Page 41 of The Last Thing You Said

“Nah,” he says, “I’m taking out that family today. The three generations?”

Uhhh. My stomach drops. He’s supposed to work today. He insisted on it, even though John told him it wasn’t necessary, even offered me up for the job instead. But no, Dad wanted to take out the three generations of fishermen. I overheard him tell John that it would be good for him, would help him take his mind off things.

Things.

Things like today is his first Father’s Day without his daughter.

Goddamn it.

“Dad, what time are you supposed to go out?”

He thinks for a long time, lifts his empty glass to his lips and then sets it down again, disappointed. “Nine o’clock.”

Less than an hour. Guess I’ll be working after all.

“Come on.” I help him up and walk him down the hall to the guest room. He’d never make it up the stairs, and I wouldn’t want to wake up Mum anyway. I don’t want to think about how she’s going to react when she finds him on the spare bed, and I sure as hell don’t want to be around for it.

“Thought Tom was taking us out,” an old guy says when I meet the fishermen down at the dock and introduce myself. He’s a grumpy old codger, his face reddened and weathered.

“That’s my dad, sir,” I tell him. “He’s not feeling well, so I’m filling in for him.”

“That right? I sure hope you know what the fuck you’re doing, kid. We’re paying a lot of money for this.”

I can’t help it. I laugh. “I sure as fuck do, sir. I grew up on this lake.”

The middle one, the old codger’s son, pats me on the back. “I think we’re going to get along just fine.”

The youngest is twenty-five, married with a baby, a boy. “Couple more years and he’ll be out here with us. Four generations.”

“I’ll probably be dead by then,” the old codger says.

His son shakes his head. “We should be so lucky.”

I listen to their banter the rest of the morning. They know what they’re doing, so basically my job is to move from hot spot to hot spot. Between the three of them, the well fills with fish quickly: perch, bluegills, even a couple of walleye.

We’re about to pull anchor and head back to shore when the old man asks me, “So what’s your story, kid?”

“Sir?” I’m not sure exactly which story he’d like to hear. The one about my drunk father? Or how about the time my sister died in this lake and I didn’t get to her in time to save her? That’s a good one.

“I mean, why the hell is a good-looking kid like you out here fishing with the three of us? You got nothing better to do?”

Sounds about right.

I don’t know why, but I tell him the truth. “It’s my home, this lake. It’s the only place I want to be these days. The only place where I don’t need to give a shit about anything.”

He narrows his eyes at me and nods. “And you better be damn grateful for it.”

“I am, sir.” I pull up anchor.

The Promise

One warm summer day, Trixie and Lulu, who were older now, packed a picnic lunch and walked to their favorite park, with rolling green hills, endless trees, and their beloved lake. They ran through the park, long hair and a dusting of silver and gold trailing behind them. They turned cartwheels. They twirled, arms wide, their faces to the sky. They searched for four-leaf clovers and found dozens, which they set in a pile on their plaid picnic blanket. They sat close together and were warmed by the patch of sun that streamed through the trees.

“Lulu,” Trixie said, “I want to talk to you about Ben.”

Lulu looked up in surprise. “What about him?” she asked, anxious. They didn’t often talk about Ben or Lulu’s feelings for him.

“I know it must be hard for you, seeing him with other girls.”