you.”
“Two nine-year-old boys stuck in the library?” Sarah’s voice rose. “When they’d rather be fishing with their dad?”
LeRoy made a fist and smacked it into the palm of his left hand. Sarah flinched.
“All right!” she snapped. “I’ll take them.”
LeRoy got up before dawn and dressed in the clothes he’d laid out the night before, then drove to Edgartown and down the street that led to the ferry. His van was first in line for the minute-and-a-half crossing to Chappaquiddick, an island that had been connected to the Vineyard by a slim barrier bar until the ocean cut through.
“Morning, Roy.” The ferry captain slipped wooden chocks under the front wheels of LeRoy’s van.
“Morning, Bart.”
“Raised the rates again,” said Bart, collecting the fare. “The current’s wicked since the ocean cut through the bar. Burns more fuel, and fuel’s outta sight.”
The ferry crabbed against the fierce new current, and in less than two minutes Bart nosed the ferry into the dock on the Chappaquiddick side, took down the chain at the bow, and removed the chocks from LeRoy’s wheels.
“The blues are running pretty good at Wasque,” said Bart, pronouncing it WAY-squee, the way Islanders do. “I like a baked bluefish.”
“I’ll save a couple for you,” said LeRoy. “Too oily for my taste.”
LeRoy drove off the ferry onto the paved road and continued to the end of a dirt road, where he parked. He hiked the short distance through the pines to the wooden steps that led down the cliff face to the beach. There he stopped to watch the sun rise out of the wild sea, lighting the pond at the foot of the cliff and beach beyond.
Suddenly, he heard the voice of Jerry Sparks and turned around. Nothing. No one. Only a catbird, mocking him.
Shaking with the thought of Jerry Sparks’s ghost calling to him, he carried his fishing gear down the steep steps, taking in deep breaths of clean salt air. He hiked along the wooden walkway that skirted the pond, then trudged the half mile down the beach to the outermost corner of the Island. Every few steps, he looked around to see what was behind him.
The southeastern corner of Martha’s Vineyard forms a sharp right angle, where the ruler-straight south-facing beach meets the equally ruler-straight east-facing beach. There tidal currents clash in confusion, stirring up bait and attracting blues and stripers.
A half dozen fishermen lined up in the surf. He knew a few by sight and he joined them, keeping his own distance to avoid tangled lines. He greeted Janet Messineo, the Island’s number-one fisherman, who nodded.
“Great fishing today,” she said, casting.
At noon, he drank water and ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. He could see the blues going after baitfish in the surf. Though everyone else seemed to have luck, he caught nothing.
He worked the surf all day, even after the tide changed and all the rest left with their quota of blues.
He came home after Sarah and the boys had gone to bed, weary, sunburned, and feeling rotten. He fixed himself a bacon and egg sandwich, drank a Bud, and crawled into bed. Sarah moved away from him.
When Sarah awoke on Sunday, LeRoy was gone. Fishing again, she supposed. She was in a foul mood. He hadn’t taken the twins fishing this morning, either. She might as well be a single parent. Worse, because Roy had been in such an ill temper lately, she’d found herself snapping at the boys, who’d done nothing wrong. She was making breakfast when there was a knock on the door. It was Emily Cameron, who occasionally baby-sat for them. She was holding a plastic shopping bag.
Sarah dried her hands on a paper towel. “Morning, Emily. What can I do for you?”
“I hope this isn’t a bad time, Mrs. Watts.”
In the kitchen, the twins were fighting over a box of cereal. A chair fell over.
“Boys!” Sarah called over her shoulder. “Whatever you’re doing, stop it!”
“I can come back later,” said
“Two nine-year-old boys stuck in the library?” Sarah’s voice rose. “When they’d rather be fishing with their dad?”
LeRoy made a fist and smacked it into the palm of his left hand. Sarah flinched.
“All right!” she snapped. “I’ll take them.”
LeRoy got up before dawn and dressed in the clothes he’d laid out the night before, then drove to Edgartown and down the street that led to the ferry. His van was first in line for the minute-and-a-half crossing to Chappaquiddick, an island that had been connected to the Vineyard by a slim barrier bar until the ocean cut through.
“Morning, Roy.” The ferry captain slipped wooden chocks under the front wheels of LeRoy’s van.
“Morning, Bart.”
“Raised the rates again,” said Bart, collecting the fare. “The current’s wicked since the ocean cut through the bar. Burns more fuel, and fuel’s outta sight.”
The ferry crabbed against the fierce new current, and in less than two minutes Bart nosed the ferry into the dock on the Chappaquiddick side, took down the chain at the bow, and removed the chocks from LeRoy’s wheels.
“The blues are running pretty good at Wasque,” said Bart, pronouncing it WAY-squee, the way Islanders do. “I like a baked bluefish.”
“I’ll save a couple for you,” said LeRoy. “Too oily for my taste.”
LeRoy drove off the ferry onto the paved road and continued to the end of a dirt road, where he parked. He hiked the short distance through the pines to the wooden steps that led down the cliff face to the beach. There he stopped to watch the sun rise out of the wild sea, lighting the pond at the foot of the cliff and beach beyond.
Suddenly, he heard the voice of Jerry Sparks and turned around. Nothing. No one. Only a catbird, mocking him.
Shaking with the thought of Jerry Sparks’s ghost calling to him, he carried his fishing gear down the steep steps, taking in deep breaths of clean salt air. He hiked along the wooden walkway that skirted the pond, then trudged the half mile down the beach to the outermost corner of the Island. Every few steps, he looked around to see what was behind him.
The southeastern corner of Martha’s Vineyard forms a sharp right angle, where the ruler-straight south-facing beach meets the equally ruler-straight east-facing beach. There tidal currents clash in confusion, stirring up bait and attracting blues and stripers.
A half dozen fishermen lined up in the surf. He knew a few by sight and he joined them, keeping his own distance to avoid tangled lines. He greeted Janet Messineo, the Island’s number-one fisherman, who nodded.
“Great fishing today,” she said, casting.
At noon, he drank water and ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. He could see the blues going after baitfish in the surf. Though everyone else seemed to have luck, he caught nothing.
He worked the surf all day, even after the tide changed and all the rest left with their quota of blues.
He came home after Sarah and the boys had gone to bed, weary, sunburned, and feeling rotten. He fixed himself a bacon and egg sandwich, drank a Bud, and crawled into bed. Sarah moved away from him.
When Sarah awoke on Sunday, LeRoy was gone. Fishing again, she supposed. She was in a foul mood. He hadn’t taken the twins fishing this morning, either. She might as well be a single parent. Worse, because Roy had been in such an ill temper lately, she’d found herself snapping at the boys, who’d done nothing wrong. She was making breakfast when there was a knock on the door. It was Emily Cameron, who occasionally baby-sat for them. She was holding a plastic shopping bag.
Sarah dried her hands on a paper towel. “Morning, Emily. What can I do for you?”
“I hope this isn’t a bad time, Mrs. Watts.”
In the kitchen, the twins were fighting over a box of cereal. A chair fell over.
“Boys!” Sarah called over her shoulder. “Whatever you’re doing, stop it!”
“I can come back later,” said
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