thinking of what my dad always says about quahoggers.
They got salt water in their veins and barnacles on their backs.
At the hospital, they rush Gene into surgery while I wait on a bench in the hallway. Because I’m not wearing a shirt and I’m covered in deep purple blotches of dried blood, nurses keep coming to me to ask if I’m okay.
Two hours later a doctor comes out and says, “Missed his carotid artery by inches. You did the right thing or your dad would have died.” I don’t respond. I too am getting Gene and my dad all mixed up in my head. It’s a nice feeling, and I sit down on the floor and collapse because I’m so happy he isn’t dead.
I slept right through the morning.
The sun is blazing, and it feels like a thousand degrees in my room.
“You okay?” My mom is standing in the doorway with her eyebrows all twisted together. I sit up and cover myself with a sheet.
“Yeah, I’m okay.”
“He’s going to survive, thanks to you, Jake,” my mom says. “You never did tell me how you got him to the hospital,” she says, pressing me.
“I got some help from another quahogger. I don’t know him. Look, I don’t really want to talk about it right now. What time is it?”
“It’s ten thirty.”
“Oh, damn. I gotta go.” I scramble out of bed and start grabbing clothes, suddenly remembering Gene’s boat.
Did the anchor hold? Are the quahogs rotting in this heat?
Did it get salvaged?
“Just because you work on a fishing boat doesn’t mean you can talk like a sailor. Not in this house, young man.”
“Sorry, Mom.” I try squeezing past her, but she’s blocking my way, holding out a thick manila envelope wrapped in duct tape. “Before you go running off again, do you want to explain this?”
I grab the envelope and turn it over. On the back, in thick black marker, it says
J. C.
I know who left it.
“Someone slipped it through the mail slot sometime last night. It was there this morning when we were setting up,” she says.
“It’s from Tommy, just some tapes he borrowed.” Not a very good lie, but I’m not waiting around to see if it works. I shoot out the door and down the back stairs as the screen door slams behind me.
Once I’m out of sight, down by the seawall, I pull out my knife and cut open the envelope. The silver tape is thick, but the blade glides through it to reveal a stack of twenty-dollar bills and a note.
Hawkline is tied up at Stanley’s Marina. Sold out your quahogs. Took forty bucks for my trouble.
Captain
A wave of guilt washes over me when I remember thinking that Captain may have
salvaged
the Hawkline. I stuff the bills and the note in my pocket and head over to the bus stop on Main Street.
I climb onto the 11:03 bus to Providence. The air inside is stale and everyone looks tired. I find my way toward the back, slump down in the last seat, and before we leave Warren, I’m asleep.
I awaken and look outside and see Rhode Island Hospital. I jump out of my seat and bound toward the front of the bus.
“Excuse me! I need to get off. This is my stop. I need to get off !”
The bus squeaks and with a great hiss of air comes to a halt.
“All right, all right.” The bus driver grins down at me from the big wide mirror above him. “Watch your step.”
“What time does this bus go back to Warren?”
The driver hands me a small paper schedule. “You want to catch the Newport bus. Every hour on the half hour till six.”
“Thanks.” I walk up the hill toward the hospital.
Inside, the sharp smell of cleaning products and the bright fluorescent lights immediately remind me of yesterday, of coming in with Gene on the stretcher, with people sticking things in his arms, and the blood and the plastic mask over his mouth. I get chills thinking about it.
I don’t know what room he’s in, and I just stare at all the signs on the walls. Multicolored lines on the floor zip off in all directions, and I’m standing there, trying to figure out which line
They got salt water in their veins and barnacles on their backs.
At the hospital, they rush Gene into surgery while I wait on a bench in the hallway. Because I’m not wearing a shirt and I’m covered in deep purple blotches of dried blood, nurses keep coming to me to ask if I’m okay.
Two hours later a doctor comes out and says, “Missed his carotid artery by inches. You did the right thing or your dad would have died.” I don’t respond. I too am getting Gene and my dad all mixed up in my head. It’s a nice feeling, and I sit down on the floor and collapse because I’m so happy he isn’t dead.
I slept right through the morning.
The sun is blazing, and it feels like a thousand degrees in my room.
“You okay?” My mom is standing in the doorway with her eyebrows all twisted together. I sit up and cover myself with a sheet.
“Yeah, I’m okay.”
“He’s going to survive, thanks to you, Jake,” my mom says. “You never did tell me how you got him to the hospital,” she says, pressing me.
“I got some help from another quahogger. I don’t know him. Look, I don’t really want to talk about it right now. What time is it?”
“It’s ten thirty.”
“Oh, damn. I gotta go.” I scramble out of bed and start grabbing clothes, suddenly remembering Gene’s boat.
Did the anchor hold? Are the quahogs rotting in this heat?
Did it get salvaged?
“Just because you work on a fishing boat doesn’t mean you can talk like a sailor. Not in this house, young man.”
“Sorry, Mom.” I try squeezing past her, but she’s blocking my way, holding out a thick manila envelope wrapped in duct tape. “Before you go running off again, do you want to explain this?”
I grab the envelope and turn it over. On the back, in thick black marker, it says
J. C.
I know who left it.
“Someone slipped it through the mail slot sometime last night. It was there this morning when we were setting up,” she says.
“It’s from Tommy, just some tapes he borrowed.” Not a very good lie, but I’m not waiting around to see if it works. I shoot out the door and down the back stairs as the screen door slams behind me.
Once I’m out of sight, down by the seawall, I pull out my knife and cut open the envelope. The silver tape is thick, but the blade glides through it to reveal a stack of twenty-dollar bills and a note.
Hawkline is tied up at Stanley’s Marina. Sold out your quahogs. Took forty bucks for my trouble.
Captain
A wave of guilt washes over me when I remember thinking that Captain may have
salvaged
the Hawkline. I stuff the bills and the note in my pocket and head over to the bus stop on Main Street.
I climb onto the 11:03 bus to Providence. The air inside is stale and everyone looks tired. I find my way toward the back, slump down in the last seat, and before we leave Warren, I’m asleep.
I awaken and look outside and see Rhode Island Hospital. I jump out of my seat and bound toward the front of the bus.
“Excuse me! I need to get off. This is my stop. I need to get off !”
The bus squeaks and with a great hiss of air comes to a halt.
“All right, all right.” The bus driver grins down at me from the big wide mirror above him. “Watch your step.”
“What time does this bus go back to Warren?”
The driver hands me a small paper schedule. “You want to catch the Newport bus. Every hour on the half hour till six.”
“Thanks.” I walk up the hill toward the hospital.
Inside, the sharp smell of cleaning products and the bright fluorescent lights immediately remind me of yesterday, of coming in with Gene on the stretcher, with people sticking things in his arms, and the blood and the plastic mask over his mouth. I get chills thinking about it.
I don’t know what room he’s in, and I just stare at all the signs on the walls. Multicolored lines on the floor zip off in all directions, and I’m standing there, trying to figure out which line
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