Chapter 6: The Cut Palm

The crew ate dinner in the shop on Saturdays.

They pushed two sawhorses together, laid a plank across them, and spread out whatever anyone had brought.

That night it was pasties from the bakery on Third Street and a pot of Ben's chili.

Nine people sat on stools and upturned buckets.

I sat at the end with my right hand in a bowl of ice.

Joanne's question from the drive still sat in my head.

She had called back an hour ago with the answer: Russell himself had asked the clinic to seal his file, and only a judge could open it.

I had already told her to ask the judge.

"You hit a clamp," said the youngest, a lanky kid with sawdust in his eyebrows.

"I'm aware."

"On purpose?"

"Kid," said the harbormaster, "eat."

"I'm only saying it's the first time I've seen a person lose to a clamp."

"I didn't lose. I drew."

The table laughed.

I laughed with them, and nothing in my chest hurt.

It had been a long time since I could say that and mean it.

The harbormaster pushed a pasty toward me with two fingers.

"Eat, girl. You've got the look of someone who skipped lunch to have a feeling."

"I skipped lunch to have three."

"Good. Then you're hungry."

I ate.

Afterward the crew drifted out into the long June dusk, and the shop went quiet.

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