know?”
“Ha!” she said, and told him a dirty joke about a priest, a minister, and a rabbi taking the train to an ecumenical convention in Pittsburgh. The woman selling train tickets had big breasts, she said, and wore a low-cut blouse that showed a lot of cleavage and turned the clergymen into stuttering fools: the minister asked for his change in nipples and dimes; the rabbi asked for two pickets to Tittsburgh; but the priest would not be pushed on his heels and wouldn’t let the woman’s brazen apparel go without comment and declared, “When you get to Heaven, Saint Finger’s gonna shake his peter at you!”
Isidore was grateful for the bourbon and the bosoms, and he helped grill the walleye without feeling even a trace of garbageman. The clouds drifted unfettered across the sky, and sailboats crossed below.
After dinner, while the girls were upstairs washing up, Doc brought Isidore through a doorway lit up with red light from across Lake Erie and into a sitting room with a blue-and-white painting of many ship masts at harbor and a view of the water.
“Do you like boats?” Doc said.
“I’ve been in a rowboat,” Isidore said, looking out at the oceanic lake. “And I read Moby-Dick, but that’s as far as it goes. I imagine people sail a lot out here.”
“I don’t get out here as much as I’d like anymore,” Doc said. “But my brother sails in the merchant marine.”
“So he’s a real sailor.”
“I guess you could say that,” Doc said. His eyes twinkled as if to presage a laugh or the telling of a joke.
“I mean, I’m sure you’re a real sailor too,” Isidore said.
Doc crossed the Persian rug and put his jar of bourbon down on the shelf beside an old nautical instrument and blew the dust off the instrument and held it over the lamp.
“Was sickle-cell the first disease you tried?” Isidore said. “That was genius. The newspapers got it, but they have no idea how big it truly is.”
Doc looked at him with benevolence. “Edison forgot to mention luck in his inspiration-perspiration formula. But let’s have a vacation,” he said. “I want to show off my sextant here. This one belonged to Oliver Hazard Perry. You remember him? Of course you do, because you were in high school less than ten years ago. It’s been a little longer for me. Go ahead. Take a look.” Isidore took the instrument and Doc leaned up against the window and tapped on the windowpane behind him with the knuckle of his middle finger. “Perry repelled the British right out there in the Battle of Lake Erie, 1813. It happened. Isn’t that something? The sextant reminds me that it really happened. That the past really happened.”
Isidore couldn’t think of what to say so he said nothing. He wanted to ask Doc his question, but the question seemed to create its own weather and rocked his boat and upset his timing whenever he thought he would get the words out.
“There’s a huge painting of Perry in the capitol,” Doc said. “It’s crazy-looking. The canvas is probably three hundred square feet and all you can see are Perry’s eyes. Have you seen that?”
“No, sir,” Isidore said. Goddamn the question!
“It was given to me by a teacher of mine. He got it from his teacher, who got it from William Osler, who got it from Perry’s nephew or cousin or somebody who had goiter. ‘We have met the enemy and they are ours.’”
“You’re right,” Isidore said distractedly. “It’s like holding a piece of history in your hands.”
Doc turned around and leaned on the windowsill and looked out at Lake Erie. “There’s nothing like the sea, is there?”
“Cure for the November of the soul,” Isidore said, and he put the sextant back on the shelf. He felt emboldened by the thought of Herman Melville and almost asked what he had to ask. Instead he said, “Has your brother ever taken you aboard a freighter?”
“Me?” Doc said. “Oh, I was in the Pacific Fleet in the war. That was quite enough
“Ha!” she said, and told him a dirty joke about a priest, a minister, and a rabbi taking the train to an ecumenical convention in Pittsburgh. The woman selling train tickets had big breasts, she said, and wore a low-cut blouse that showed a lot of cleavage and turned the clergymen into stuttering fools: the minister asked for his change in nipples and dimes; the rabbi asked for two pickets to Tittsburgh; but the priest would not be pushed on his heels and wouldn’t let the woman’s brazen apparel go without comment and declared, “When you get to Heaven, Saint Finger’s gonna shake his peter at you!”
Isidore was grateful for the bourbon and the bosoms, and he helped grill the walleye without feeling even a trace of garbageman. The clouds drifted unfettered across the sky, and sailboats crossed below.
After dinner, while the girls were upstairs washing up, Doc brought Isidore through a doorway lit up with red light from across Lake Erie and into a sitting room with a blue-and-white painting of many ship masts at harbor and a view of the water.
“Do you like boats?” Doc said.
“I’ve been in a rowboat,” Isidore said, looking out at the oceanic lake. “And I read Moby-Dick, but that’s as far as it goes. I imagine people sail a lot out here.”
“I don’t get out here as much as I’d like anymore,” Doc said. “But my brother sails in the merchant marine.”
“So he’s a real sailor.”
“I guess you could say that,” Doc said. His eyes twinkled as if to presage a laugh or the telling of a joke.
“I mean, I’m sure you’re a real sailor too,” Isidore said.
Doc crossed the Persian rug and put his jar of bourbon down on the shelf beside an old nautical instrument and blew the dust off the instrument and held it over the lamp.
“Was sickle-cell the first disease you tried?” Isidore said. “That was genius. The newspapers got it, but they have no idea how big it truly is.”
Doc looked at him with benevolence. “Edison forgot to mention luck in his inspiration-perspiration formula. But let’s have a vacation,” he said. “I want to show off my sextant here. This one belonged to Oliver Hazard Perry. You remember him? Of course you do, because you were in high school less than ten years ago. It’s been a little longer for me. Go ahead. Take a look.” Isidore took the instrument and Doc leaned up against the window and tapped on the windowpane behind him with the knuckle of his middle finger. “Perry repelled the British right out there in the Battle of Lake Erie, 1813. It happened. Isn’t that something? The sextant reminds me that it really happened. That the past really happened.”
Isidore couldn’t think of what to say so he said nothing. He wanted to ask Doc his question, but the question seemed to create its own weather and rocked his boat and upset his timing whenever he thought he would get the words out.
“There’s a huge painting of Perry in the capitol,” Doc said. “It’s crazy-looking. The canvas is probably three hundred square feet and all you can see are Perry’s eyes. Have you seen that?”
“No, sir,” Isidore said. Goddamn the question!
“It was given to me by a teacher of mine. He got it from his teacher, who got it from William Osler, who got it from Perry’s nephew or cousin or somebody who had goiter. ‘We have met the enemy and they are ours.’”
“You’re right,” Isidore said distractedly. “It’s like holding a piece of history in your hands.”
Doc turned around and leaned on the windowsill and looked out at Lake Erie. “There’s nothing like the sea, is there?”
“Cure for the November of the soul,” Isidore said, and he put the sextant back on the shelf. He felt emboldened by the thought of Herman Melville and almost asked what he had to ask. Instead he said, “Has your brother ever taken you aboard a freighter?”
“Me?” Doc said. “Oh, I was in the Pacific Fleet in the war. That was quite enough
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