Baby by Patricia MacLachlan Page B

saxophone, and old man Brick played only three notes on his bagpipe: major, minor, and “something diminished,” as Mama put it.
    Papa was there saying good-bye to summer people. I could see the stubble on his face, thebeginnings of his yearly winter beard that he shaved off every June before the tourists returned. Byrd and Mama were there, too, Byrd’s legs sparkling, her hair blown like tossed snow. Mama handed a wrapped package to a woman, then smiled at Lalo and me across the dock because she had sold a painting. A child in overalls ran toward the dock’s edge, arms up, until his laughing father caught him up in his arms, swinging him over his head. A young woman holding a baby stood near, watching us. A dogfight began, then ended as owners pulled on their leashes.
    The cars, all stuffed with suitcases and sleeping bags and coolers, beach chairs tied on top, began to move onto the ferry. Then the bicycles were wheeled on.
    “Good-bye!” called Mrs. Bloom, waving one of Craig’s small paws at us.
    “Good-bye!” we shouted back.
    And the gates were closed with a metal clang, the huge lines tossed on board.
    Surprisingly, Griffey, Rollie, Arthur, and old man Brick began a new song.
    “Whatever?” exclaimed Mama behind me.
    “They’ve learned something new,” cried Lalo.
    “What is it?” I asked.
    “ ‘Amazing Grace,’ ” said Papa, grinning.
    The
Island Queen
moved off, and my mother began to laugh. Byrd sang in her old voice:
    Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound,
    That saved a wretch like me!
    I once was lost, but now am found;
    Was blind, but now I see.
    As the boat reached the breakwater we all put our hands to our ears as the whistle blew. Above, the sky was ice-blue, low clouds skimming across, and without the noise like one of Mama’s paintings. And then it was quiet, a handful of us left: Griffey and the boys packing up their instruments, Lalo’s father hosing down his truck at the dock’s edge, islanders walking away. A couple I didn’t know held hands. Maybe they would fly out tonight on the small plane. The woman holding the baby still watched us. A cloud slipped in front of the sun.
    Summer’s end.

    “Your mom cried,” said Lalo as we walked up from the water through the fields.
    “She always cries at the end of summer,” I said. “At the end of anything. At weddings.” I looked at Lalo. “And parades.”
    Lalo burst out laughing. The Fourth of July parade was led by Griffey’s goat and the sewer-pump truck, and still my mama cried.
    Lalo and I sat on the rock by the pond. Water bugs skimmed along the surface; a fish jumped, sending out circle after circle. Way off in the distance the ferry was a small dot, getting smaller, a thread of smoke rising from its stack.
    “So,” said Lalo. Lalo began most sentences with
so
. Ms. Minifred, the school librarian, was trying to break him of the habit.
    “Get to it, Lalo,” Ms. Minifred said. “You will miss your own marriage when the minister asks you if you take this woman and you begin with
so
. You will miss the end of your life, too, when you try to leave behind some wondrous words.”
    Ms. Minifred liked wondrous words. She loved the beginnings of books, and the ends. She loved clauses and adverbial phrases and the descriptionsof sunsets and death. Lalo called her “It Was the Worst of Times Minifred.”
    “You are a full-time job, Lalo,” Ms. Minifred told Lalo once after he had asked her twelve questions in a row.
    “Thank you, Ms. Minifred,” said Lalo, missing the point.
    I wondered what she would do when Lalo went off-island to high school. Maybe she would wither away among all the books with all the words in them until no one could ever find her again unless they opened a book. Or, she might ferment in the library like Mama’s back-porch cider that finally exploded.
    “So,” repeated Lalo, “tomorrow you will buy a plaid dress and the year will begin.”
    I smiled.
    My mother believed in plaid. Plaid meant