Chapter 23: On His Knees

My father knelt on the warehouse floor in his camel coat, with his hat in both hands.

Clem was gone, driven away between two deputies, and she had not looked back.

A hundred dockers stood in the doorway and watched him.

"Rosalind," he said.

I said nothing.

"I have nothing left," he said. "She took the house and the accounts.

"My own daughter put me out on the road."

"She learned it from somewhere."

"I know." He bent his head. "I did it. The cannery. I gave the order, and I paid the man."

A low breath went through the doorway.

"I told myself it was war," he said. "The Askews had taken two of my piers.

"I thought a fire would end it. I did not know a woman was sleeping in the back."

"You knew," my mother said from her chair. "You told me that night.

"You said you had watched her light go out."

My father shut his eyes.

"I buried it," he said. "Then I took in her little girl.

"I thought it would be a kind of payment."

"It was a pet," I said.

"It was a kindness."

"It was a pet, Gerard. You raised her to love you, so you could stand to look at her."

He had no answer for that.

The older coast guard officer stepped forward with his cap in his hand.

"Mr. Dunleavy," he said. "We'd like to talk about Pier Four."

My father nodded.

"I'll go," he said. "I won't make you drag me."

"You can stand up."

"I can't," my father said. "Not until she hears it."

He lifted his wet face to me.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry I sold you.

"I'm sorry I cried at your welcome party in front of sixty people, and made you hold my hand.

"I'm sorry for the coffee. I'm sorry for every year."

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