Sea Glass_ A Novel - Anita Shreve [30]
“Well,” McDermott says. In the shadow of a tenement, there is at least the illusion of shade. McDermott can almost convince himself that there is a breeze. “What will you do with the rest of the day?”
The boy is silent a moment. “I like to go to the beach,” he says finally.
“The beach over to Fortune’s Rocks?” McDermott asks. The boy nods. He has wide eyes, nearly bug eyes, McDermott thinks. “How do you get there?” he asks.
“I take the trolley. Then I walk.”
“Kind of hot today for that long of a walk,” McDermott says.
The boy shrugs.
“You have money for the trolley?”
“I keep two dimes from my pay packet.”
McDermott lights a cigarette, drops the match on the sidewalk. “You know how to swim?”
The boy shakes his head.
“You ever been fishing?”
“A couple of times,” says the boy. “With my father.”
“I like to fish,” McDermott says.
The boy nods.
“Your father take off?”
The boy shakes his head and scuffs at the sidewalk with his shoe. “He died,” he says.
“That’s too bad,” McDermott says. “When?”
“Last winter.”
“Sorry to hear that,” McDermott says, and after a moment adds, “I could take you fishing sometime if you want.”
The boy looks surprised, as if McDermott has said something that doesn’t quite make sense. McDermott can feel through his feet the creak and rumble of large wheels over cobblestones. The ice man, McDermott guesses. Working on a Sunday. He’ll be doing a good business in this heat.
“Tell you what,” McDermott says to Alphonse. “I want an ice cream, and I want you to go get it for me, but I don’t want it unless you get one for yourself.”
The boy looks puzzled at first, as if there might be a trick. “All right,” he says after a moment.
McDermott feels in his pocket for the coins. “If I decide to go fishing, I know where to find you,” he says.
Alphonse nods. He turns and begins to run. McDermott has never seen anyone sprint that fast. Too bad the kid isn’t in school, he thinks. He’d be a natural for any track team.
But the boy isn’t in school. He works in a mill. McDermott lights another cigarette and waits for the boy to return.
Honora
Honora stands in the kitchen, unpacking groceries from a cardboard box, the back of her rayon blouse sticking to her shoulder blades. She tries to lift the fabric away from her skin. Sexton walks into the kitchen with a letter in his hand. He sits down as if his legs have suddenly given out.
“What is it?” she asks.
“It’s from the owner,” Sexton says.
“Of the house?” Honora sets a tin of cleanser on the tabletop. “Is it bad news?”
“I’m not sure,” Sexton says. “It could be great news. He wants to sell. In a hurry.”
“He wants to sell the house?” Honora asks. She puts a hand on the back of a chair and sits down next to her husband.
“For four thousand dollars. And he wants to know if we would be interested in making an offer before he puts it on the market.” Sexton stands and walks to the window. He begins to pace. He puts a hand to his forehead. “That’s a great price,” he says. “Even with the house in such bad shape. The guy must really need the money.” Sexton reads the letter again. He brandishes it like a sword, slicing the air in his excitement. In his gestures, he is athletic and precise. Even in the wilting heat, Honora thinks of him as having snap. Watching him, she is reminded of the feel of crisp beans straight from the garden and the sound they make when her mother prepares them for the pot. Snap go the heads, and snap go the tails. “We could almost do this,” he says.
“How?”
“We’ll need twenty percent down,” he says. “Eight hundred dollars.”
“Where on earth will we come up with eight hundred dollars?” she asks, a little breathless.
“The Buick’s worth four seventy-five,” he says. “I could use that as collateral for a loan — say for four hundred dollars. We’ve got a hundred in savings. That’s five hundred.”
“And what about the other three hundred?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “I’ll think of something. Maybe I could get an advance against commissions.”
“Is that wise?” Honora asks, running her hand along the slick oilcloth.
Over the summer, Sexton