The Smell of Other People's Hou - Bonnie-Sue Hitchcock Page 0,31
woke me up on the flying bridge. Maybe he didn’t want to be rescued after all? He keeps a wall up between himself and the rest of us that feels impenetrable. Asking anything seems rude. So far all he’ll let me do is tilt his head up so he can take small sips of water. I smell the sea in his hair. But then he lies back down and closes his eyes. It’s clear he wants to be left alone.
Later my dad takes him a mug of tea, and I sit on the open hatch of the fo’c’sle, eavesdropping despite Uncle Gorky’s disapproving look. Dad sloshes the tea on the way down the ladder, and I hear him say, “Shit,” in that way that always makes me laugh because it’s so lacking in real emotion—why even bother? It reminds me of Mom complaining that Dad is an “underreactor,” like that’s a bad thing. If I lie on my belly, I can look down into the fo’c’sle and just barely see them. Dad props up the boy’s head and holds the mug to his lips, saying, “Careful, this is dangerous,” as if swimming in the ocean is nothing compared to the riskier task of drinking tea on a boat.
“You want to talk?” he asks.
The boy shakes his head.
“Didn’t think so,” he says.
I can tell this conversation is going nowhere.
“I’m George,” Dad says, and then turns to head back up the ladder.
“Sam,” says the boy. “I’m Sam.” I see my dad look back at him and nod. Then he pauses and decides it’s okay to mention one more thing.
“I did check with the Marine Highway, and they say they aren’t missing any passengers.”
Sam just stares at my ballet slippers hanging on the nail, and I feel my cheeks grow warm.
“You just rest,” Dad says. “If there’s no rush getting you back, it would be great if we could finish up the king opening. There’s still another week and a half and I can’t afford not to fish. That okay with you?”
Sam nods.
I didn’t know my dad checked in with the ferry, and I can’t stop asking him and Uncle Gorky why they aren’t more curious that there was no record of Sam. I know he was on that boat; I saw him.
Dad says more words than usual when he tells me in no uncertain terms that he doesn’t stick his nose in where it doesn’t belong. I’m beginning to see my mom’s point about Dad being an underreactor. We rescued a boy in the ocean and he’s just going to keep fishing?
“You haven’t learned the way of the sea yet, Alyce?” Uncle Gorky says to me. “Don’t ask, don’t tell.”
“But he’s my age,” I say.
“Doesn’t matter. If somebody tried to unravel the secrets in this ocean, there would be no age limit. And it would be like opening Pandora’s box, if you ask me. If this boat ever goes down, you think those ballet slippers hanging there wouldn’t be a mystery to somebody?”
Uncle Gorky always knows how to shut me up. I do not want to talk about my ballet slippers.
Sam being on the Squid has certainly taken my mind off dancing, though. After a few more days, he finally comes out on deck to look around. He looks so pale and thin, I don’t think Dad wants to make him do anything. But slowly he asks me about how things work on the boat. I feel like I’m reading an inventory list of the gear.
“This is a cleaning tray,” I say, slicing through the neck bone of a king salmon and making him wince. I was actually trying to impress him.
“Sorry,” I say. “It’s only brutal the first time. Or maybe you’ve fished before?”
He shakes his head.
“My dad used to,” he says.
But then he stops and I feel the invisible wall go up. Okay, don’t ask about a dad.
“Are you ever going to tell me what you were doing on the ferry?” I try to sound as if I’m not actually prying.
He sighs.
“My brothers and I stowed away.”
“Really?” Now I am impressed.
“Please don’t tell your dad,” he says. “I think my older brother could get arrested if they find them.”
“But we should get them word that you’re okay, don’t you think?”
“I figure Hank probably saw you rescue me and knows I’m okay. He’s just trying to figure out a way to get in touch without the authorities finding out. And he’s probably really mad at me.”