all were. The longer until his animals reached legal size, the more likely he was to lose them to predators, pollution and disease. And in the meantime, well, that was his money lying there, his investment account underwater, and as likely to drown as not.
* * * *
It wasn’t until Rid left the grant, frustrated, the last to go, waiting until the wheels of his truck were sinking in the advancing water and there was no part of his grant he could work, that CiCi crossed his mind again. He’d not have thought about her then—his mind was mired in the mess of his nets and worrying the whole expanse of this lawsuit business—except that he saw her house over across the little horseshoe-shaped beach as his truck bumped up onto the access road. The houses near CiCi’s had been there forever and belonged, for the most part, to natives. But as the property up on the bluffs over the bay had all been snatched up, there was increasing opportunity (the real estate agents’ favorite word) to sell the old places down at sea level, the ones without the spectacular views. Already, a couple had been demolished to make way for the glass castles. One was only a couple of houses from CiCi’s traditional Cape, a huge angular structure with jutting decks and skylights, ridiculously out of place to Rid’s eye. He’d said as much to Tomas, who’d replied that the owner didn’t care how it looked now: he’d just had the foresight to build there while he could still get the land, and get it more cheaply than up on the bluffs. Soon enough all the sea-level houses would be sold and demolished, the natives moved, and the house in question would be ideally placed. Like most natives, Rid looked on the newcomers and their mansions with a mixture of derision, anger and secret envy.
The horseshoe beach, reserved by the town for swimming, didn’t have grants in front of it. Rid briefly wondered if that would actually be a selling point. When he saw CiCi’s house, that’s what he thought first, would she sell it after her mother died, and to whom, for what? How could the tidal flats be private property? That made no sense. There was obviously a mistake in all this, one that would be straightened out in time. His mind wouldn’t hold an unbroken thought, only pieces. Still, when he saw her house, he did think of her. And when he thought of her, he was ashamed.
He’d felt it before, with other women. They try to be dignified, let a man leave when he needs to leave. Wants to leave. Whatever. Something like desperation starts to leak in right at the end, though, as if a good watertight seal just springs a tiny leak. And any leak can sink a boat. Just give it time to work, work, work. Anyway, he’d heard her, though he pretended not to. The business about the accident-child being deformed. Like that made some difference. The reason he hadn’t turned around was simple and direct. He had to get to his dog and his grant. He couldn’t let himself be finagled into staying, not today, not after a blow had done whatever to his nets and his stock. There was another reason, too, though. He didn’t have any idea what difference it was supposed to make, what she expected or hoped for in reaction, that she’d have sailed that out like a lasso to snag him. He didn’t know what to say or how to help. If he had, maybe he’d have turned around and said, “Why don’t you come on with me today after all?”
* * * *
“Apparently, you’re not fishermen. You’re farmers. Sea farmers. Big difference,” the attorney said.
Of course, it would be Tomas—burly-looking in his overalls, untamed gray mane, weather-beaten face and hands—who spoke for them in his refined, educated voice and vocabulary. Among them, he was the scientist, the one who read, who studied environmental conditions and growing techniques. Just now he was working with the new Australian lines, hanging nursery bags from lines suspended in deeper water to increase their exposure to
* * * *
It wasn’t until Rid left the grant, frustrated, the last to go, waiting until the wheels of his truck were sinking in the advancing water and there was no part of his grant he could work, that CiCi crossed his mind again. He’d not have thought about her then—his mind was mired in the mess of his nets and worrying the whole expanse of this lawsuit business—except that he saw her house over across the little horseshoe-shaped beach as his truck bumped up onto the access road. The houses near CiCi’s had been there forever and belonged, for the most part, to natives. But as the property up on the bluffs over the bay had all been snatched up, there was increasing opportunity (the real estate agents’ favorite word) to sell the old places down at sea level, the ones without the spectacular views. Already, a couple had been demolished to make way for the glass castles. One was only a couple of houses from CiCi’s traditional Cape, a huge angular structure with jutting decks and skylights, ridiculously out of place to Rid’s eye. He’d said as much to Tomas, who’d replied that the owner didn’t care how it looked now: he’d just had the foresight to build there while he could still get the land, and get it more cheaply than up on the bluffs. Soon enough all the sea-level houses would be sold and demolished, the natives moved, and the house in question would be ideally placed. Like most natives, Rid looked on the newcomers and their mansions with a mixture of derision, anger and secret envy.
The horseshoe beach, reserved by the town for swimming, didn’t have grants in front of it. Rid briefly wondered if that would actually be a selling point. When he saw CiCi’s house, that’s what he thought first, would she sell it after her mother died, and to whom, for what? How could the tidal flats be private property? That made no sense. There was obviously a mistake in all this, one that would be straightened out in time. His mind wouldn’t hold an unbroken thought, only pieces. Still, when he saw her house, he did think of her. And when he thought of her, he was ashamed.
He’d felt it before, with other women. They try to be dignified, let a man leave when he needs to leave. Wants to leave. Whatever. Something like desperation starts to leak in right at the end, though, as if a good watertight seal just springs a tiny leak. And any leak can sink a boat. Just give it time to work, work, work. Anyway, he’d heard her, though he pretended not to. The business about the accident-child being deformed. Like that made some difference. The reason he hadn’t turned around was simple and direct. He had to get to his dog and his grant. He couldn’t let himself be finagled into staying, not today, not after a blow had done whatever to his nets and his stock. There was another reason, too, though. He didn’t have any idea what difference it was supposed to make, what she expected or hoped for in reaction, that she’d have sailed that out like a lasso to snag him. He didn’t know what to say or how to help. If he had, maybe he’d have turned around and said, “Why don’t you come on with me today after all?”
* * * *
“Apparently, you’re not fishermen. You’re farmers. Sea farmers. Big difference,” the attorney said.
Of course, it would be Tomas—burly-looking in his overalls, untamed gray mane, weather-beaten face and hands—who spoke for them in his refined, educated voice and vocabulary. Among them, he was the scientist, the one who read, who studied environmental conditions and growing techniques. Just now he was working with the new Australian lines, hanging nursery bags from lines suspended in deeper water to increase their exposure to
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