Chapter 11: Fair

On Friday my father tried to hang a plank on the Wilhelmina by himself.

I heard the clamp hit the floor from the steam shed.

I ran.

He was standing beside the hull with one hand pressed flat to the mahogany and the other on his chest.

His face was gray under the white mustache.

"Sit down."

"I'm fine."

"Sit down, Dad, or I'm calling the ambulance and telling them you cried at the Lyman."

He sat on an upturned bucket.

I knelt in front of him until his breathing steadied.

After a while his color came back.

He looked at the plank lying on the floor, and at the empty bench where Cullen's tool chest used to be.

"I can't plank alone," he said.

"I know."

"You can't either. You've got your mother's arms. Strong. Short."

"It takes two men to hang a plank on a boat that size. Always did." He rubbed his face. "I've been an old fool, Britt."

"Yes."

"Go get him," he said.

Cullen's house was in Douglas, on the other side of the river.

The Wren was tied at his dock, a 1948 Chris-Craft, all varnished mahogany and white canvas cushions.

She looked like somebody loved her every day.

He was on the dock, on his knees, sanding her rub rail.

He looked up when he heard my car.

He didn't stop sanding.

"If you're here about the post," he said, "I've seen it. My barber's seen it. My dentist sent me a thumbs up."

"I'm not here about the post."

"Good. I look like a bear in it."

"You look like a blur."

"A bear-shaped blur."

I walked out on the dock and sat on the edge next to him.

"Dad tried to hang a plank alone today."

The sanding stopped.

"Is he all right?"

"He's all right. He sat on a bucket. He said it takes two men."

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