"No, Els. Not because of that." I didn't know how to explain it to her. I'm not sure I've ever figured out how. "You know how in your story, nobody climbs the stairs?"
She looked down at the book. She nodded.
"I think Mom just figured out that she forgot to climb the stairs," I said. "For a long time. And so did I. And we're both really sorry."
Elsie thought about this. She ran her thumb over the edge of the book cover. Then she said, in a very small voice, "It's a lot of stairs."
"I know it is."
"A hundred and twelve."
"I know." I put my arm around her and she let me, stiffly at first, and then she leaned. "I've got good knees," I said. "I climb ladders in an engine room all day. I can do a hundred and twelve stairs."
She didn't say anything. But she didn't move away either. We sat on that bench in the empty hallway until Carly came out of the classroom with her face washed and her hair redone and the envelope in her purse, and she locked the door behind her, and she looked at Elsie on the bench, and Elsie looked at her, and neither of them knew what to say, and the key went back on its hook by the office, where Elsie said it went.
The rest of that afternoon was Finn's birthday, because it had to be. He was six, and he'd seen me from the bounce castle, and he came tearing across the field in his paper crown screaming "DADDY DADDY DADDY," and I caught him and swung him up and he showed everybody within fifty feet the scar on his chest as proof that he was the birthday boy. He didn't know anything had happened. He wanted to know if I'd brought him a present from the boat. I gave him the folding knife I'd carried in my pocket for nine years, the one with the anchor on the handle, and Carly opened her mouth to say he was too young and then closed it again, and I told him he could have it when he was ten and I'd keep it for him till then, and he was happy with that. Kids are mostly happy with that.