firelight, sees dark figures shifting, their warped shadows thrown up into the pines. They sit on logs, stumps. They laugh. She hears the clink of bottles.
She sees the boy among them, sitting on a log. His smile orange in the firelight. His necklace white. He laughs, tips back a bottle. She holds her breath a long time, almost a minute. She stands, turns to go, steps on a stick and it snaps.
The laughter fades. She does not move.
Hey, the boy says. Dorothy?
Dorotea turns from the shadows, steps out into the firelight, walks with her head down, sits next to the boy.
Dorothy. Everybody, this is Dorothy.
The firelit faces look at her, look away. Conversation starts up again.
Knew you’d come, the boy says.
Did you.
Sure I did.
How did you know?
Just knew. Felt it. Like I told you, we have these fires every night, just about. I said to myself, you just wait. The girl will come. Dorothy will come. And here you are.
Did you catch anything today? After I saw you?
Got a few. I let them go.
My dad got hired at the ironworks. He designs the hulls of ships.
Is that right?
Well, he will. He will do that.
He holds her hand and her palm is damp with sweat but she holds on and they lock fingers and she can feel his strong hand, rough fingertips. They sit like that a bit and she sits as still as shecan. They do not talk. The fire sends smoke high into the trees. The stars wink and gutter. It feels nice being the daughter of a shipbuilder.
Later he tries to kiss her. Leans across clumsily and his breath is hot on her chin and she clamps her eyes shut. She thinks of her mother, her tiny mother under onions in a train car. She pulls away from the boy, stands and hurries home, head down, through the low-bending pines. She climbs through her bedroom window. Takes off her wet sneakers, hangs her brown cardigan. Listens for the ocean. Thinks of eyes like green medicine. She boils inside.
In the morning she drags her mother to the sea by the wrist. To confront her with the sea dressed in fog. To show her that this place is not empty. Wings of mist drag through the treetops. The fog shreds everywhere; flashes of pure blue wink above. The sea undressing. A wide-brimmed hat crammed over her mother’s hair. Gulls turn in a high noisy wheel above the gliding tide. Cormorants dive for breakfast.
They stand on the rocks. Dorotea studies her mother, searches her face for signs of change. Of awakening. Dorotea holds her breath. Counts to twenty. Her mother stands closed and rigid.
Mentiras, her mother says. Your father doesn’t know a thing about ships. He worked as a janitor all his life. He lied to everybody. Even himself. He’ll be fired today, or tomorrow.
No, Mama. Daddy’s smart. He’ll find a way. He’ll learn as he goes. He has to. He saw a chance and took it. We’ll make it. Lookit how nice it is. Lookit this place.
Life can turn out a million ways, Dorotea. Her mother speaks English like she is spitting rocks. But the one way life will not turn out is the way you dream it. You can dream anything, but it’s never what will be. It’s never the way it is. The only thing that can’t come true is your dream. Everything else . . .
She shuts her mouth, shrugs.
Dorotea looks at her wet sneakers. The leather is coming apart. She clambers down the steep rocks, grabs hold of weed for balance. Plunges her hand into the mud beneath the water. Holds it up.
Lookit, Mama. Lookit all the things that live here. In just one handful.
Mother squints at her daughter. Her daughter holding ocean mud to the sky like some offering.
And then through the mist a green canoe glides. A lone fisherman, paddling, his rod across the stern. A fisherman with a white necklace on his throat.
The boy stops in mid-paddle. His oar drips. He studies the two figures on the rocks, the thin and brittle mother with a hand on her hat like she is holding herself to the rock. And the girl, wet to her waist, holding up part of the sea.
He raises his
She sees the boy among them, sitting on a log. His smile orange in the firelight. His necklace white. He laughs, tips back a bottle. She holds her breath a long time, almost a minute. She stands, turns to go, steps on a stick and it snaps.
The laughter fades. She does not move.
Hey, the boy says. Dorothy?
Dorotea turns from the shadows, steps out into the firelight, walks with her head down, sits next to the boy.
Dorothy. Everybody, this is Dorothy.
The firelit faces look at her, look away. Conversation starts up again.
Knew you’d come, the boy says.
Did you.
Sure I did.
How did you know?
Just knew. Felt it. Like I told you, we have these fires every night, just about. I said to myself, you just wait. The girl will come. Dorothy will come. And here you are.
Did you catch anything today? After I saw you?
Got a few. I let them go.
My dad got hired at the ironworks. He designs the hulls of ships.
Is that right?
Well, he will. He will do that.
He holds her hand and her palm is damp with sweat but she holds on and they lock fingers and she can feel his strong hand, rough fingertips. They sit like that a bit and she sits as still as shecan. They do not talk. The fire sends smoke high into the trees. The stars wink and gutter. It feels nice being the daughter of a shipbuilder.
Later he tries to kiss her. Leans across clumsily and his breath is hot on her chin and she clamps her eyes shut. She thinks of her mother, her tiny mother under onions in a train car. She pulls away from the boy, stands and hurries home, head down, through the low-bending pines. She climbs through her bedroom window. Takes off her wet sneakers, hangs her brown cardigan. Listens for the ocean. Thinks of eyes like green medicine. She boils inside.
In the morning she drags her mother to the sea by the wrist. To confront her with the sea dressed in fog. To show her that this place is not empty. Wings of mist drag through the treetops. The fog shreds everywhere; flashes of pure blue wink above. The sea undressing. A wide-brimmed hat crammed over her mother’s hair. Gulls turn in a high noisy wheel above the gliding tide. Cormorants dive for breakfast.
They stand on the rocks. Dorotea studies her mother, searches her face for signs of change. Of awakening. Dorotea holds her breath. Counts to twenty. Her mother stands closed and rigid.
Mentiras, her mother says. Your father doesn’t know a thing about ships. He worked as a janitor all his life. He lied to everybody. Even himself. He’ll be fired today, or tomorrow.
No, Mama. Daddy’s smart. He’ll find a way. He’ll learn as he goes. He has to. He saw a chance and took it. We’ll make it. Lookit how nice it is. Lookit this place.
Life can turn out a million ways, Dorotea. Her mother speaks English like she is spitting rocks. But the one way life will not turn out is the way you dream it. You can dream anything, but it’s never what will be. It’s never the way it is. The only thing that can’t come true is your dream. Everything else . . .
She shuts her mouth, shrugs.
Dorotea looks at her wet sneakers. The leather is coming apart. She clambers down the steep rocks, grabs hold of weed for balance. Plunges her hand into the mud beneath the water. Holds it up.
Lookit, Mama. Lookit all the things that live here. In just one handful.
Mother squints at her daughter. Her daughter holding ocean mud to the sky like some offering.
And then through the mist a green canoe glides. A lone fisherman, paddling, his rod across the stern. A fisherman with a white necklace on his throat.
The boy stops in mid-paddle. His oar drips. He studies the two figures on the rocks, the thin and brittle mother with a hand on her hat like she is holding herself to the rock. And the girl, wet to her waist, holding up part of the sea.
He raises his
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