“Don't shield him too much, this is a pretty violent world.”
“Matt, you're not taking part in this... murder, are you?”
“Hell, no. It's none of my business. Technically I am a peace officer but I only opened my yap to show off for Andy, I suppose. The local cop was a young snot.”
“Let's not talk about it in front of Andy. And don't let him horse you into rowing way out—the weather can change fast here. And take it easy rowing, you've done enough grandstanding for one day.”
I patted her cheek. “Since when did you become such a worry bug? Matter of fact, I don't intend to touch the oars; about time Andy got rid of his baby fat. He's growing up fine, Bessie.”
“Of course. It's been fourteen months since my miscarriage. We're trying hard for another child.”
“Don't worry about it. If it happens, it happens. And if it doesn't—you have Andy. Martha and I had two kids within three years and after that, nothing.”
“It isn't a fixation with me, or anything. But I do so want a girl. Would you like to play bridge tonight? I can ask John Preston over.”
“I don't care. Better make it tomorrow night, I didn't sleep much last night. Guess I'll get into my trunks.”
“Take pants along, in case the sun comes out and cooks that pale skin of yours.”
I changed while she made lunch. Then I fed Matty and cleaned out his box, stretched out for a snooze just as Andy returned with the oars. He got his fishing tackle together, including a pair of old metal binoculars. I picked them up, hung them around my neck.
Andy said, “Dad's letting me use them this summer. They're powerful.”
“I know.” They were good glasses, cost five dollars— back in 1929 when Martha gave them to me for Christmas. I gave them to Danny on his sixteenth birthday. Now Andy had 'em. It gave me a happy warm feeling—and made me feel old.
I carried the oars and the lunch while Andy took the fishing gear. As we walked to the beach he asked, “Grandpa, why do people kill each other?”
“Because we haven't learned to control our anger, I suppose. We're all under tensions which....”
“What's tensions mean, Grandpa?”
“I thought I told you to call me Matt?”
“Mama says not to. What's tensions?”
“Oh... people worry too much,” I said, wondering what I'd started. “They worry about a job, money, even clams. Then maybe they start fighting and one party gets so angry he doesn't realize what he's doing, swings the clam rake... and the other man is dead. Or two countries start shouting over a boat or something, and then there's war. Remember, never let your anger master you. These glass rods any good?” I asked, changing the subject with a clumsy hand.
He was a true fishing nut, talked rods and reels all the way to the beach. I hoped he would outgrow that soon, I've always found guys who go in for a lot of fishing gear to be bull artists—and not just about fish, either.
In the light of morning, even a dull one, the bay seemed far prettier than last night. It was a large rough circle of water opening on the Sound, or maybe the ocean. Andy started swimming out to get the rowboat. While I didn't want to get wet, I couldn't let him swim alone. The damn water was still ice cold. When we got the boat ashore, Andy wanted to empty some of the water and I almost broke my back tipping the heavy tub. We finally pushed off, and to my surprise the boy rowed well. As I lit my pipe the sun came out for a spell. I examined some of the anchored yachts through the glasses, and if it wasn't for my damp trunks, I would have enjoyed things.
Dropping anchor outside the breakwater, we got our hooks over. Fishing wasn't exactly a success. Not only didn't we catch anything but Andy's spinning reel wouldn't work. The fish kept eating my bait without my feeling a bite. I realized I was getting a burn and put on my pants and shirt. I didn't have to worry about the kid, he was brown as coffee. He was upset over the reel. I tried to monkey with it but mechanical gadgets are always over my noggin. I gave it up, asked if he wanted a sandwich. He pointed at the remains of a rotting dock, told me, “Pops usually fishes there. The reel was working for him yesterday. You should have seen him cast with it—sent it out a mile.”
I put the glasses on the dock. “Nobody there.”
“Pops may be fishing from the beach, on the other side. He can fix the reel, I bet.”
I motioned for him to pull up anchor as I took the oars. I couldn't remember when I last rowed. Although I once had a post that included the lake at 110th Street and I did a lot of rowing then. I was still pretty good at it.
The dock and the beach were empty. Andy said, “Damn. I mean darn—Pops is always here.”
I rowed back out into the bay and tossed out the anchor. The kid fished with my rod while I had a sandwich and some chocolate milk Bessie had fixed. My backside ached from sitting on the hard boat seat and I felt sleepy. I sat there, holding my head in my hands, feeling the stubble on my chin, almost dozing, when Andy caught a Small blowfish and startled me with his shouting. He tickled its white belly to show me how it blew itself up into a ball, then said it was too small to eat and tossed it back. Funny, when I was coming up we never ate them—now they were a delicacy. The kid wanted to row some more. He didn't head out into the bay but followed the shoreline. “There's Pops',” he said.
Andy was pointing a chubby finger at an old-fashioned but well kept-up house that stood above a cluster of trees. It was a large square house, painted white with red trim and in the center of the roof there was a small glass-enclosed room with a railing running around it. A man was lying on a cot, taking what little sun there was. He seemed to have a blanket over most of him and a large floppy straw hat covered his head and face. Sneakers and old army suntans stuck out of the bottom of the cot. I put the glasses on him; couldn't see any better. There was a paper on the floor, he was probably sleeping.
“Grandpa, you know what that is? That kind of... of house up on the roof?” Andy asked with the self-importance of the newly learned.
“No,” I lied. “What is it?”
“In the days when End Harbor was a big whaling port, the wife of the captain of the ship would walk on the roof every day, looking out on the bay, see if her husband's ship was coining in. I bet from up there she could see for about fifty miles, maybe a hundred. Anyway, they call it the widow's walk because she never knew whether she was a widow or not. I mean, if the boat never came back.” He was making for the shore and now he stood up and called, “Pops!” and waved his hands.
“Sit down, you'll turn the boat over. You're too far away for him to hear. Besides, he looks like he's sleeping. What's the man's real name?”
“I don't know, everybody calls him Pops. He knows lots of things about fishing and... heck, I thought I'd ask him to fix my reel. He sold it to me.”
There was a faint line of narrow beach, then a steep bank that rose ten or fifteen feet and disappeared into a layer of trees. The house sure had privacy. Maybe he was just resting. I asked, “Do you think we'd be bothering him if we took the reel to his house?” I had enough of the boat and water.