Chapter 23: The Ferry

The Marguerite left Pier 11 at ten past ten on Saturday, and she left on time.

Max noticed.

"On time," he said to the deckhand, with great seriousness. "Good job."

The deckhand was a broad young man with a coil of line over his shoulder.

He said thank you and stood a little taller.

It was a cold, bright morning.

The harbor was the color of hammered tin, and the wind came across the water smelling of salt and diesel.

Max stood at the rail on the open top deck in his red headphones, with both hands flat on the metal.

I stood a step behind him, because he likes me there.

Caleb's nephew stood on his other side.

He was nine, thin, silent and serious.

He and Max had not said a word to each other since the dock.

They didn't need to.

They had both put their hands on the rail at exactly the same moment, in exactly the same way.

"Two engines," Max said, to the boy.

The nephew nodded.

"The orange one has two too," the nephew said.

"The orange one is big," Max agreed.

"This one is my uncle's."

"I know. She's the Marguerite. She's sometimes late."

"Okay," said the nephew.

That was the whole conversation.

Caleb stood a few feet away with his hands in his coat pockets and turned his face to the water.

I thought he might be hiding a smile.

In the second after that, I thought he was hiding something else.

He caught me looking and lifted one shoulder.

"He hasn't said that much to anyone since his father died," Caleb said, quietly, so only I could hear. "He just talked to your son."

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