Huntley Fitzpatrick - What I Thought Was True

Not a car. Not a trust fund. Dad’s parents were, as Mom puts it, “unfit to have pets, much less kids.”

“What is it, Dad?”

“You can bait that hook and hand me my pole. What I’m going to give you, Gwen, is the truth.”

Here’s where, in one of Mom’s books, or the classic movies Grandpa Ben likes, it would turn out that Dad was actually royal but estranged from his family. That I was the next heir to . . . My imagination gives out at this point from sheer futility.

Dad casts, a perfect arc, line shimmering, glimmering out into the sea. “What’re you waiting for, Gwen? Get going!”

So I shove slimy squid onto another hook and cast out myself. I know I do it well. Strange how you can be good at something that doesn’t mean anything to you at all. But it’s always mattered to Dad. The times we spend fishing are some of our best, most peaceful. When he’s on the water, all Dad’s rough edges smooth out, like he’s sea-glass.

“You got your mom’s brains, and her looks. Sweet Mother of God, she was a beauty. Stopped your heart, seeing her.” He rubs his chest, looks out at the water, and then goes on. “You got those and my guts. You’re a hard worker and you don’t belly-ache about every little thing.” He pauses, wipes his fingers off on his faded shorts. “But the only chance you have of getting anywhere with any of that is to get the hell off this island.”

“I love Seashell,” I say, automatically. True and not true. I tip my face up as the first fingers of the sun stretch across the water. My feet in their worn flip-flops are cold, the chill of the rocks seeping through the thin rubber soles.

“Yeah, love,” Dad says. “That’ll get you nowhere fast. Look. I’m not going to sit here moaning about the mistakes I’ve made. What’s done’s done. But you’ve still got time. Chances. You can have . . .” He stops, his attention snagged by a distant sailboat. Dad checks out sailboats—the big beautiful ones like this Herreshoff gliding by, ivory sails bellying in the wind—the way some of the guys at school check out cleavage.

“Can have what, Dad?”

He throws back a gulp of coffee, grimaces again. “More.”

I’m not sure where he’s going with all this. Dad’s not really one for self-reflection. He concentrates on casting out his line, jaw tense.

After a few minutes he continues. “Here on Seashell, it’s always going to be us against them, and let’s face it—it’s gonna be them in the end, because ‘them’ gets to choose what happens to ‘us.’ Get off island, Gwen. Find your place in the world. You got a ticket in your hand already with the old lady losing her marbles.”

My line sways, spider-webbing in the water. Dad catches me by the elbow with one hand, and then carefully reels in my line, calloused warm hand over mine. “She’s loaded and she’s losin’ it. You’re gonna be there every day. Her family isn’t. Make the most of that.”

“What are you talking about?”

“She’s redoing her will this summer. I heard her nurse, Joy, talking about it on line at Castle’s. Her son wants to take over power of attorney, so she’s tying up the legal stuff . . .”

“Dad, that has nothing to do with me.” Is he really suggesting what I think he’s suggesting? I feel like throwing up, and it’s not the combination of frozen squid and empty stomach. I look at Dad’s ducked head, incredulous.

“For God’s sake, the damn fish took the bait right off the line without me even feeling a tug. Bastard. Put some more on, pal. What I’m saying is you’ve got the goods to go places. Do it for me. Do it for your ma. Just be real smart, is all I’m telling you. Pamper that old lady within an inch of her life. Her family’s off in the city, she’s on her own. Better you wind up with a nice little chunk a change than them, the way I see it.”

“Dad . . . are you saying . . .”

“I’m telling you to keep your eyes open for opportunity. Mrs. E.’s not noticing stuff around her house the way she used to—and she never was one of those ones that knew exactly how many silver crab claw crackers she had, not like some of the fruitcakes your mom cleans for.”

I close my eyes, picturing Mrs. Ellington’s porch, the engraved silver of the tea service, the polished antiques, the leather-bound, gold-embossed books in the bookshelves. Her family legacy.

This is my legacy? Does Dad actually believe that the only way I’m likely to have anything is to grab somebody else’s? What happened to all his lectures about hard work and the people who got ahead were the ones who sucked it up and put their nose to the grindstone, and . . .

“Dad?”

I can’t seem to come up with anything more to say. He stares out at the water, at the distant horizon, eyes somber. I keep chopping bait, sliding it on the hook, bending and casting out. I remember Mrs. Ellington watching that separation of sea and sky during our interview, Nic, Viv, and I doing the same last night, and for the first time I realize that none of us are seeing the same thing. That all our horizons end in different places.

“So, I need you to fill in for me at lunchtime today. This won’t be a usual thing. But I just had to fire this kid—too much of a moron and always showing up late and high. I’m shorthanded for this afternoon. We’re gonna get slammed. Can you pinch hit? I’ll pay you overtime, even though it’s not a holiday. C’mon, pal.”

“I have a rehearsal dinner with Vivien and Almeida’s tonight. Plus watching Em all day. And Mrs. Ellington starts Monday. I can’t work all the time.” Visions of any summer lazing are quickly fading to black in my head.

“If you play it smart, like I said, you won’t have to.” He brushes zucchini bread crumbs off his faded olive green shorts, crumples the now-empty foil wrapper and sticks it back in the cooler. “But today, I need you. The first few weeks I’m figuring out who the bad apples are. And you’re my good egg.”

“Dad. About what you said. I mean, about Mrs. Ellington—”

“Just think about it, Guinevere, smart advice from your old man.” Dad takes the pole from me, securing the hook. “Embroider it on a pillow. Spray-paint it on your wall. Just never forget it: Don’t be a sucker. Screw them before they screw you.”

Back home, I push open the screen door to the familiar sound of Nic running through his Coastie fitness routine—the little grunt he always makes when he picks up a weight, the clatter and puffed exhale when he sets one down. I hardly wanted to get out of bed to meet Dad, but here’s Nico—who I happen to know was out until three in the morning with Vivien—ensuring his physical fitness.

“You are not a normal teenage boy,” I say as I enter the living room, which is like climbing into a gigantic wet sneaker. Em’s curled on the couch, nestled in a blanket with Hideout the hermit crab in his arms and Fabio drooling on his leg, dividing his attention between watching Nic sweat and some Elmo video.

“No.” Panting, Nic rolls to his side, lets the weights he’s been bench-pressing crash to the ground. “I’m better, stronger, faster.”

“Smellier,” I say. “Where’s Mom?”

“Robinsons’,” he grunts, picking up the weight again, his damp, sandy brown hair sticking to his forehead.

Oh, right. Making their house sparkle. On a Saturday. God, Mom. Doctors are on call, not you.

I sit down next to Emory, ruffling his hair. He smells sticky and sweet, no doubt from the bowl of Cap’n Crunch he’s got resting on his lap. He snuggles his head against my shoulder, shoving Hideout under my nose.

“Say good morning to Hideout.”

“Morning, Hideout.” I catch a whiff of spaghetti sauce—Emory sneaks him bites during meals.

For a few minutes, Em and I both watch Nic like he’s theater, while I turn over in my head various casual, subtle ways to bring up the ring. I inhale, bite my lip, blow out a breath a few times. Nic’s too focused on his weight curls to notice that I look like one of the bluefish Dad caught as it flopped around on the rocks.

How would this even work? Would it be a long engagement? Like—they’d marry when he got out of the Coast Guard Academy? Or are they planning to do it now? I’m picturing Viv moving into the bedroom Nic shares with Grandpa Ben and Emory. Or Mom and me having to move out of the room we share and sleep together on Myrtle to give them privacy (though that’s never seemed too high on their list of requirements). Or Nic and Vivien resurrecting the battered old tent we used to pitch in the yard all summer as their love nest. I can’t see them moving in with Viv’s mom and stepdad. Al usually glares at Nic like someone from the Old Testament, and Mrs. Almeida pitches a fit when she even catches them holding hands.

It’s so ridiculously implausible in the light of day. Because it’s all the same—Nic’s focused scowl on the uplift, relaxing into pained relief as he sets the weight down, his faded, torn, “lucky” camouflage green workout shirt, sleeves torn off—everything. Manny must have been talking through his beer brain.

“Do I look like I’ve gained weight to you?” Nic asks abruptly, my staring at him with a crinkled forehead finally getting through.

“Yup, those shorts make your butt look huge.”

He frowns at me. “I’m serious. I’ve been eating over at Viv’s all the time since school got out and her mom’s desserts . . . If I bulk up too much, my swim timing will suck, and those guys will take their edge and—”

“Nico, you’re fine.”

He blows out a breath, lowering the weight and panting.

“Can you hold my ankles while I do crunches?”

I drop to the floor, loop my fingers around his sweaty, hairy ankles. I’ve been doing this for him for years, and the familiarity of it makes me brave again.