Chapter 16: The Dock

Wren drove me back to the boatyard at dusk, and she did not turn the engine off.

"I'm not coming in," she said. "I have a shift, and I'd like to keep my opinion of him until I've seen his face."

"You've seen his face."

"I've seen his face at a funeral and at a gala. I'd like to see it on a Saturday."

She looked at the flat's lit window.

"You want to hit him, and you also want to climb him," she said. "Both are fine. Just do them in an order you won't regret."

"Wren."

"Hit him first. Hitting is cheaper."

I got out of the car laughing, which I had not expected to do that day.

Hank was on the dock with a bucket and a brush, scrubbing the deck of his father's boat, and the water around him was gray with soap.

He had been scrubbing for a long time.

"Come here," I said.

He put the brush down.

He stood at the end of the plank in a wet T-shirt with his shoulders braced.

I walked up to him and hit him in the chest with the flat of my hand.

It did not hurt him.

I did it again, harder.

"Four years," I said.

"Yes."

"You carved the turkey."

"Yes."

"I made you a plate to take home, every Thanksgiving. I wrapped it in foil."

"I remember."

"Argue with me!"

"No."

"Say it wasn't that bad. Say you were in a hard spot. Say anything."

"I won't." His voice was rough. "You can hit me again. I'll stand here as long as you want. But I won't tell you it wasn't that bad, because it was."

I hit him a third time, and my hand opened against his shirt.

His heart was going hard under my palm.

I looked up.

He was not looking away.

He never did, I thought, when it counted.

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