THE BOY IN THE BLUE SUIT
by G.W. Cox

The little boy in the blue swimsuit studied the extra pink fingers protruding from his fist. He had just bent over an ice bucket of cooked shrimp and grabbed a handful. His mother, sitting on an old blanket at Galveston Beach, said, Hold it now. Where you goin' with all that? She pried open his hand, scattering all but one shrimp back into the bucket. She pressed a saltine, his favorite food, into his other hand.

He staggered in the hot sand until he was behind her. He put the shrimp to his lips and let it fall. He didn't like that one and pressed it into the sand with his foot. Most of the cracker found his mouth.

He braced his bottom against his mother's back, kicking toe-fulls of sand onto the blanket. In turn she passed him another shrimp and two more crackers. He jammed a cracker into his mouth and smelled the shrimp. He wedged it under the waistband of his swimsuit, a speck of cool from the ice bucket. It fell into the suit's lining. It felt good.

Dud, he said and started walking to a palm grove above the high tide line. His mother turned to see that he was joining his brother and his older friends. They had been up there all afternoon, hard at something.

The boy in the blue suit was pleased to be greeted by the brother and his two red-headed friends. Usually they pushed him away.

Come on, Baldy. We ve got a clubhouse. It's cool in there. They were all laughing so he laughed. They held his hands and led him to a manhole cover. One of the boys with red hair slid the cover away from the dark circle. They jerked his arms and swung him into the shallow hole. His feet hit soft sand.

Dogies, he said. All around him horny toads stared, some in layers, and most of them flattening like sand dollars. He reached down to pet one, and they all scurried at the sides of the defunct storm drain. The boy in the blue suit screamed and fell on his butt. A few of the horny toads shot blood out the corners of their eyes. He cried louder.

As his mother hoisted him into the sunlight, he squinted through tears to see the other boys running toward the beach.

Back on the blanket he sat between his mother's legs. She had given him a rare sip of Jax beer. Now he was sucking on an ice cube. Let's go on in the water and get that sand off you.

The darker wet sand felt cool on the bottoms of his feet. He watched waves roll up and froth cover his toes. Soon it reached his ankles. A curl of sea battered his knees and he fell face first into the surf.

His eyes shut against the rush of clouded salty water. He had fallen and it hadn't hurt. Feeling the embracing coolness against his face, he relaxed for a moment and then tried to find a place to put his hands. There was nothing. He grasped for his mother's leg. Nothing was there. He didn't know what was happening. All he knew and felt was that he was alone.

It was time to scream. He pulled in a deep breath. His nose filled, his lungs fought against the sea and gritty brine swirled between his tongue and teeth. His cry was a gurgle and became soft chokes.

Then a jerk on the rear of the elastic waistband of the blue suit propelled him upward. The rebounding pressure on his abdomen pushed the sea back to where it belonged. He looked back at the beach and nuzzled his face into his mother's hair. Now he could hear himself cry.

The blue suit lay soaking in the bathroom sink. The boy sat in the bathtub, listening to his mother talk on. This water was warm and softer feeling. He could make his own little waves with his fingers and his toes. He was watching something curling around in the bottom of the tub. Him, he said. It was pink and nearly round, the size of his thumb. He put it between his teeth and bit down. Then he chewed and swallowed it.

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