A Simple Distance by K. E. Silva Page A

magically at the entrance to the road that led to the family beach. Uncle Martin let out a war cry. Shifted down.
    The ruts in the clay road swallowed the tires halfway, rain water splashing out of them as we plunged forward. You have to keep moving not to get stuck in the holes.
    To tarish the road with gravel would have made the beach too accessible to others, who would certainly damage this family tradition, Tours Beach, if invited by the paving. But Uncle Martin had already dug the drainage paths along each side, so when the time came, he could pave the road in a single day by bringing in the tarish at dawn. They would only pave this road when they developed the area for tourists.
    Uncle Martin had recently sold a portion of the family’s land—to pay off some of Uncle George’s mounting medical bills—to the Socialist government, just before Archibald Hill, Susan’s uncle, passed away. The government promptly discovered a rich tarish reserve on the property and began a multimillion-dollar excavating operation to benefit the people of Baobique. But no sense in second guessing one’s self. When the time had come to make the decision, Uncle Martin had made it. He had pulled the family out of a hole and was satisfied with that.
    Grampy used to say a good sea bath would heal any wound. But Granny was frightened of our going to the beach, because some squatters had threatened to chop us up into tiny bits if we went there after Uncle Martin had the police tear down their thatched leaf shelters. The squatters had tried to reason; they told Uncle Martin, if he made them leave, they’d tell everyone he was not a nice man. My uncle was perplexed, asked them, Why would I want anyone to think I was a nice man?!
    When we reached the water, Uncle Martin and Uncle Charles stripped: Uncle Martin down to his briefs; Uncle Charles, prepared, to his Speedo. We entered with varying degrees of tolerance. Uncle Martin’s briefs turned translucent and we all began to float. On our backs in the warm sea, eyes on the changing shades of blue as the sun receded from the rest of our day, a few half-erased clouds here and there, Uncle Martin explained things to us. He explained that the dark areas in the water were schools of small silverfish, good to eat but hard to catch enough for a meal. When the moon was right, whenever that was, people came down with white sheets and scooped the silverfish up by the sheetfull and they twinkled like stars in the night. He explained why it was necessary to send his brother, Uncle George, to Martinique one last time for an MRI, to check the progression of his tumors. Certain family members could then be shown the true extent of the cancer, begin to let go of their denial. He explained that George’s law practice, the best on the island, was in jeopardy of being out-balanced by the other partner’s family, since Gerald’s son had just joined the firm. He explained it would only take a year or two for me, already an attorney under the U.S. system, to gain my license in the West Indies and promised me, if I worked hard, a respectable living should I ever choose to move to Baobique. I should think about it. Consider it.
    Shifting, Uncle Martin explained to us the difficulties he was having with his wife, how his desire to slow down his work pace was incompatible with her desire for more and more money. He explained to us we should never marry a woman , grinning widely at his joke, explaining to my shocked mother that woman and man are the same thing in law.
    He looked over at us, annoyed. Susan and I engaged in easy conversation, half-listening to him to be polite, attention fixed on each other instead.
    Just then a school of the small fish swam directly into my floating body, dozens upon dozens jumping out of the sea, onto my chest, my face, my flailing arms as I tried to move. Elevated tone, Uncle Martin explained that we should move away quickly. It meant the silverfish were being chased by a bigger