in his path, all eyes on him and measuring his progress as he approached our table.
“Joe.” He removed his cap and raked his fingers back through his pepper-gray hair; around us the crowds returned to their beer and talk. “Shelle.”
“Have a seat, Ford?”
His eyes moved over the table. “Not just now, thanks. Heard the High Chap brought in seventy thousand.”
I shook the ice in my glass. “Felt like more.”
He nodded equably. “That’s what we like to hear. Everybody making money. I don’t like to press, Joe, but I’ve got a crew to put together. Had a chance to think about my offer?”
Early that morning, talking to Lewis, I’d found myself thinking I’d go; but now I wasn’t so sure. It wasn’t Lucy’s letter, or even Marcel’s offer of a better job, that had unsettled me, but something else Marcel had said: that Abby didn’t want me to go. It felt like an omen, and I had been around the docks long enough to have picked up more than a trace of superstition. Nonsense, but there it was. On the other hand, three grand was three grand.
“A four percent share, Joe. Can’t hold your place much longer.”
“Who else is interested?”
“Lots of folks. Lewis O’Day, for one.”
“Lewis?”
“Spoke to me this afternoon. Said you could have first crack, but if you didn’t want it, he’d sign on. I’d rather have you.”
Michelle scoffed and ground out her cigarette in the ashtray we had already half filled. “That old rumhound? He’d probably fall overboard before you left the dock.”
Ford rubbed his chin thoughtfully, eyes narrowed. “No secret he drinks. But he’s been out to sea plenty in his day. I’m thinking I could rely on him well enough. And he’s clear he wants to go.”
I finished my drink and returned the empty glass to the table. The Scotch I’d drunk, or the thought of Lewis taking my place: whatever the reason, declining Ford’s offer suddenly seemed foolish, all air with nothing to push against. Abby would worry, but that was Abby. Nothing was keeping me here. A month at sea—what did I have to lose?
“Okay,” I said, and gave my glass a conclusive thump on the wood. “Count me in.”
Michelle sat up abruptly. “Joe—”
I didn’t let her finish. I looked at Ford again. “When do we leave?”
“Tuesday next. Back at the end of September.”
“All right. I’ll be there, Ford.”
He left us to go find the pay phone, and I turned my attention to Michelle. She was sitting stock-still, her spine straight against the back of the booth.
“What?”
“Why did you do that?”
“What’s the matter, Shelle? The money’s good, you know that.”
She laughed bitterly, looking away. “How can I be so goddamn stupid?”
“What are you talking about?”
As her eyes caught the light I saw a glint of tears. But her face was hard, her jaw set. “You think I don’t know what you’re doing? I’ve been down this road before.”
“What road, Shelle? Are you listening? It’s just a month.”
“Foreman, Joe. That’s a good job. You didn’t even ask me.”
I reached my hand across the table to touch her arm, but she pulled away.
“Don’t,” she said, and sat back, her palms raised, her face almost in a panic. “Just . . . forget it, Joe. Will you? Please? Do me a favor and forget it.” Her eyes fell to the table and she shook her head again. “What the hell is wrong with me? Why am I such a fucking idiot?”
“I really don’t know what the problem is, Shelle. We’re going to the banks, that’s all.”
“Great, the banks. Have fun. Look us up when you get back, okay?”
A moment of silence passed. She lit another cigarette.
“Shelle—”
“That’s not the point, Joe.” She rose to her feet, not looking at me, and crushed out the cigarette she had only just lit, three hard stubs into the ashtray. “You asshole,” she said, and before I could answer—Michelle’s last words to me still ringing in my ears—I was sitting alone at the table with my empty glass.
We returned in October, ahead of the weather, making port on a day so bright with autumn sun that the surface of the sea seemed shattered. I’d said good-bye to no one—not Michelle, or Lewis, or even Abby and Marcel—and no one was waiting on the wharf to meet me. I wanted it that way. Michelle had seen it before I had. After that night at the bar, I knew what four years had turned me into: a man without love, on whom any kind of