“You’re a good boy, Zeus,” I said, wiping a tear from my eyes. Christmas couldn’t come soon enough. Dylan wasn’t coming home for Thanksgiving—too far, too expensive, too short a break, too crazy to travel that weekend. A “cute girl” had invited him to come to her parents’ home in Helena for that holiday, only two hours away. I was glad. I’d get her address and send them some bola de carne, which Dyllie loved. Meat-stuffed bread.
A rather large nose nudged my hand. This dog was already worth his weight in diamonds. “Who’s a good boy?” I asked, and his tail wagged. “Yes. You are correct. It’s you, Zeus.”
I got up and wandered through the house some more. Should I paint it and change it up a bit? Should I get a roommate? Because this being alone, even with a giant doggy, was tough. Especially picturing them, across town, gazing out at the stars and bay, cooing psycho-yoga-babble at each other.
The debt on this house was terrifying. I made about $80,000 a year, and Brad made about the same. We—I—had the mortgage and the home equity line of credit, which had paid for our renovations throughout the years and covered a portion of Dylan’s tuition. I still had student loans. My car had 130,000 miles on it and was going strong, but soon, that would change.
I could sell this place for well over two million dollars. I didn’t want to, but I could.
“We’re not going anywhere, buddy,” I told my dog. “We are staying right here.” He pushed his nose against me and flopped down at my feet.
It was going to be a long night.
* * *
I had Friday off, so after I took Zeus for a lengthy walk all the way to the ocean and back, cleaned the house and made some fish stock, then drove to Provincetown. The harbormaster waved to me as I drove to where the fishermen parked. Sure enough, the Goody Chapman was out, but it was afternoon, and I could wait.
The working end of MacMillan’s Wharf was one of my favorite places. Unlike my sister, I loved the smell of raw fish, diesel fuel and salt water. I loved knowing every boat in the fleet by its silhouette, loved the rough wood and taciturn fishermen and women. I loved the creak and groan of the boats when they moored, the clank of the ropes against masts, the noise and music of Provincetown coming in little gusts on the wind.
Today was that perfect Cape Cod day of the deepest blue sky you could imagine. Seagulls hovered and cried, gliding, waiting for someone to unload their catch or throw unused bait into the water. Tourists came to take pictures of the fleet, charmed to see how their expensive meals got from the ocean to their plates.
“Those people pay for the roof over your head,” Dad used to tell Hannah and me. “Be respectful.”
And so, when someone asked a question, I’d answer, an informal, unpaid tour guide, talking about the different kinds of boats, the fish they brought in, the Portuguese heritage in the fleet. Yes, I was the daughter of a captain. No, I wasn’t a fisherman myself. Yes, I was Portuguese, and yes, I could recommend some great places to eat.
I sat on the rough edge of the wharf, my feet dangling over the side. When I was a kid, I’d jump in for a swim at high tide. Sometimes the tourists would throw us quarters, and we’d swim down and catch them—me, Maria, Dante, some of the other kids of the fleet. We’d gather without hesitation, play for a day, not see each other for a month, and pick right up where we’d left off, comfortable in the familiarity of a shared place, of being from here.
I missed those days.
Sunsets on the Cape lasted for hours, the sky becoming increasingly beautiful. The air turned almost liquid with golden light, and a person couldn’t help feeling that . . . I don’t know. That God loved them, because there were sunsets like this. Skies like this, with clouds and changing colors and the sounds of piping plovers, cormorants and gulls. How Dylan loved coming here, watching his grandfather bring the Goody Chapman home. How proud he was to be the grandson of a fisherman.
I heard the Goody Chapman before I saw her. She came around the breakwater, and there was Dad, standing at the wheel, just like old times, Ben Hallowell next to him, leaning on the gunwale. Ben was like a son to my father, I supposed. Even after the accident.
I stood at their slip. Ben tossed me a heavy rope, and I automatically looped it over the piling.
“Hey, Squash,” my father said. Nothing like a childhood nickname to keep you humble. Dad had told me a thousand times that my head had been shaped like a squash when I was born, thanks to Mom’s long and torturous labor. Molding was the medical term, but I kind of liked squash-head, personally.