Read Online On Little Wings by Regina Sirois - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Regina Sirois
Tags: Fiction
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probably stop if you’re hungry.” My stomach was painfully empty now that it was no longer full of fear. I nodded and told her that sounded great.
“Would you like to stop at a crab shack? Or a lobster house? Whatever you want. We are celebrating. We could grab some cod sandwiches at the next town.”
“Oh,” I stalled uncomfortably. “It doesn’t matter. But I’m not really. . . I don’t, um, like … seafood that much,” I apologized.
Sarah’s eyebrows inched up. “Really? Not any seafood?”
“Fish is okay. I can do fish… sometimes.” I was stretching. My seafood tolerance usually ended at fish sticks with ketchup.
“No shrimp? Crab? Lobster? Mussels? Clam?” I tried to hide my shudder at the word ‘mussels’. I once saw a woman eat them and thought I’d be ill just from the sight.
“I’m sorry,” I answered, praying she didn’t hold it against me.
Sarah’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, still unable to believe me. “What about Claire? Doesn’t she ever cook seafood?”
“Not really. My father’s allergic to shellfish.” I cringed, waiting for her reaction. Her eyebrows contracted and she chewed softly on her bottom lip. “But we can go wherever you want. I’ll find something I like.”
“No!” she exclaimed, grabbing my knee and smiling. “No, you don’t have to eat anything you don’t like. I was just thinking. I made lobster spaghetti for your first dinner tonight and that isn’t going to work, is it? I should have asked you first.” She smiled kindly and I felt my face melting with hot embarrassment. They put lobster in spaghetti ?
“I’m so sorry. I’m not trying to be rude,” my voice sounded small.
“Of course not!” she cried. She pushed one hand toward the windshield and extended her fingers. “Stop. Don’t worry about it for a second. I’m sorry if I made you feel bad. I’m just surprised. More at Claire than at you.” She looked at me quickly. Looked through me is a better description – as if she were trying to see past me to my mother. “Do you know what your grandfather did for a living?” The teacher in Sarah became very plain in her querying, expectant face and I felt like I just entered an oral test.
“Um, a factory, right? Didn’t he can fish?” I squirmed closer to the door as Sarah’s jaw dropped, dumbfounded.
“Claire!” Sarah scolded the empty space in front of her. Tears crept to the bottom of my eyes. I didn’t want to look stupid in front of Sarah, or more importantly, disappoint her already. “Jennifer,” she said firmly, throwing a piercing look straight at me, “your grandfather was a waterman .” The last word reverberated with authority, as if nothing could be better. “He worked on the seas all his life. Anything the sea would grow, he harvested. He eventually managed to buy his own boat and employed three men. Four families, including our own, all fed and clothed and provided for by what my father could coax out of the ocean.” She held up four fingers, looking at them like the number surprised her even now. She stared at things I could not see before her eyes refocused on the highway. “There were bad years. He worked in the canning factory across the harbor to make ends meet. That’s true. But he was not a factory worker. He was a waterman.” Sarah’s eyes blazed with the luminosity of pride.
I felt like an idiot: I had no idea what a waterman actually did. I didn’t know boats. Didn’t know tides, or stars, or engines or whatever they used these days. “I am so surprised that Claire never told you that. I guess I won’t know where to begin until I know where she left off. What do you know?”
Wild horses couldn’t make me tell the truth and say ‘nothing’, so I stalled. “About what?”
“All of this,” Sarah said, letting go of the steering wheel and throwing her hands into the air like she meant to encompass the entire world. “Our family, our home, your history, your heritage…”
“I
“Would you like to stop at a crab shack? Or a lobster house? Whatever you want. We are celebrating. We could grab some cod sandwiches at the next town.”
“Oh,” I stalled uncomfortably. “It doesn’t matter. But I’m not really. . . I don’t, um, like … seafood that much,” I apologized.
Sarah’s eyebrows inched up. “Really? Not any seafood?”
“Fish is okay. I can do fish… sometimes.” I was stretching. My seafood tolerance usually ended at fish sticks with ketchup.
“No shrimp? Crab? Lobster? Mussels? Clam?” I tried to hide my shudder at the word ‘mussels’. I once saw a woman eat them and thought I’d be ill just from the sight.
“I’m sorry,” I answered, praying she didn’t hold it against me.
Sarah’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, still unable to believe me. “What about Claire? Doesn’t she ever cook seafood?”
“Not really. My father’s allergic to shellfish.” I cringed, waiting for her reaction. Her eyebrows contracted and she chewed softly on her bottom lip. “But we can go wherever you want. I’ll find something I like.”
“No!” she exclaimed, grabbing my knee and smiling. “No, you don’t have to eat anything you don’t like. I was just thinking. I made lobster spaghetti for your first dinner tonight and that isn’t going to work, is it? I should have asked you first.” She smiled kindly and I felt my face melting with hot embarrassment. They put lobster in spaghetti ?
“I’m so sorry. I’m not trying to be rude,” my voice sounded small.
“Of course not!” she cried. She pushed one hand toward the windshield and extended her fingers. “Stop. Don’t worry about it for a second. I’m sorry if I made you feel bad. I’m just surprised. More at Claire than at you.” She looked at me quickly. Looked through me is a better description – as if she were trying to see past me to my mother. “Do you know what your grandfather did for a living?” The teacher in Sarah became very plain in her querying, expectant face and I felt like I just entered an oral test.
“Um, a factory, right? Didn’t he can fish?” I squirmed closer to the door as Sarah’s jaw dropped, dumbfounded.
“Claire!” Sarah scolded the empty space in front of her. Tears crept to the bottom of my eyes. I didn’t want to look stupid in front of Sarah, or more importantly, disappoint her already. “Jennifer,” she said firmly, throwing a piercing look straight at me, “your grandfather was a waterman .” The last word reverberated with authority, as if nothing could be better. “He worked on the seas all his life. Anything the sea would grow, he harvested. He eventually managed to buy his own boat and employed three men. Four families, including our own, all fed and clothed and provided for by what my father could coax out of the ocean.” She held up four fingers, looking at them like the number surprised her even now. She stared at things I could not see before her eyes refocused on the highway. “There were bad years. He worked in the canning factory across the harbor to make ends meet. That’s true. But he was not a factory worker. He was a waterman.” Sarah’s eyes blazed with the luminosity of pride.
I felt like an idiot: I had no idea what a waterman actually did. I didn’t know boats. Didn’t know tides, or stars, or engines or whatever they used these days. “I am so surprised that Claire never told you that. I guess I won’t know where to begin until I know where she left off. What do you know?”
Wild horses couldn’t make me tell the truth and say ‘nothing’, so I stalled. “About what?”
“All of this,” Sarah said, letting go of the steering wheel and throwing her hands into the air like she meant to encompass the entire world. “Our family, our home, your history, your heritage…”
“I
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