the rock beside them, her silvery tail dangling down into the Atlantic, flicking beads of water up onto her scales. She had long, orange-red hair.

They all sang together now, the man and the boy and the mermaid. They sang “The Lady Is a Tramp” and “Yellow Submarine” and then Marcus taught the mermaid the words to the Flintstones theme song.

“He reminds me of you,” she said to Charlie, “when you were a little boy.”

“You knew me then?”

She smiled. “You and your father used to walk down the beach, back then. Your father,” she said. “He was quite some gentleman.” She sighed. Mermaids sigh better than anyone. Then she said, “You should go back now. The tide’s coming in.” She pushed her long hair back and jackknifed into the ocean. She raised her head above the waves, touched her fingertips to her lips, and blew Marcus a kiss before vanishing under the water.

Charlie put his son onto his shoulders, and he waded through the sea, back to the beach, where his son slipped down from his shoulders onto the sand. He took off his old fedora hat and placed it on his son’s head. It was much too big for the boy, but it still made him smile.

“Hey,” said Charlie, “You want to see something?”

“Okay. But I want breakfast. I want pancakes. No, I want oatmeal. No, I want pancakes.”

“Watch this.” Charlie began to do a sand-dance in his bare feet, soft-shoe shuffling through the sand.

“I can do that,” said Marcus.

“Really?”

“Watch me, Daddy.”

He could, too.

Together the man and the boy danced their way back up the sand to the house, singing a wordless song that they made up as they went along, which lingered in the air even after they had gone in for breakfast.