“Be right back,” Mason mutters, but I don’t pay attention to which direction he stalks off in because Maisie’s meltdown is over.
Across the bay, roller coasters rise out of the trees. A freighter steams toward the mouth of the lake and seagulls catch rides on the breeze. Downtown Sandusky is old and charming, with restaurants and wide sidewalks where they probably have outdoor dining in the summer. Cars drive past frequently, but unlike at home, it’s not an incessant, noisy flow.
Dad took a job with an insurance company in Fort Lauderdale after he was discharged from the army. Mom told me later that she always thought the city felt soulless. But after he walked out, the rest of us were too settled to move. We already had friends and Anna was on a rec league soccer team for little kids. Later, I was first clarinet in the marching band. Anna made the JV soccer team. Mom got promoted at the bank. I met Brian. Anna lost Ben. Noisy, fast-paced Fort Lauderdale was home. But now that I’m getting used to the quiet, I’ve never slept as soundly as I do on Kelleys Island.
Maisie has moved over to the slide when Mason returns, carrying a stack of Styrofoam takeaway boxes, a couple cans of soda, and a carton of milk balanced on top. I grab the drinks, and he spreads the boxes on a nearby picnic table, identifying the contents as he points to each.
“Fries. Fish. And a hot dog for Maisie, in case she’s not a fan of fish.”
He opens one of the boxes to reveal a pile of thickly breaded, deep-fried butterflied fillets. “Lake Erie yellow perch is a local delicacy. Best in the world.”
“That’s a bold claim to make. Especially to a girl from Florida.”
He shrugs a shoulder. “I stand behind it.”
I reach for a piece of fish, then take a bite. Inside, it’s firm, yet flaky. It’s not meaty like mahi or tuna, but it doesn’t fall apart like tilapia or pompano. The taste is a little sweet and very mild. “Wow. Okay, so … you might have a case. This is incredible.”
“We’re lucky it’s early in the season.” Mason picks up a plastic knife and cuts Maisie’s hot dog into three smaller sections. The motion seems practiced. Experienced. “In the summer, the line for perch is out the door.”
“I want ketchup,” Maisie says.
Mason tears open a packet and squeezes the ketchup on only one section of hot dog. Somehow this man understands that a toddler at a playground is unlikely to eat more than a few bites of anything—and uneaten buns covered in ketchup are soggy and undesirable.
“Do you have kids?”
His hands go still. “Why do you ask?”
“You’re really good with Maisie,” I say. “And because every time I mention kids, you get this deer-in-the-headlights look.”
He looks beyond me. “Yeah.” He blinks. “I did.”
“Divorce?”
“No.” His voice is quiet, low. For the longest time, that’s all he says, and I wonder if he’s going to elaborate. Finally he clears his throat. “I, uh—I’m going to wait in the truck until you two have had enough playground time. Stay as long as you like.” He gets up from the picnic table and grabs a can of Pepsi before walking away.
“Maisie,” I call out, closing the takeaway boxes. “It’s time for us to go.”
“I’m not ready,” she calls from the swing set, where she’s got her belly draped over the seat of one of the swings. “I’m playing.”
“Mason has to get back to the island for work, so we need to leave.”
“But, Mama—”
“Now, please.”
* * *
The return trip to Kelleys Island is excruciating. Mason gives off a boiling kettle vibe the whole way and even Maisie must sense it, because she plays with her new pack of little plastic dinosaurs without the usual narration, which typically involves mermaids and at least one Disney princess. Without having to focus on driving—or talking—I notice things I didn’t see before. Pizza places. The local farm stand still closed for the season. And a giant fiberglass waiter standing on the side of the road. He’s wearing a black jacket and red bow tie, with metal framework where his hands should be—like there was once a sign or he was holding something. It’s probably some retro roadside attraction with a fun backstory and I’m desperately curious, but the quiet, devastating way Mason said no when I asked if he’d lost custody of his child in the divorce still haunts my heart.
Back at the house, I give Mason a wide berth as we stash away our groceries. Afterward I unload the plants and other purchases, and put Maisie down for a nap. Yōkai slips into the room as I shut the door. Downstairs, Mason isn’t in the kitchen or living room. And when I check his bedroom—which turns out to be a converted sunroom with French doors—I discover a desk drowning in paperwork and a futon made up for sleeping. It doesn’t make sense to me that he owns this big, beautiful old house and relegates himself to the tiniest space. What the hell has he been through?
I find him in the brewhouse, pouring a bit of beer from one of the large tanks into a small glass. He sniffs. Takes a sip. He startles a little when he notices me. “Oh,” he says. “Hey.”
“I’m beginning to think this arrangement isn’t going to work.”
Mason’s eyebrows pull together. “Why?”
“You are clearly uncomfortable around kids,” I say. “I told you I had a child. I gave you an out—even if I didn’t know it at the time—and you still offered me the job.”
He stares at me and seems to decide something. He walks past, beckoning me to follow. We go out into the taproom, where he grabs a couple of glasses. “Do you like beer?” He gives a short laugh. “That probably should have been my very first question, huh?”
“I do like beer,” I say, watching as he fills the first glass from one of the taps. “I prefer pilsners and lagers, and I really like a good Berliner Weisse.”
He moves on to the second glass. “Any special flavor?”
“Not really. Raspberry and woodruff are traditional, which … you probably already know, don’t you?”
“Yeah.”
He hands me a glass of beer, and I follow him outside, where we sit on the low front stoop of the building.
“This is my eighth attempt at a lager,” Mason says. “I can’t quite nail it down, and it’s been driving me up the fucking wall.”
I take a sip. “I don’t have anything constructive to offer because I’m not an expert. It tastes fine to me.”
“‘Fine’ is not great.”
“True.”
He takes a long swallow, draining half the glass in one go. “Ever hear of Fish Brothers?”
Fish Brothers is a brand that popped up seemingly overnight. One minute, no one had ever heard of it; the next, it was being served in every bar in town. The TV commercials usually featured two cartoon fish heads talking in thought bubbles about random stuff. Every time a new one came out, it would go viral and wind up as a meme. “Is this a trick question?”
Mason laughs. “Is that a yes?”
“I think most people have heard of Fish Brothers.”
“That was me.”