Water Dogs (31 page)

“I can’t believe you just kicked me in the balls.”

“He must have needed a change in scenery,” said Vin. “You and I could probably use that, too.”

“What, are we buddies now?” asked Bennie.

“Let me give you some advice, Bennie. Marry that girl. Helen. She seems like a good one for you. Marry her and start having kids. That’s the best thing I ever did.”

They tossed the butts toward Vin’s hibachi. When they stood up, Bennie’s balls were still aching. Vin led him through the house to the front door. As he started the Skylark, he looked back at the house, and through the window in the door he saw Vin’s granddaughter Sadie raise her hand in a wave. He waved back.

He drove slowly, noticing the cool touch of the steering wheel and the grip of the tires on the road, not thinking about the pain in his balls too much, trying to mind the yellow lines but also looking up at the new light green leaves in uncountable bunches in the boughs that hung above the road, the dust in the young blackberry thicket, and, as he came down into the hollow by Esker Cove, the tails of fog moving between islands outside his passenger-side window.

It was mostly a clear night, and warm, and the only fog he could see was in thin wisps at the outer edge of the harbor. He pulled over, parked on the shoulder, and stepped out into the warm evening, leaning against the Skylark, taking in the full ocean view from the mouth of the cove. Out by Watson Point, within minutes thicker fog rolled in, making trees and rocks and water disappear. He’d seen this many times, of course, but mostly he’d been out in the harbor in a boat when it happened: the fog appearing silently, almost instantly, so that one minute you’d spy the sharp-angled rocks on the far shore and the next minute
mist had swept across your bow like kettle steam. All you can manage to see, then, are your own hands sorting through the anchor box in search of a chart.

He would see his brother again. Two years later. He’d get a phone call on a Sunday afternoon, and Littlefield would be in Vancouver. He’d tell Bennie how his life still had its challenges—Bennie would hear traffic in the background and know Littlefield was calling from a pay phone—but he would also say he was glad to be experiencing a different part of the world for a while. He would tell Bennie he’d met a girl he wanted to introduce to Mom. He would tell Bennie he was coming back, to check in with the family, to meet Gwen’s new husband, and Bennie and Helen’s daughter. It would take him another year to actually make good on these plans, but he would.

As Bennie watched the fog, he wondered if someone he knew might drive down into the hollow and be curious about what he was looking at. But no cars passed. Everyone was home, eating dinner, and he was glad to have the view to himself. It felt good to survey the fog from a distance—to see it erase island after island from a place where he had his bearings. He was eager to get home to see Helen, but he waited long enough to watch the fog roll all the way through—revealing trees and rocks and sky as quickly as it had hidden them.

I am deeply indebted to the generosity of the Mrs. Giles Whiting Foundation and Deerfield Academy’s Wallace Wilson Fellows Program. Thank you also, B Love, Jeff Harrison, Leslie Falk, Alison Kerr Miller, Suzanne Strempek Shea, Monica Wood, Dan Abbott, Kai Bicknell, Jaed Coffin, and Mark Scandling. Thank you, Herb Taylor, for letting me use your living room in Spar Cove as an office, and for not kicking me out after I let the pipes freeze. Thank you, Theo Emery, Alix Ohlin, Kate Sullivan, Aaron McCollough, Curtis Sittenfeld, Eric Jones, Howard Rosenfield, Matthew Vollmer, and Amy Hassinger, for reading early drafts. Thank you to my brothers, Sam, Seth, Jake, and Jeff, and my sisters, Jesse,
Kim, and Heather. Thank you to my intrepid and talented agent, David McCormick, and my editor, the patient, savvy, and kind Laura Ford. Thank you, Suegra, David Riley, and Linda Robinson. Thank you for your inspiration, Tom Robinson, for checking up on me. Thank you to my parents, Sam Robinson and Mimo Riley, for the love and guidance you provided. And thank you, CC and Maisie, always.

L
EWIS
R
OBINSON
is the author of
Officer Friendly and Other Stories
, winner of the PEN/Oakland—Josephine Miles Award. A graduate of Middlebury College and the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, he has also received a Whiting Writers’ Award. He now teaches in the Stonecoast MFA program at the University of Southern Maine and coaches middle-school basketball in Portland, Maine, where he lives with his wife and daughter. Visit his website at
lewisrobinson.com
.