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There
’
s
no
reason
to
feel
furtive
walking
in
the
early
morning
in
New
Baytown
.
Wee
Willie
makes
little
jokes
about
it
but
most
people
seeing
me
walking
toward
the
bay
at
three
in
the
morning
would
suppose
I
was
going
fishing
and
not
give
it
another
thought
.
Our
people
have
all
sorts
of
fishing
theories
,
some
of
them
secret
like
family
recipes
,
and
such
things
are
respected
and
respectable
.
The
street
lights
made
the
hard
white
frost
on
the
lawns
and
sidewalks
glint
like
millions
of
tiny
diamonds
.
Such
a
frost
takes
a
footprint
and
there
were
none
ahead
.
I
have
always
from
the
time
I
was
a
child
felt
a
curious
excitement
walking
in
new
unmarked
snow
or
frost
.
It
is
like
being
first
in
a
new
world
,
a
deep
,
satisfying
sense
of
discovery
of
something
clean
and
new
,
unused
,
undirtied
.
The
usual
nightfolk
,
the
cats
,
don
’
t
like
to
walk
on
frost
.
I
remember
once
,
on
a
dare
,
I
stepped
out
barefoot
on
a
frosty
path
and
it
felt
like
a
burn
to
my
feet
.
But
now
in
galoshes
and
thick
socks
I
put
the
first
scars
on
the
glittering
newness
.
Where
Porlock
crosses
Torquay
,
that
’
s
where
the
bicycle
factory
is
,
just
off
Hicks
Street
,
the
clean
frost
was
scarred
with
long
foot
-
dragged
tracks
.
Danny
Taylor
,
a
restless
,
unsteady
ghost
,
wanting
to
be
somewhere
else
and
dragging
there
and
wanting
to
be
somewhere
else
.
Danny
,
the
town
drunk
.
Every
town
has
one
,
I
guess
.
Danny
Taylor
—
so
many
town
heads
shook
slowly
from
side
to
side
—
good
family
,
old
family
,
last
of
the
line
,
good
education
.
Didn
’
t
he
have
some
trouble
at
the
Academy
?
Why
doesn
’
t
he
straighten
up
?
He
’
s
killing
himself
with
booze
and
that
’
s
wrong
because
Danny
’
s
a
gentleman
.
It
’
s
a
shame
,
begging
money
for
booze
.
It
’
s
a
comfort
that
his
parents
aren
’
t
alive
to
see
it
.
It
would
kill
them
—
but
they
’
re
dead
already
.
But
that
’
s
New
Baytown
talking
.
In
me
Danny
is
a
raw
sorrow
and
out
of
that
a
guilt
.
I
should
be
able
to
help
him
.
I
’
ve
tried
,
but
he
won
’
t
let
me
.
Danny
is
as
near
to
a
brother
as
I
ever
had
,
same
age
and
growing
up
,
same
weight
and
strength
.
Maybe
my
guilt
comes
because
I
am
my
brother
’
s
keeper
and
I
have
not
saved
him
.
With
a
feeling
that
deep
down
,
excuses
—
even
valid
ones
—
give
no
relief
.
Taylors
—
as
old
a
family
as
Hawleys
or
Bakers
or
any
of
the
others
.
In
childhood
I
can
remember
no
picnic
,
no
circus
,
no
competition
,
no
Christmas
without
Danny
beside
me
as
close
as
my
own
right
arm
.
Maybe
if
we
had
gone
to
college
together
this
wouldn
’
t
have
happened
.
I
went
to
Harvard
—
luxuriated
in
languages
,
bathed
in
the
humanities
,
lodged
in
the
old
,
the
beautiful
,
the
obscure
,
indulged
myself
with
knowledge
utterly
useless
in
running
a
grocery
store
,
as
it
developed
.
And
always
I
wished
Danny
could
be
with
me
on
that
bright
and
excited
pilgrimage
.
But
Danny
was
bred
for
the
sea
.
His
appointment
to
the
Naval
Academy
was
planned
and
verified
and
certain
even
when
we
were
kids
.
His
father
sewed
up
the
appointment
every
time
we
got
a
new
Congressman
.
Three
years
with
honors
and
then
expelled
.
It
killed
his
parents
,
they
say
,
and
it
killed
most
of
Danny
.
All
that
remained
was
this
shuffling
sorrow
—
this
wandering
night
sorrow
cadging
dimes
for
a
pint
of
skull
-
buster
.
I
think
the
English
would
say
,
"
He
’
s
let
the
side
down
,
"
and
that
always
wounds
the
let
-
downer
more
than
the
side
.
Danny
’
s
a
night
wanderer
now
,
an
early
-
morning
man
,
a
lonely
,
dragging
thing
.
When
he
asks
for
a
quarter
for
skull
-
buster
his
eyes
beg
you
to
forgive
him
because
he
can
’
t
forgive
himself
.
He
sleeps
in
a
shack
in
back
of
the
boat
works
where
Wilburs
used
to
be
shipbuilders
.
I
stooped
over
his
track
to
see
whether
he
was
headed
home
or
away
.
By
the
scuff
of
the
frost
he
was
going
out
and
I
might
meet
him
any
place
.
Wee
Willie
wouldn
’
t
lock
him
up
.
What
would
be
the
good
?
There
was
no
question
where
I
was
going
.
I
had
seen
and
felt
and
smelled
it
before
I
got
out
of
bed
.
The
Old
Harbor
is
pretty
far
gone
now
.
After
the
new
breakwater
went
in
and
the
municipal
pier
,
sand
and
silt
crept
in
and
shallowed
that
once
great
anchorage
sheltered
by
the
jagged
teeth
of
Whitsun
Reef
.
And
where
once
were
shipways
and
ropewalks
and
warehouses
and
whole
families
of
coopers
to
make
the
whale
-
oil
casks
,
and
docks
too
over
which
the
bowsprits
of
whalers
could
project
to
their
chain
stays
and
figure
-
or
fiddleheads
.
Three
-
masters
they
were
usually
,
square
-
rigged
;
the
after
mast
carried
square
sails
as
well
as
boom
-
and
-
gaff
spanker
—
deep
-
hulled
ships
built
to
suffer
the
years
at
sea
in
any
weather
.
The
flying
jib
boom
was
a
separate
spar
and
the
double
dolphin
-
striker
served
as
spritsail
gaffs
as
well
.
I
have
a
steel
engraving
of
the
Old
Harbor
chockablock
with
ships
,
and
some
faded
photographs
on
tin
,
but
I
don
’
t
really
need
them
.
I
know
the
harbor
and
I
know
the
ships
.
Grandfather
rebuilt
it
for
me
with
his
stick
made
from
a
narwhal
’
s
horn
and
he
drilled
me
in
the
nomenclature
,
rapping
out
the
terms
with
his
stick
against
a
tide
-
bared
stump
of
a
pile
of
what
was
once
the
Hawley
dock
,
a
fierce
old
man
with
a
white
whisker
fringe
.
I
loved
him
so
much
I
ached
from
it
.
