My Two Sons by Claire Carroll

The house is too hot, so we decide to go out and walk along the cliff path, my two sons and I. They walk in front, the taller one ahead of the shorter one, both scuffing the dust from the ground in little clouds that puff into the air around their shoes. I look at their backs and wonder, again, about which son I prefer. The taller one is skinny, with lank and pale hair that grows too long. It brushes at the collar of his t-shirt. He is younger than his brother, who is stocky and serious. I have to explain this to people all of the time; it’s very tiresome. People’s questions are very tiresome.
 
Is the older son jealous of the younger one for being taller?
 
Is the younger son self-conscious about his height?
 
How do you cope with these two sons?
 
The shrubs on either side of the path are scorched and dry. My younger son has found a stick in the hedgerow. He swings it over the pale grasses that grow along the path. His brother wants a stick too, but he can’t find one. My older son has dark eyes; he is cautious and thoughtful. I look out across the bay; a dense haze hangs over the water. There are already people on the beach. I can see their skin glistening as they set out their blankets for the day. I don’t know how anyone can bring themselves to do that, to still do that. There are protective measures you can take I suppose, if you have enough money. The ships are still there. There are nine now, that’s two more since last week. They sway slowly on their anchors; huge and dark and quiet, like dead whales.
 
There are nine ships now, I say to my sons.
 
Nine is quite a lot, says my older son.
 
It’s not too bad, I say.
 
We walk this way often. If we go early in the morning, then my sons don’t get too hot. We could go to the woods I suppose, walk in the cool shade afforded by the trees, but it’s busy at this time of year. Everyone crowds along the paths, enjoying the scent of the pine and the whispering leaves. They stare at the three of us all together, so I have to hurry my sons along. We prefer places that are quieter, where we can walk at our own pace.
 
My older son is cautious. He stays away from the cliff-edge. I don’t have to remind him of danger. My younger son is more erratic, skipping and dancing, swooshing his stick to sever the tops of the dry plants. His brother takes hold of his arm, gently, to steady him. They don’t talk much to one another, but my sons have a special bond. There’s a closeness between them.
 
It must be nice that they are so compatible, people say. I would love to have two sons that are as compatible as yours.
 
At first, I liked how envious people were. I liked that they coveted my sons. But after a while their comments and sidelong glances began to make me feel self-conscious. I wondered if this self-consciousness would seep into my two sons and damage them. That’s why we came to live out here, where there are fewer people, where we can take walks in the early morning and hope not to see anyone. 
 
My taller, younger son is up ahead at a fork in the path. He wants us to go down to the beach. I check the time. There won’t be many people down there at this time, so I agree to his request. The older son nods in approval and takes the lead, making sure that he and his brother pick their way carefully down to the shingle. This beach is secluded; if you don’t have a boat, or know about this path, you can only get to it at low tide. People don’t tend to come here as the sand is covered in a layer of shingle and a mess of shells. People prefer sand; they like it when the stones and shells are finely ground.
 
My two sons clatter onto the shore. The sea washes in a hush – back and forth – over the stones.
 
Don’t you worry about them going near the water?
 
Don’t you worry about how the moisture in the air will affect them out there?
 
Don’t you worry about what you would do, out there, if something went wrong?
 
My two sons are robust, though; I don’t need to worry. All of their lives I have wondered if I should worry, but you can’t help your feelings, can you? Is worry a feeling? Perhaps it is something more than that. 
 
I wanted these two sons more than anything I’ve ever wanted. I worked hard for them. I gave up so much; almost everything. I can’t pretend things are easy; the world is a strange place, but I must help my sons take their place in it.
 
The older son walks with purpose, following the meandering tide mark. The younger one is further ahead. He’s crouching down, examining something on the shingle. I watch as the older one joins him. They squat on their haunches together, side by side, and the younger one pokes at the thing on the ground with his stick. The sea washes in a hush – back and forth – over the stones.
 
The fog of the morning has all but burned away. The water dances with grey and blue. There are kayaks weaving in between the ships. I walk over to my sons.
 
The younger one moves aside so that I can see what they are looking at. Something shimmers on the stones. It’s about the size of a hubcap, translucent and gelatinous. Hardly there at all. My older son looks tired, like he’s low on energy. I calculate how long it will take us to get back.
 
We have to leave soon, I tell them.
 
What is it? asks my older son. His brow furrows. He can’t seem to look away.
 
It’s just an animal from the sea, I say. Nothing for us to worry about.
 
Is it dying?
 
No. No, these things are really tough.
 
I don’t want it to die.
 
It’ll be fine, I promise. The tide will take it out again soon.
 
A kayak appears, in from the bay. Two men jump out and into the shallows. They’re dressed in officer-issue wetsuits with silver stripes on the arms. Both wear expressions of concern as they drag their boat out of the water. I know how to speak the authorities; I’ve done it before. My sons have seen me do it.
 
The men watch us but keep their distance.
 
Everything OK over there? one of the men half-shouts.
 
Fine, I reply. Thank you. My sons stand up.
 
It’s not really safe down here, the other man says. For you—for your—
 
He stops. Then starts again: The water isn’t safe.
 
We’re fine, I repeat. Thank you.
 
The man is walking over. My sons watch him, and then they move—quickly—so that they are standing very close to me. My older son’s hands ball up into fists at his sides.
 
The man stops, holds open his palms to show that they are empty. My sons stand very still, watching. The man swallows, I see his Adam’s apple bob in his throat.
 
Are they both yours? he asks. His voice is lower now that he’s closer to us.
 
Yes, I say. I can hear the sea breaking on the shingle.
 
You’re very lucky.
 
Yes, I know.
 
We—my wife and I—we would love to have sons like that—like yours.
 
A lot of people tell me the same thing.
 
The two men from the kayak stare at my sons. My sons stare back. The sea animal glistens in the sunlight. I realise that the tide is going out; the creature will dry out soon unless someone scoops it up and helps it back into the water. Even then it might be too late. It might already be too late. I hate lying to my sons.
 
The men shift awkwardly in their wetsuits. One is tall, like my younger son, the other one is broad-shouldered and shorter, like my older son. Is this how men are? Is this how they all turn out?
 
We’d better be going, says the shorter man. You need to be careful down here. Those boys—your sons—they shouldn’t be that close to the water.
 
Thank you, officer, I say.
 
The two men pick up their kayak and head towards the cliff path, carrying it on their shoulders as though they are pallbearers. We watch them go, my two sons and I.
 
When the men are out of sight, my older son takes my hand. My younger son springs away from us and returns to the sea animal. He pokes at it with his stick, gently. He is a sweet boy; I do know that.
 
Look! he shouts to his brother. It’s soft. Just like Ma.
 
His brother doesn’t reply but holds tight to my hand.
 
It’ll die, won’t it? says my older son. He turns his face up to look at me, eyes wide open to the sun which is now vast and searing above us. I can’t stand it when he does that, but I let it go. I remind myself that no harm will come to him or his brother if they do that. There are all sorts of things that my sons can do that I never could, or ever will.
 
Yes, I say. It will die.
 
I thought so, he says. Come on, time to go.
 
We head back towards the path, leaving the sea animal where we found it. As we start our ascent, I turn back to look at it again. It gleams on the foreshore like a disc of bright mirror; like a glass eye.
 
The sea washes in a hush – back and forth, back and forth – over the stones.

Claire Carroll lives in Somerset, UK, and writes about nature, technology and relationships. A recent MA Creative Writing student at Bath Spa University, Claire is currently working on a collection of linked short stories about climate anxiety, existential dread and the female gaze. In 2020, her stories made their way onto the longlist for the Cambridge Short Story Prize and the shortlist for the Wells Short Story Prize. Other recent pieces have been published by Perhappened Magazine, Writers HQ and Reflex Fiction.

Twitter: @c_crrll