Pearl

  You and me, I think, looking at the photo. We really screwed things up.

  “I got one!” Henry yells from the garden.

  I carefully close the lid with the photograph and carry the tackle box and pole outside, leaving my old pole leaning against the bench.

  Henry runs over to me holding out the can. I peek inside and see one lowly worm squirming in a pathetic sprinkle of soil.

  “I think we’re gonna need more than one,” I say.

  He frowns and turns back for the garden. This time, I follow.

  The tomato plants Gus put in at the end of May are starting to flower. I wonder if my mom will bother to take care of them. I wish I could remember what to do. Gus used to let me follow him up and down the few tiny rows, pointing out which things were weeds and letting me pull them out. Whenever we found a worm or some other bug, Gus would tell me what its job was. If it was bad for the garden, he’d gather it in his hand and plop it in a coffee can. Then he’d take the thing out behind the carriage house and leave it. I never saw him kill a single creature.

  I wish my mom knew that about him. That sometimes, he could be gentle. I wish just once he could have been that way with her.

  “I got another one!” Henry says excitedly.

  “Let’s go then,” I say.

  He nods and sidles up beside me, holding the can out in front of him proudly.

  “What?” he asks when he catches me smiling at him.

  “Oh … nothing.”

  He peers excitedly into the can to check on the worms.

  I try to remember the last time I felt like Henry looks, and come up empty.

  chapter eight

  At the end of the street there’s a path that leads down to a small dock where a few boats are locked up. The key to Gus’s lock is in the tackle box. The keychain is a red-and-white foam buoy with a single key. Gus left the oars and life preservers in the bottom of the boat. So far, no one has ever stolen them, which is pretty surprising for our neighborhood.

  I hold the bow while Henry steps into the rowboat. It tips sharply to one side and Henry lets out a yelp.

  “Relax!” I say. “Just get in the middle and make your way to the seat in the bow.” I point so he knows where that is.

  I get in after him and put the oars in the locks. “Shove off!” I say.

  Henry looks at me, confused.

  “Put your hand on the dock and push,” I explain.

  He gives us a gentle shove and we slowly drift out on the stinky river. It smells like the city when it rains in the summer. Like rotting garbage. When I dip the paddles in the water, they make a soft, familiar splash.

  “How come you never took me out here before?” Henry asks.

  I turn back to face him as he looks across the water to the overgrown riverbank. A lone, discarded stove pokes out of the high grass. A seagull sits on a tire, watching us curiously.

  “Why would anyone want to come out here?” I ask. “It’s disgusting.”

  He shrugs. “Gus liked it.”

  “Yeah, well. Some people think Gus was crazy.” I remember Claire’s cold words and cringe a little.

  “Not you, though,” Henry says.

  I eye the red tackle box at my feet and picture the photo of my grandmother inside. “You gonna fish, or what?” I ask. I pull in the oars so we can drift, the way Gus used to do when we fished together. I turn myself around so I can sit facing Henry.

  He grins and reaches for the pole. He fumbles with the hook and then reaches into the soup can wedged between his white sneakers.

  “Ew,” he says, holding the worm with two fingers.

  “It won’t bite you.”

  “I know, but … it’s gross.”

  “Didn’t you touch the worm when you dug it up?”

  He wrinkles his nose. “I used the little shovel thing.”

  “You mean the trowel, Henry. Jeez.”

  He shrugs and gently tries to wrap the long worm around the hook.

  “You’re supposed to spear the hook through the worm, ya know,” I say.

  “I’m not stupid. I just can’t do it.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s mean.”

  “And submerging the thing underwater so it can be eaten by a giant, pollution-filled fish is an act of charity?”

  He shrugs again and inspects the worm knot he’s made around the hook. Then he lets the little worm dangle behind him on the line before he casts out and lets it sink into the tea-colored water. I’m surprised he knows how to cast and wonder where he picked that up. Probably on TV.

  The small bobber on the line floats quietly on the top of the water.

  “So, um, how long does this usually take?” Henry asks, peering at the water.

  I shake my head at him. What would Gus think?

  “Be patient,” I say, closing my eyes and holding my face to the sun. “The whole point is to sit quietly and enjoy the peace.

  He wrinkles his nose. “But not the smell.”

  “No, not the smell.”

  Less than a minute has gone by when the little bobber jerks. Henry practically falls out of the boat with excitement.

  “I got one! I got one!” he yells.

  “Pull it in!”

  “How?”

  “With the reel!”

  He starts to crank the reel. The pole bends in a familiar arc. We both search the water to see what he’s pulled up, but before the image of a struggling fish emerges, I suddenly don’t want to see.

  I turn away and squeeze my eyes shut.

  “It’s a fish!” Henry shouts, as if he was expecting an old tennis shoe.

  “Let it loose!” I yell, not looking.

  “What?”

  “Let it go!” My chest tightens with panic. I cannot see the fish. I can’t.

  “But I don’t know how!” Henry yells at me, his own panic sounding in his voice.

  I’m crying.

  “Hold its body with one hand and pull the hook out with the other,” I say without looking. “You’ve got a barbless hook. Just do it!”

  “Ick! It’s slimy.”

  “Please, Henry. Just let it go!”

  “I’m trying! Ew! Okay. Okay. I got it.”

  There’s a splash.

  “You can look now.”

  But I keep my hands over my face. I don’t want him to see me crying. I’m not even sure why I’m crying in the first place.

  “Beany? You okay?”

  I wipe my face before I turn back and nod.

  “I’m sorry. I just didn’t want it to die.”

  “I wasn’t going to kill it. I was going to let it go. I just wanted to see what it was like, you know? I never caught a fish before. It’s one of the things you’re supposed to do with your dad. It’s on my list.”

  I look up in time to see him blush. “What list?”

  “Never mind.”

  “No, tell me.”

  “It’s dumb. It’s something I started when I was little.”

  I sit forward. “This is me, Hen. Nothing you do is dumb to me. Well, almost nothing.”

  He sighs. “I made this list of all the things I would do with my dad. You know, if I had one. It’s stupid.”

  I wipe my eyes again and look at the quiet, mucky water.

  “I don’t think it’s stupid at all.”

  A clear lid with a chewed-up straw stuck through the star-shaped hole in the middle floats swiftly by among tiny flecks of dirt and debris. I wonder if ashes float or if they sink to the bottom of the river. Would they be mistaken for fish food? Or would they dissolve into the water and flow away from here into some cooler, cleaner place?

  “Do you believe in heaven?” I ask.

  There are almost no clouds in the sky. Just little wisps here and there.

  “Nah,” Henry says, looking up to where I’m gazing.

  “Then what do you think happens when you die?”

  He peers down into the worm can. “I dunno, Bean.” He sounds sad. “What do
you think?”

  “I don’t know, either. I mean, I can’t imagine my mind just stopping. How can you turn into nothing? Like, where is Gus’s mind right now? Does everything just stop? How can it just … stop?”

  “I don’t like thinking about it. If you think about that stuff too much, you start to go crazy.”

  “I know,” I say. “But I can’t help it.”

  We float along quietly, listening to distant car horns, brakes squeaking and engines revving as they make their way through the series of traffic lights down the busy road that parallels our quiet side street that runs along the river.

  “Maybe … maybe it’s kind of like not being born,” Henry finally says.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I don’t know. I mean, do you remember before you were born?”

  “No, of course not.” I feel a twinge in my chest, thinking about my “what if I’d never been born” game.

  “Well, maybe that’s what it’s like when you die, too.”

  He looks down at the water as if there will be some sort of confirmation to his theory just below the surface. I look down, too, wondering why not being able to see more than a foot below the surface makes it so interesting. Every so often we glide past more trash—soggy McDonald’s fries containers getting ready to sink to the muddy bottom. Fresh cigarette butts. The occasional empty soda bottle bobbing along.

  “I hope it’s not like that,” I say. “God, it’s like turning a switch. On, then off. That’s it.”

  “But it wouldn’t matter,” he says. “Because you’d be gone.”

  I shake my head. “Let’s go home.”

  The sun beats down on my back as I row. Henry twists forward so he can peek over the bow as the water moves under us.

  “I think I just saw another fish!” he says. “Or maybe it was the one I set free! Maybe it’s the only one in there, the poor thing. I bet it can’t see a thing in all that sludge.”

  He starts to reach forward to put his fingers in the water.

  “Don’t!” I yell.

  He jumps.

  “Hen, it’s really dirty. You’d probably get a disease or something.”

  “But I touched the fish! How’s that different?”

  “You had to,” I say. “But you probably shouldn’t do it again.”

  Henry fake-shivers and goes back to searching for life under the surface.

  I wonder if Gus is down there, looking up at us. I wonder if he was reincarnated as a fish, and he can finally swim out of here. I wonder if he is our fish, and we just set him free.

  chapter nine

  After we lock up the boat, we head back to the house. Henry sets the remaining worm free in the garden while I put Gus’s fishing pole and tackle box back in the garage. As I walk past Gus’s car, I glance inside. Gus used one of those wooden, beaded seat covers. I always wondered if it was comfortable. I look closer through the window and see all the familiar pieces of Gus inside. The change from the MiniMart in the open ashtray holder that he emptied once a week when it got full. When I was younger, he’d let me count it out and sometimes buy a treat with it. I put my hand on the glass and leave a print on the dusty window. Dusty already. I check to see if Henry is coming before I open the door and get behind the wheel.

  I lean against the worn, wooden beads and grasp the steering wheel. The car smells like pine freshener and hot vinyl. On the passenger seat is an old, neatly folded blue-and-green knitted blanket that my grandmother made. I reach over and touch the soft yarn. I wonder if Gus did the same thing whenever he got in the car. An overpowering sense of loneliness creeps around me at the thought. I squeeze the steering wheel, imagining Gus’s hands touching the same gray rubber grip. If I had the keys, it would be so simple to drive away. To disappear for real.

  There’s a quiet knock on the passenger door window. Henry’s sweaty face peers in at me.

  I nod.

  He picks up the blanket as he gets inside and places it on his lap.

  His fingers gently thrum the top of the blanket as he waits for me to say something.

  “I wish I tried to spend more time with him,” I finally say.

  Henry breathes in slowly. He seems uncomfortable, like maybe he agrees with me and doesn’t know what to say.

  “He must have been so lonely, you know? My mom was right. He didn’t have any friends. I should have talked to him more. I should have tried harder. Every time I think of him all I can see is the sadness in his eyes. I can feel the loneliness of him. It’s in his room. In his living room chair. In the boat. It’s in here. I can feel it right now. Can’t you?”

  Henry glances around. “Sort of.”

  I rub my arms even though I’m not cold. “There’s this sad nothingness that was here before he left, and now that he’s gone, it’s even stronger. Like a horrible sadness that keeps getting bigger.”

  Even as I say the words, I feel my own loneliness taking hold, like a cold shadow blanket wrapping itself around me, urging me to disappear once and for all.

  “Bean. You think Gus was sad because you miss him and it’s sad that he died. But it’s not your fault if he was lonely.”

  The back of my throat aches from trying not to cry.

  “Do you know that I can’t even remember the last time I saw Gus laugh? I swear, Henry. I can’t remember! I don’t even know what he looked like when he was happy. Maybe he never was! Not since before my grandmother died!”

  My throat gives up and I let myself cry. Henry reaches over and puts a hand on my thigh and squeezes. It’s something Sally does when we’re watching a particularly sad scene on Days. “I bet he laughed a few times. I bet, maybe, when he went down to the MiniMart and got his coffee in the morning, that lady at the counter, what’s her name?”

  “Susie?”

  “Yeah, Susie. I bet she made him laugh. She makes everyone laugh. I bet he was her special challenge or something.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Come on, Bean.” He squeezes my thigh again. “Don’t feel guilty. You two always got along. He and your mom are another story, it’s true. But that’s not your fault. I don’t think anyone could’ve gotten them to make peace.”

  “You know what his last words to me were?”

  I feel sweat gathering between the bare skin on my leg and his hand. Besides my hand, I think this is the first time Henry has touched me skin to skin on purpose. I know it’s just a comfort touch, but it still feels strange.

  “No,” he says.

  “Be good.”

  Henry looks out the passenger side window at the row of recycling bins lining the wall.

  I touch the pearl earrings I still haven’t taken out. “I think what he really meant was, Don’t be like your mom. I think he was afraid I’d make the same mistakes. Like I’d get pregnant and end up being a waitress all my life.”

  Henry unrolls the window and leans his face out to get some fresh air, only the air in the garage is musty and makes him cough.

  I bite my lip and wait for him to breathe normally again.

  “Maybe … maybe he just meant to be good. Like, have a good day and don’t get into trouble. I mean, it’s not like he knew those would be his last words, right?”

  I close my eyes and think. I try to remember Gus’s eyes when he said those words. Did he know somehow? Did he want those to be his last words to me? Was he trying to tell me something?

  “Do you think it really was my mom’s fault, Hen?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Her getting pregnant.” I concentrate on the dashboard. “Do you think she was raped or do you think she made the whole thing up? I mean, she knew the guy. Bill. My dad. But that’s not what she let on to Gus.”

  Henry and I haven’t talked about our dads since I told him about the conversation I overheard when I was twelve. Once my dream dad was shattered, it didn’t seem fair to talk about Henry’s dream dad. Besides, if my dad could turn out to be a total loser, so could Henry’s. It was best to protect
the dream by not talking about it.

  Henry takes a careful breath and manages not to cough again. “I’m not sure, Bean.” He picks at the cracked vinyl on the armrest. “Do you really want to know?”

  I let the question sink in. “Sometimes I do. But sometimes I wish I didn’t know anything at all.”

  “Yeah. Me too.” He inspects his fingernails and picks a tiny piece of vinyl from one. He wipes it on his shorts underneath the folded blanket that’s still resting on his lap. He sighs and pulls his shirt away from his body. “Hot in here,” he says, shifting the blanket uncomfortably.

  I take the blanket from him and place it on the backseat. As I reach, I have to move closer to him, I smell his sweat and a hint of cologne. My stomach twists in a funny way. I quickly lean away. When I do, I feel the sweat on my own back and wonder if I’ll have a sweat spot through my T-shirt.

  “We better go,” I say.

  Henry nods and opens the door. As we walk toward the house, I make sure to stand behind him just in case there’s a spot. He turns to make sure I’m coming.

  “Want to stick around for a while?” I ask, catching up to him.

  “Sure,” he says. “But this time, no wine.”

  “No,” I say. “Definitely not.”

  chapter ten

  There’s laughter coming from the kitchen when we get back to the house. I roll my eyes at Henry and check my watch. It isn’t even noon yet and they’re already drinking. I’m sure of it.

  “Sally, you look amazing!” my mom shrieks.

  Henry gives me a quick, raised eyebrow.

  Sally’s out again?

  We rush to the kitchen.

  Sally is sitting on a stool at the kitchen sink. Her large bottom covers the whole seat so just the stool legs stick out from under her. My mom has most of Sally’s newly bleached-blond hair in her hands, twisting it up on top of her head while Claire applies mascara to her eyelashes.