Page 87 of Losing Wendy

It doesn’t work, of course, and only serves to make Victor sob louder, thick tears blanketing his face, larger than the beads of rain that trickle down his cheeks. The other boys don’t seem to know what to do. Most of them have tears running down their faces as well, though they’re the quiet sort. The type that would be indistinguishable from the rain if one wasn’t looking carefully.

“Victor,” I say softly, advancing, but he shakes his head, holding apalm out to keep me from coming any closer. The beaded bracelet is still looped around his thumb in the shape of a noose.

“The rest of you go home,” says Peter.

The boys open their mouths to argue, but are stopped when Peter, in a tone more forcefully than I’ve ever heard, says, “Now.”

Dejectedly, the boys turn and huddle in a group to walk back. Only John and Michael linger, Michael’s voice high-pitched as he repeats, “And the monster was slain, and the prince and the princess lived happily ever after. And the monster was slain, and the prince and the princess lived happily ever after.”

“You should get him away from the body,” I say, my throat dry.

John nods, somewhat absentmindedly, moisture fogging his glasses. He offers me a gentle twitch of his head that tells me he wants to talk later.

When he and Michael leave, it’s just me, Peter, and Victor who remain.

“I want to know everything you do,” says Victor. The sobbing has subsided now, his voice dipping into a register I’ve yet to hear from him. “Don’t think you can leave anything out. I deserve to know.”

I listen as Peter explains that there are holes in Neverland where sometimes others can fall through. He makes a point to say they only work one-way. That strikes me as odd, but perhaps he forgot to mention that to me earlier. Then he tells Victor that sometimes the evil, the lost, are drawn to the pull of Neverland. He leaves out the part about why. About the Sister who wove the tapestry specifically for these boys.

He leaves out all information pertinent to their past.

“But why Thomas?” Victor asks, his question a plea.

I want to tell him that there will be no answer to satisfy. That nothing will make the brutal murder of an innocent boy make sense. But I think Victor probably already knows that. Saying so would make him out to be a fool, and Victor is no fool.

He’s just a boy.

And a brother.

“Thomas was in the wrong place at the wrong time,” says Peter. “There’s no rhyme or reason to it other than that.”

Victor’s face goes placid, and I recognize the utter resignation in the way the fight seeps out of him. “I thought there might have been a reason,” he says, somewhat distantly, under his breath.

He blinks away tears, like this is his last shot at them. Like it’s time to put away such foolish things.

“What are you going to do with the body?” Victor asks.

Peter looks at me, hand on his knee, but addresses Victor. “I thought I would leave that up to you.”

Victor nods, placing his fists on his hips and glaring down at the man who murdered his brother. “I want to leave him in a shallow grave. Just like he left Thomas. That way, the crows won’t have any trouble finding him.”

My stomach feels as if it’s going to be sick, but what am I going to do? Tell Victor that letting this corpse rot openly won’t bring his brother back?

I think he probably already knows that.

In the end,we don’t bury the man on the beach. Victor doesn’t want to risk the tide washing away the body. I get the sickening feeling that he wants to come back for it. That he wants to watch it rot, bit by bit. As if he’ll gain some peace of mind from witnessing the worms wriggle and writhe through the rotting corpse.

“When we found Thomas,” Victor says as he stares at his brother’s killer, “the bugs had already gotten to him. He had marks on his neck from where he was choked. I keep wondering how long it took him to pass out. How long he had to live with the realization that he was going to die.”

I say nothing.

I just dig. It doesn’t take us long. Not when the intent is to leave the grave shallow. I dig with my trembling hands next to Victor, whose tears mingle with the rainwater dripping from the canopy overhead, forming mud clots in the dirt.

We dump the body in.

Victor spits on the corpse’s face.

When I get backto the room, my belly is empty, leaving a gnawing feeling like it’s eating itself. But even if I wanted to sneak food from the kitchens, even if I had any appetite, I’m not sure that I could keep it down.

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