sailer from the Yacht Club. I’ll check tomorrow if you want, though we’ll have to do it after I get the house…” For a moment she looked excited, just like she always did when they planned some fun outing.
“What about Pop’s boat?” Will watched the tension build in his mother’s face, supplanting the pleasure.
“It’s in dry dock, and besides, it’s way too big.” She turned her face away from him.
Will took a big bite of his cheeseburger, wishing he had just shut up. It seemed like everything he did or said lately created this pained expression on his mother’s face. “That’s okay, I was just toying with the idea. Call it a whim.”
Kiley reached across the table and touched his hand. “I wish I did have the time to teach you. It would be fun, although I’m not sure I could still tell a halyard from a turnbuckle, or port from starboard. Which reminds me of a joke.”
“What?”
“Did you hear the one about the captain who had a wooden box in his cabin?”
Will shook his head.
“Well, the crew was mystified. Every single night the old captain would go to his cabin, open this locked box, and look inside. Finally, the old guy dies and the crew can’t keep back their curiosity anymore. The first mate runs to the locked wooden box and pries it open. Inside lies a single slip of paper.” Kiley paused for dramatic effect. “ ‘Port is left, starboard is right.’ ”
Will laughed with the sound of a person not quite getting the joke, more pleased to see the tension begin to fade away from his mother’s face.
“I suppose you have to be a sailor to really appreciate that one.”
Will felt a flicker of inspiration. “So who told you that joke?”
His mother was smiling, but kept her eyes on her plate. “I don’t remember. A friend, I suppose.”
The bell above the door jangled again, and Kiley’s eyes went to it, as if she were expecting someone. Will finished his cheeseburger, hesitating to ask anything else of her.
He’d put the photo in his back pocket, hoping he’d have an opportunity to bring it out and get a flow of conversation going, like he’d done with the picture of when they were ten. In hesitating, he’d missed his best opportunity tonight. He should have pulled the picture out and, pointing to the faces in the snapshot, asked, “Is this the friend who told you that lame joke? Or this one?” But he didn’t. He couldn’t. In the end, it wasn’t about jokes.
Will knew instinctively that his mother wouldn’t like the idea of him taking lessons from a man she had so clearly excised from her life, and, by extension, his. If—Will’s train of thought lurched onto a dead-end branch line—if Grainger was his father, surely the circumstances of his conception had been traumatic. Why else had Grainger been eliminated from his life so effectively? Will shoved the last of his french fries in his mouth. He’d known for years that his mother’s reluctance to tell him the truth was not a sign of true and absent love, but of adversity. The french fries were suddenly tasteless in his mouth as his gut contracted. What if he was trying to befriend a man who had done harm to his mother? Will swallowed the fries. There was only one way to find out: he needed to keep at this quest and not balk at the first obstacle, no matter how scary. He’d started this undertaking to find out what Grainger knew, and he would, by God, get some satisfaction. If this guy had abused his mother, he’d pay for it.
Which brought to mind a slight problem. His lesson was at seven-thirty, and he’d have to come up with some reason he was up so early on Tuesday morning. No way his mother wouldn’t suspect something if he was up three hours early for no reason, and then took off for the morning.
She worried about his movements so much since that stupid night when he and D.C. and Mike got caught with the weed. It wasn’t like he was a habitual user, a slacker who thought only about getting high. And
“What about Pop’s boat?” Will watched the tension build in his mother’s face, supplanting the pleasure.
“It’s in dry dock, and besides, it’s way too big.” She turned her face away from him.
Will took a big bite of his cheeseburger, wishing he had just shut up. It seemed like everything he did or said lately created this pained expression on his mother’s face. “That’s okay, I was just toying with the idea. Call it a whim.”
Kiley reached across the table and touched his hand. “I wish I did have the time to teach you. It would be fun, although I’m not sure I could still tell a halyard from a turnbuckle, or port from starboard. Which reminds me of a joke.”
“What?”
“Did you hear the one about the captain who had a wooden box in his cabin?”
Will shook his head.
“Well, the crew was mystified. Every single night the old captain would go to his cabin, open this locked box, and look inside. Finally, the old guy dies and the crew can’t keep back their curiosity anymore. The first mate runs to the locked wooden box and pries it open. Inside lies a single slip of paper.” Kiley paused for dramatic effect. “ ‘Port is left, starboard is right.’ ”
Will laughed with the sound of a person not quite getting the joke, more pleased to see the tension begin to fade away from his mother’s face.
“I suppose you have to be a sailor to really appreciate that one.”
Will felt a flicker of inspiration. “So who told you that joke?”
His mother was smiling, but kept her eyes on her plate. “I don’t remember. A friend, I suppose.”
The bell above the door jangled again, and Kiley’s eyes went to it, as if she were expecting someone. Will finished his cheeseburger, hesitating to ask anything else of her.
He’d put the photo in his back pocket, hoping he’d have an opportunity to bring it out and get a flow of conversation going, like he’d done with the picture of when they were ten. In hesitating, he’d missed his best opportunity tonight. He should have pulled the picture out and, pointing to the faces in the snapshot, asked, “Is this the friend who told you that lame joke? Or this one?” But he didn’t. He couldn’t. In the end, it wasn’t about jokes.
Will knew instinctively that his mother wouldn’t like the idea of him taking lessons from a man she had so clearly excised from her life, and, by extension, his. If—Will’s train of thought lurched onto a dead-end branch line—if Grainger was his father, surely the circumstances of his conception had been traumatic. Why else had Grainger been eliminated from his life so effectively? Will shoved the last of his french fries in his mouth. He’d known for years that his mother’s reluctance to tell him the truth was not a sign of true and absent love, but of adversity. The french fries were suddenly tasteless in his mouth as his gut contracted. What if he was trying to befriend a man who had done harm to his mother? Will swallowed the fries. There was only one way to find out: he needed to keep at this quest and not balk at the first obstacle, no matter how scary. He’d started this undertaking to find out what Grainger knew, and he would, by God, get some satisfaction. If this guy had abused his mother, he’d pay for it.
Which brought to mind a slight problem. His lesson was at seven-thirty, and he’d have to come up with some reason he was up so early on Tuesday morning. No way his mother wouldn’t suspect something if he was up three hours early for no reason, and then took off for the morning.
She worried about his movements so much since that stupid night when he and D.C. and Mike got caught with the weed. It wasn’t like he was a habitual user, a slacker who thought only about getting high. And
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