Sea Glass_ A Novel - Anita Shreve [42]
“Probably a weaver like my mother is,” Alphonse says. “She said she would teach me.”
Right away Alphonse knows this is the wrong answer, because McDermott sits up. “You don’t want to make the mill your life,” he says. “You want to get more out of life than just standing at a loom all day. One of these days, you’re going to have to try to go back to school.”
Alphonse doesn’t have the heart to tell McDermott that going back to school is pretty much out of the question now. “If I could do anything I wanted to,” Alphonse says, revealing a fact he has never told anyone, not even his mother, “I would fly.”
“Be a pilot, you mean.”
“Yes.”
“Well, that’s a good idea. You have to go to school, though, to be a pilot. Did you know that?”
“Why?” Alphonse asks. He’s shivering, but he doesn’t want McDermott to know because the man might decide Alphonse should go home, and he would hate having to go home before he’s even had a nibble. He wishes now that he’d worn something warmer than just his cloth jacket. He should have taken Marie-Thérèse’s sweater, even if it does have a ruffle.
“You have to know all sorts of things like vectors and wind velocities and how to work the instruments,” McDermott says. “You have to know a lot of math. Why do you want to be a pilot?”
Alphonse has an image of flying and struggles to describe it. “You’d be up in the sky all by yourself,” he says. “And you could go where you wanted to and get there fast and when you got there you’d be a hero, like Charles Lindbergh.”
McDermott thinks a moment. “Those are good reasons,” he says.
Alphonse feels a distinct tug and his heart does a little skip of excitement. He yanks the pole like his father taught him to — not too much, just a bit, just enough to snag the fish. If you tug at it too hard, you’ll tear the hook right out of the fish’s mouth.
“Easy now,” says McDermott, standing beside him.
The fish takes the line out so far that in the fog Alphonse can’t see the end of it. It’s a strange feeling, not being able to see the end of the line. Like having a ghost fish.
“Reel it in nice and slow,” McDermott says. “And give a small hitch every once in a while just to let him know who’s boss.”
Alphonse wants McDermott to know that he can do this. He reels in slowly, and the fish springs out of the water.
“Jeez,” says McDermott. “It’s a big one.”
Alphonse is excited now and reels in a bit faster. In the gray water he sees a flash of fin. In the distance the clock tower rings three bells.
McDermott takes off his shoes and socks and goes into the water to grab the line and the fish. He starts prancing with the cold. “Holy Joseph,” he says, “it’s freezing in here.” He wraps his shirt cuff around his hand and catches the line. “It’s a beauty.”
McDermott brings the fish to shore. Alphonse thinks he might pass out with joy.
“You take the hook out,” McDermott says. “If you catch a fish, you have to know how to take the hook out.”
Alphonse takes hold of the bluefish, which is still wiggling. He always hates it when the fish is alive, and he wishes that this one would die soon. He pushes the barb all the way through the fish’s cheek the way he has been told. The fish flops on the bank. It won’t last too long now, Alphonse thinks.
“Thirty-two inches, anyway,” McDermott says. “You want to take it home?”
Alphonse nods. He thinks of his mother’s face when he walks in the door. Fresh bluefish for a Sunday-night supper. She will fry it in butter and make fish cakes for the rest of the week. Just thinking about it makes Alphonse hungry.
“You know how to clean a fish?”
Alphonse shakes his head. His father always cleaned the fish.
“Okay,” McDermott says. “Watch me carefully.”
Honora
Honora makes Sexton’s favorite breakfast of tomatoes with cream and sugar. He has a trip and won’t be back for eight days. As she always does before he goes away, she has a bath and washes her hair and puts on lipstick, so that when he is gone, he will remember her in a pretty dress and not in her apron.