What I Thought Was True. Huntley Fitzpatrick

      “Thanks.”

      “Gwen.”

      “Yes?”

      “You’re making the pieces too big. The fish’ll just run off with the hook like that.”

      “Sorry, Dad.”

      More silence as he polishes off half the zucchini loaf and I deal with freezing cold slimy bait.

      “Dad,” I finally say. “You were eighteen when you and Mom got married, right?”

      “Barely,” he says. “Here, let me bait your hook.”

      “Would you say that was . . . too young?”

      He gives me a sharp look from under his thick brows. “Wicked young. We had no business getting hitched. But . . . well . . .” He clears his throat. “You were on the way and – why are you asking me this? You’re not in any kind of trouble, are you?”

      “No! Of course not. Jeez. I’m on the Pill.”

      He winces, and I realize I should have said I’d never even held hands with a boy, not reassured him about my effective birth control. Whoops.

      “It was a medical thing. For my complexion and because my period was – ”

      Dad holds up a hand, hunching his shoulders in pain. “Stop! As for me and Luce, we were kids. Had no freaking clue what we were getting into.” He holds out his coffee cup. “Got more?”

      I splash hot black liquid into his cup, the plastic top of the thermos, then ask something I’ve always wondered about. “Do you regret it? Marrying Mom? Like, if you had a do-over, would you?”

      Dad takes a sip of coffee, screws up his face as though it’s burned his tongue, blows out a breath. “I’m no good at this garbage” – the way he says it sounds like gahbage – “imagining things fell out some different way than they did. Waste of time. That’s your ma’s territory, with all her foolish books. If you mean, do I regret you, no.” He hands me my pole, reaches into his back pocket, pulls out a wad of bills. “Your back pay.”

      I take it from him, count it out, then hand him back half. Our tradition. He’ll put it into his pocket, then take it to the bank for my college fund when he deposits Castle’s income. Dad’s big on the fact that it matters that I see the money before half of it is gone. I’ll give most of the rest to Mom.

      “You can have first cast, kiddo.”

      I hoist the pole to my shoulder, fling it out, watching the fragile transparent line shimmer in the air as the hook dips into the waves.

      “Decent,” Dad says. “Put a little more arm into it next time.”

      He grins at me. For a moment, I feel this surge of affection for him and I want, the way I wanted yesterday with Mom, to tell him the whole story . . . the boys and Nic and Vivien and the ring and . . .

      But we’ve never talked like that. So, instead, I reel my line in, hopeful for an instant as it snags hard on something, until I realize it’s just a clump of kelp.

      “Pal, look.” Dad clears his throat, squinting as he stares out at the far horizon. “I’m gonna give you something my folks didn’t give me when I was your age.”

      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 bellyache 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 online 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