total grouch in the present, but he has a soft nostalgic heart for the past.”
On either side of the mirrored wall behind the liquor bottles were clusters of photographs and vintage ads for soda and beer. Cassie took a picture down, wiped it off with a bar towel and set it in front of Erik.
In a faded, black and white shot, a family posed on the front steps of the hotel beneath the fish. A man and woman, she holding a baby in her arms. Four boys lounging at their feet. A handwritten caption in the corner: The Fisher Hotel, 1932. Emil and Ingrid Fiskare and children.
“Ingrid,” Daisy said. “This is Emil’s first wife. Your grandfather’s mother.”
“The fish has been hanging over the steps all these years,” Erik said.
Cassie nodded. “And Fisher Hotel is still etched into the front windows. Old Phil changed it to the Saint Lawrence Inn, though. Not sure why.”
“Maybe his soft spot isn’t that soft,” Roxanne said.
“Do you recognize anyone?” Daisy asked, peering at the four Fiskare sons.
Erik shook his head. Not one of the boys looked especially like him, although in a weird generic way, they all looked like him. He could fall into the picture, sit down on the steps and fit right in.
Cassie brought down another picture. Four young men standing on a dock, holding up impressive catches. Another handwritten caption: Fiskare boys, 1938. Beneath each boy’s feet a name was inscribed. Kennet. Erik. Bjorn. Emil.
Erik’s finger touched the first boy on the left. The tallest. With the biggest fish. “That’s my grandfather, Kennet,” he said. “That’s Farfar.” He touched the last boy on the right. “And that’s Uncle Emil.”
A man spoke behind them. “I bought this place from Emil’s widow.” The voice was full of gravel. Erik spun on his stool. Two yellowed eyes stared back at him. Watery blue in creased, sunburned skin. Disobedient eyebrows and tufts of white nose hair.
“You’re Kennet’s boy?” he said.
Erik stared back, feeling young and in trouble. “I’m Byron’s boy,” came spilling out of his mouth and he felt Daisy glance at him.
“This is my father-in-law, Phil MacIntyre,” Cassie said. “Be nice, Phil. He doesn’t want to buy it back from you. Although I begged him to.”
Phil MacIntyre didn’t shake hands or sit. He went around the bar. Erik turned on his seat, following him.
“You bought the hotel from Emil’s wife?” Erik asked. “From Kirsten? Is she still alive?”
“She’s alive,” Phil said in a grunt, his back to the guests, perusing the photographs. He picked one down and used another bar towel to wipe off the frame. When he turned around, his face had transformed. He was smiling. As he laid the picture on the bar in front of Erik, his expression was pleased to the point of smug.
“Jesus,” Erik whispered.
It was a black and white photograph, five by seven. Three men clustered at its center. An old man seated in an armchair. Bald with a mustache, dressed in a plaid sport coat and a tie. He held a blanket-wrapped baby in his arms. A young man was seated on one wide arm of the chair and a middle-aged man stood stiffly on the other side, hands in his pockets. Handwriting in the picture’s corner—The Fisher Hotel, January 1971: Four Generations. None of the men were labeled, but Erik didn’t need help. His finger reached and touched the man sitting on the chair’s arm.
“That’s my father,” he said. Then he touched the standing man. “That’s Farfar.”
He touched the old man and looked up at Phil MacIntyre.
“That’s Emil,” Phil said. “Your great-grandfather.”
Erik looked down. His finger hesitated and then pressed down on the baby. He looked up at Phil again. Who smiled and nodded.
“Look at me, I’m bawling,” Cassie said, touching fingertips under her eyes.
“Oh my God,” Daisy said, her hand curling around Erik’s elbow and her finger joining to point to the baby in the old man’s arms. “Honey, that’s you…”
PHIL TOOK ONE MORE picture down from behind the bar. In it Kennet Fiskare stood as a soldier, sharp and creased in his uniform. One arm stiff at his side, the hand almost in a fist, wishing for a pocket to hide in. In contrast, the blonde girl next to him was all softness. Round, laughing face, young curved body in a sundress, a bare foot kicked fetchingly up behind. One hand on her hip, the other around Kennet’s shoulder, she draped on him like a blanket thrown over a straight-backed chair. Kennet and Gertrude Fiskare,