Chapter 7: The Dock

Grandma came last, leaning on Lorna's arm.

The harbor was already full of people.

The deckhand, the bakery woman, two lobstermen and the old pastor from Rockland were there.

They had been setting out folding chairs on the dock since ten.

They all stopped and turned.

Dad walked down the planks in his funeral coat with his hands open in front of him.

"Delia, sweetheart. Let's not do this in public."

"You came to my wedding dock to ask me not to do it in public?"

"We came to talk," Cal said. His voice cracked.

"Then talk."

Dad glanced at the faces around us, and he put on his Rotary smile.

"I understand how you feel. Losing your mother, you want something good to hold on to."

He lowered his voice.

"But this family has always decided these things together. It would break her heart if she were here."

"She is not here," I said. "I buried her an hour ago."

"Delia."

"How much, Dad?"

His smile stayed where it was.

"I beg your pardon?"

"How much did she pay you to say the word?"

Nobody on the dock moved.

The bakery woman set down her tray of cups.

I had not planned to ask it in front of them.

It had come out before I could stop it, and once it was out I was glad.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Dad said. "Your mother's grief has clearly upset you."

"It was in her handwriting."

"Then someone has forged it."

"Cal," I said.

My brother stood beside the truck with his hands in his pockets, looking at the boards.

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