The Art of Floating by Kristin Bair O’Keeffe

your house five minutes after meeting him?”
    â€œYadda yadda yadda.”
    Jilly grinned. “No worries. I’ll check his pockets right now.”
    â€œNo, you won’t,” Sia said. “I’ll see if he’ll do it himself later.” She went to the doorway. Toad was sleeping with his head on the counter. Gumper was snoring at his feet. “He must be exhausted,” she said.
    Jillian tiptoed to the doorway. “Oh, my God,” she breathed, “he’s even better looking asleep. Just let me stroke him a little before I go.”
    Sia shook her head. “Out. Out you go now. Off to work. I’m sure you’ve got a whole stable of writers who have actually written books that you need to edit.”
    â€œWhat are you going to do?” Jilly asked. “Write?”
    â€œProbably not, my dear editor, but you can keep asking.”
    â€œWhat then?”
    â€œI don’t know, Jil. Read. Look at the sky. Alphabetize my books. Pick my nose.”
    Jilly looked hopeful. “You’re going to seduce him, aren’t you?”
    Sia groaned. “Out! Go!”
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    The Dogcatcher watched Jilly climb into her car. She was glad she was going. Jilly made her dizzy. All the bouncing and gibbering chatter. “Bye, bye,” she whispered as Jilly zipped off down the road.
    When she stood, the Dogcatcher’s left foot hung like a stone from her leg. Dead weight. No feeling. She hopped on it until it tingled, then trip-tropped back onto the road and slipped away.

CHAPTER 12
    When Jackson disappeared, the refuge beaches had been closed a little more than a month. Signs were posted, as they were every year from April 1 on:
    BEACHES CLOSED:
NO ENTRY BEYOND THIS POINT
Plover Nesting
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    Yet already tensions were escalating. Led by Joe Laslow, detractors, who didn’t believe a bird that weighed no more than an apple deserved private beaches, posted their own signs in strategic locations:
    BEACHES CLOSED:
NO ENTRY BEYOND THIS POINT
Fucking Plovers

CHAPTER 13
    â€œHow can she banish me? Me, Stuart? Her mother?”
    It was one of those high-crime days. Stinko hot with humidity that stuffed itself down your throat and choked you.
    The tall hickory stood in the back corner of the yard. The young sapling was holding its own in the front corner. M paced between the two. She was barefoot.
    â€œDarling,” Stuart said. “Darling?” He leaned against the hickory, and each time M passed he pushed his face to hers. “Darling, listen . . .”
    But M wasn’t listening. “I have been that girl’s mother for thirty-four years,” she said. “Thirty-four years, Stuart. Her entire life. Through happy times. Sad times. Puberty. The death of Bernadette. The death of that damn stinky guinea pig. Boyfriends. Marriage. And now that she’s facing the absolute worst thing that will ever happen to her, she kicks me out.”
    â€œThis one’s too big, M. You know she won’t be able to manage your sadness along with hers. It’s too much. Besides, it’s not forever.”
    â€œOne day is too many.”
    â€œI know it feels like that, but she’ll let you in as soon as she can.”
    â€œShe needs me now, Stuart. Now.”
    â€œShe needs to be alone for a while.”
    M stopped midway between the trees, flipped to face her husband, threw her hands up in the air, and glared at him. Her face got so red it looked as if her head might pop off like a rocket.
    â€œM?” Stuart said softly. “Are you okay?”
    â€œOut, Stuart,” M said through gritted teeth.
    Stuart backed up toward the door of the house. “She’ll be back, M. She will.”
    â€œOut!”
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    During those first few weeks without Jackson, Jillian and Gumper kept Sia alive. Aside from the police—who tramped about the