Mike, the boys had grown up around the water and had been going out on the boats since their hands were big enough to grip a rail. At eighteen and sixteen Jerry Joe and Nicholas made responsible, knowledgeable mates on the two boats.
Slamming the truck door, he waved to the boys and headed for the house.
He’d grown up in the place and was unbothered by its doubling as the charter fishing office.
The front door might be closed at times, but it was never locked; already at
6:55
it was shoved as far back as the buckled wood floor would allow and propped open by a six-pack of Coca-Cola. The walls of the office, panelled with knotty pine, were covered with lures, spoons, insect repellent, a two-way radio, fishing licence forms, Door County maps, landing nets, . two mounted chinook salmon and dozens of photos of , tourists with their prize catches. On one rack hung yellow slickers for sale, on another a rainbow of sweatshirts lauding
Severson’s charter fishing, gills rock. Piled on the floor were more six-packs of canned soft drinks while on a card table in the corner a twenty-five-cup coffeepot was already steaming with free brew for the customers.
Circling the counter with its vintage brass cash register, Eric headed for the back, through a narrow door into a room that had once been a side porch but now housed a supply of Styrofoam coolers and the ice machine.
On the far side of the porch another door led into thekitchen.
‘Mornin’, Ma,’ he said, walking in.
‘Mornin’ yourself.’
He reached into the cupboard for a thick, white cup and poured himself coffee from a chipped enamel pot on a chipped enamel gas range - the same one that had been there since he was a boy. Its grates were thick with charred boiloyer, and the paint on the wall behind it wore a yellow halo, but Ma was unapologetically undomestic - with one exception: she baked bread twice each week, refusing to put store-bought bread in her mouth, claiming, ‘That stuf’ll
kill you!’
She was mixing bread dough this morning, on an old gateleg table covered with blue oilcloth. To the best of Eric’s memory that oilcloth was the only thing that had been replaced in the room since 1959 when the antique wooden icebox had gone and Ma had bought the Gibson refrigerator, which now was a yellowed relic, but still running.
Ma never threw anything away with a day’s use left in it.
She was dressed in her usual getup, blue jeans and a tight aqua-blue T-shirt that made her resemble a stack of three inner tubes. Anna Severson loved T-shirts with slogans. Today’s bore the words i do it with younger men, and a picture of an old woman and a young man fishing. Her tight, nickel-coloured curls held the fresh shape of home-permanent rods, and her nose - what there was of it – held up a paar of glasses that were nearly as old as the Gibson and their lenses nearly as yellowed.
Turning with the cup in his hand, Eric watched her move to a cupboard to unearth bread pans. ‘How’re you today?’ he inquired. “Huh?’
“That ornery, huh?’
‘You come in here just to drink my coffee and give me grief’?.’
‘That what you call this?’ He looked into the cup. ‘It’d make a truck driver wince.’
‘Then drink that coloured water in the office.’
‘You know I hate those buffalo board cups.’
‘Then drink your coffee at home. Or don’t that wife of yours know how to make it? She get home last night?’ “Yup. About ten-fifteen.’ ‘Ha.’
‘Ma, don’t start with me.’
‘That’s some kind of life, you living there and her living all over the US of A.’ She smeared lard in a bread pan and clunked it down on the oilcloth. ‘Your dad would of come and dragged me home by the hair if I’d’ve tried something like that.’
‘You haven’t got enough hair. What’d you do to it, by the way?’ He pretended a serious assessment of her ugly, tight curls.
‘Went over to Barbara’s last night and had her kink me up.’ Barbara was
Slamming the truck door, he waved to the boys and headed for the house.
He’d grown up in the place and was unbothered by its doubling as the charter fishing office.
The front door might be closed at times, but it was never locked; already at
6:55
it was shoved as far back as the buckled wood floor would allow and propped open by a six-pack of Coca-Cola. The walls of the office, panelled with knotty pine, were covered with lures, spoons, insect repellent, a two-way radio, fishing licence forms, Door County maps, landing nets, . two mounted chinook salmon and dozens of photos of , tourists with their prize catches. On one rack hung yellow slickers for sale, on another a rainbow of sweatshirts lauding
Severson’s charter fishing, gills rock. Piled on the floor were more six-packs of canned soft drinks while on a card table in the corner a twenty-five-cup coffeepot was already steaming with free brew for the customers.
Circling the counter with its vintage brass cash register, Eric headed for the back, through a narrow door into a room that had once been a side porch but now housed a supply of Styrofoam coolers and the ice machine.
On the far side of the porch another door led into thekitchen.
‘Mornin’, Ma,’ he said, walking in.
‘Mornin’ yourself.’
He reached into the cupboard for a thick, white cup and poured himself coffee from a chipped enamel pot on a chipped enamel gas range - the same one that had been there since he was a boy. Its grates were thick with charred boiloyer, and the paint on the wall behind it wore a yellow halo, but Ma was unapologetically undomestic - with one exception: she baked bread twice each week, refusing to put store-bought bread in her mouth, claiming, ‘That stuf’ll
kill you!’
She was mixing bread dough this morning, on an old gateleg table covered with blue oilcloth. To the best of Eric’s memory that oilcloth was the only thing that had been replaced in the room since 1959 when the antique wooden icebox had gone and Ma had bought the Gibson refrigerator, which now was a yellowed relic, but still running.
Ma never threw anything away with a day’s use left in it.
She was dressed in her usual getup, blue jeans and a tight aqua-blue T-shirt that made her resemble a stack of three inner tubes. Anna Severson loved T-shirts with slogans. Today’s bore the words i do it with younger men, and a picture of an old woman and a young man fishing. Her tight, nickel-coloured curls held the fresh shape of home-permanent rods, and her nose - what there was of it – held up a paar of glasses that were nearly as old as the Gibson and their lenses nearly as yellowed.
Turning with the cup in his hand, Eric watched her move to a cupboard to unearth bread pans. ‘How’re you today?’ he inquired. “Huh?’
“That ornery, huh?’
‘You come in here just to drink my coffee and give me grief’?.’
‘That what you call this?’ He looked into the cup. ‘It’d make a truck driver wince.’
‘Then drink that coloured water in the office.’
‘You know I hate those buffalo board cups.’
‘Then drink your coffee at home. Or don’t that wife of yours know how to make it? She get home last night?’ “Yup. About ten-fifteen.’ ‘Ha.’
‘Ma, don’t start with me.’
‘That’s some kind of life, you living there and her living all over the US of A.’ She smeared lard in a bread pan and clunked it down on the oilcloth. ‘Your dad would of come and dragged me home by the hair if I’d’ve tried something like that.’
‘You haven’t got enough hair. What’d you do to it, by the way?’ He pretended a serious assessment of her ugly, tight curls.
‘Went over to Barbara’s last night and had her kink me up.’ Barbara was
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