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"
I
know
—
poor
kid
.
Here
’
s
a
bag
.
Just
drop
the
flounders
in
it
.
Give
her
my
love
,
Joe
.
"
He
looked
me
long
in
the
eyes
as
though
he
hoped
to
draw
something
out
of
me
,
some
medicine
.
"
I
’
ll
do
that
,
Eth
,
"
he
said
.
"
I
’
ll
tell
her
.
"
Back
of
the
breakwater
the
county
dredger
was
working
,
its
giant
screw
augering
up
mud
and
shells
and
the
pumps
pushing
the
junk
through
pipe
on
pontoons
and
flinging
it
behind
the
black
-
tarred
bulkheads
on
the
shore
.
Its
running
lights
were
on
and
its
riding
lights
too
and
two
red
balls
were
hoisted
to
show
that
it
was
working
.
A
pale
cook
in
white
cap
and
apron
leaned
his
bare
arms
on
the
rail
and
looked
down
into
the
troubled
water
and
occasionally
he
spat
into
the
roil
.
The
wind
was
inshore
.
It
brought
from
the
dredger
the
stink
of
mud
and
long
-
dead
shells
and
tarnished
weed
together
with
the
sweet
smell
of
baking
cinnamon
in
apple
pie
.
The
great
auger
turned
with
majesty
,
boring
out
the
channel
.
Then
with
a
flash
of
pink
the
sails
of
a
lithe
yacht
caught
the
afterglow
and
came
about
and
lost
the
light
.
I
wandered
back
and
turned
left
past
the
new
marina
and
the
old
yacht
club
and
the
American
Legion
Hall
with
brown
-
painted
machine
guns
mounted
beside
its
steps
.
At
the
boatyard
they
were
working
late
trying
to
get
the
stored
craft
painted
and
ready
against
the
coming
summer
.
The
unusual
cold
of
the
early
spring
had
set
them
back
with
the
painting
and
varnishing
.
I
walked
well
past
the
boat
works
and
then
down
through
the
weed
-
grown
lot
to
the
harbor
’
s
edge
and
then
slowly
back
toward
Danny
’
s
lean
-
to
shack
.
And
I
whistled
an
old
tune
against
his
wishing
me
to
.
And
it
seemed
he
did
.
His
shack
was
empty
but
I
knew
as
surely
as
if
I
saw
him
that
Danny
was
lying
hidden
in
the
weeds
,
perhaps
between
the
huge
square
timbers
that
were
scattered
about
.
And
since
I
knew
he
would
come
back
as
soon
as
I
was
gone
,
I
took
the
brown
envelope
from
my
pocket
and
propped
it
on
his
dirty
bed
and
I
went
away
,
still
whistling
,
except
for
one
moment
when
I
called
softly
,
"
Good
-
by
,
Danny
.
Good
luck
.
"
And
I
went
on
whistling
back
to
the
street
and
over
to
Porlock
and
past
the
great
houses
to
Elm
and
so
to
my
own
—
the
Hawley
house
.
I
found
my
Mary
in
the
eye
of
a
storm
,
quiet
and
slowly
rotating
herself
with
debris
and
great
winds
surging
around
her
.
She
directed
the
devastation
in
her
white
nylon
slip
and
slippers
;
her
new
-
washed
hair
clustered
on
curlers
on
her
head
like
a
large
litter
of
suckling
sausages
.
I
can
’
t
remember
when
we
had
been
out
to
dinner
at
a
restaurant
.
We
couldn
’
t
afford
it
and
had
lost
the
habit
.
Mary
’
s
wild
excitement
fluttered
the
children
on
the
edges
of
her
personal
hurricane
.
She
fed
them
,
washed
them
,
issued
orders
,
rescinded
orders
.
The
ironing
board
was
standing
in
the
kitchen
with
my
dear
and
valued
clothing
pressed
and
hanging
on
the
backs
of
chairs
.
Mary
would
pause
in
her
gallop
to
swipe
the
iron
at
a
dress
she
was
pressing
.
The
children
were
almost
too
excited
to
eat
,
but
they
had
their
orders
.
