The boy wakes up to the screams of some other family’s lawnmower. He’s done something wrong. He lies in bed for some time, then slunks down to the kitchen. Little brother’s bare feet swing beneath the table. Captain Crunch pellets scatter the surface.
The boy reaches for the box. ‘All gone,’ little brother says, looking into his bowl, filled with orange milk. The boy picks loose pellets, puts them into his mouth, and presses them against the back of his teeth.
‘Mom says you have to go with Dad,’ little brother says.
‘What?’ The boy panics. He did something wrong. Concerning Dad.
‘She says you have to go with Dad in the car.’
‘Oh.’
‘You need to wake Dad up. Mom says so. He’s on the couch.’ Bowl to chin, little brother laps orange milk, like a cat.
*
The boy peers over the dashboard. ‘Where are we going?’
Dad’s white hands grip the wheel. ‘I got to see some people.’
Dad pulls into a parking lot in front of a grocery store. Men in white butcher aprons march in a circle, holding red-lettered signs. The men watch Dad walk painfully to them, like his feet hurt. They all start talking at once. Dad shrugs. One big man looks angry. He waves his arms. Dad says a few things, and the big man’s arms drop. He smiles. He shakes Dad’s hand, hard. The other men clap Dad’s back. They return to their circle. Dad returns to the car.
‘Who are those men?’
‘Some men I used to work with.’
‘What did you tell them?’
Dad swerves back into traffic. A truck just misses them. ‘I told them they should go back to work.’
The boy’s stomach aches with hunger. Maybe they’ll head home. He did something bad. Maybe Dad doesn’t know yet. Dad pulls onto the Eastbound lane, toward the end of the island.
‘Where are we going now?’
‘Fishing.’ The boy’s heart sinks. ‘I think we need to go fishing.’
*
Now the boy remembers the bad thing. The huge stuffed blue marlin, covered in dust, standing above Dad’s desk. There’s a photo next to it, framed in silver. It’s Dad, in a bathing suit, a grinning young man standing next to the marlin. The marlin hangs from a hook, on a dock, in front of a big white boat. Yesterday, staring at Dad’s smile, the boy pressed his thumb against the marlin, gently at first, then as hard as he could. It broke through, leaving a large hole in the tail. The boy tried to pull the piece back, but the dried flesh ripped. ‘I’m telling,’ little brother said, but did he?
*
They drive down a two-lane road surrounded by potato fields. The sour potato smell overpowers the boy. The road ends at a pier. They drive onto the deck of a white ferry.
The ferry blows its horn and pulls away from the dock. The boy wants to climb out and drink the ocean air.
Dad’s eyes are pressed shut. The boy reaches for the door latch. Dad’s arm stretches out suddenly and presses the lock down. ‘It’s not safe.’ The boy can barely see tips of white sails over the ferry’s sides.
‘Where are we going now?’ His eyes shut again, Dad doesn’t answer.
*
Dad stops at a dock-front store lined with lobster traps. Behind the store, tied to a dock, are a row of big white power boats. ‘Are you coming?’
The boy’s empty stomach folds over itself. He stares at the boats. ‘No?’
‘Suit yourself.’ In a minute, Dad hobbles out with two bamboo poles. Lines attach to little red bobbers. In the other hand he holds a white box coated in ice. Under his arm is a six-pack of Rheingold.
‘What’s that?’
‘Minnows.’ Dad pulls a can opener from the glove compartment, pops two triangles in the top of the first can, and drinks. He tucks the empty can under his seat and opens a second one.
*
On a causeway surrounded by grassy dunes, Dad pulls the car onto a sandy track. The wheels sink in the sand. Dad unbuttons his shirt, and drops it in his seat. The boy pulls his t-shirt over his head, throws it on his seat, and follows Dad onto a slick rock jetty. Dad’s walk is sturdier now. The last two beer cans dangle from his fingers. He pulls two minnows from the box. He pokes hooks through their eyes. He hands a pole to the boy. Dad swings the bait into the water. ‘Like this.’
They stand on the rocks and toss their lines. Gulls fuss and tumble from the sky. The smell of rotting sea vegetation dizzies the boy. Thirsty and nauseous, he watches the sun sink lazily toward the sea. ‘Lord help them,’ Dad says.
The boy should tell Dad, but he can’t. His line tugs. He panics, afraid to be pulled in the water. His arm jerks. A six inch fish spins from the water and back onto the rocks at their feet. ‘Huh,’ Dad says. They put down their poles and crouch. The fish stares up at them, hook looped firmly through its lip. The fish is green and brown, and a little blue, and there’s a spot of red around the mouth. Maybe, the boy thinks, it’s a baby fish. The fish takes a deep breath, then exhales. It takes a deeper breath, and inflates like a balloon. It exhales, making a hissing noise. On its fourth breath, it pops like a balloon. Fish meat and entrails splash across the rocks. The boy jumps back, terrified. ‘What is it?’
‘Blowfish.’ The young man in the marlin picture is smiling down at the boy. Startled, he bursts into laughter. Dad laughs back. It’s a rare sound, the roar of the ocean, the tinkle of sea glass.
‘It’s just a blowfish, son,’ Dad says. ‘It’s nothing to be afraid of.’
About the author
Frank Haberle is the author of two books: Shufflers (Flexible Press, Minneapolis, 2021), a story of transients moving through minimum-wage jobs in the 1980s; and Downlanders (Flexible Press 2023), following five lost souls into a fictional wilderness.
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