only
Jesse, her terror transformed into fury.
“Lemme alone!!” Her eyes were hot slits.
Go ask a face like that for a favor. His heart sank. “Listen,” he began hopelessly, his voice measured and cajoling, “can you just go into Daddy’s room and tell him that it’s time to get up if we’re going fishing, okay?
“Fishing?” She sat up.
“Come on! I’ll do you something good. I swear. I’ll…I’ll,” his imagination faltered. She was a strange little creature to him. A girl. “I’ll let you watch Queen for a Day and Mighty Mouse—that is, if the Dodgers aren’t playing…” Watching the spark of interest in her eyes fade, he rushed on recklessly. “You can come too!”
“Fishing?”
“That is, if you want,” he hedged, filled with immediate regret. That was all he needed. Sara tagging along! Then something else occurred to him, and he smiled. “Sure you can. Just do like I tell you, all right? Go in and wake up Daddy.” He laughed silently, watching her throw off the covers and rush past him into the hall straight into his parents’ bedroom. He heard muffled groans, and soon his father showed up, sleepy and disheveled.
“You didn’t forget, Dad, did you?” “What?”
“Fishing. Remember what you said last Sunday?” Jesse read the answer in the twinge of startled recognition that widened his father’s eyes.
“What do you think I am, huh?! Forgot? Who forgot! A promise is a promise is a promise, right?”
Jesse followed his father’s reluctant gaze toward the darkened windows. Outside, trees bent in a harsh wind.
“Looks pretty cold,” Dave began doubtfully. “I thought for sure, after Passover, it would be nice weather already…”
“But it ain’t raining. Remember you said cold is nothing. You said the fish bite better in the cold when the bay is empty…”
“Awright, awright,” he said, holding up his palms in surrender. “I said, so I said. Eat a good breakfast and then let’s get this show on the road.”
Jesse struggled into his warm woolen socks. They were too small, he realized with pride. Way too small. He could feel his father’s happiness each time he grew an inch, his young shoulders inching up past his dad’s. It had been so long since they’d been on their own somewhere. There was always somebody else hanging around: his mother, Sara, the baby, the cab. There were so many things he wanted to talk about man to man. Things he didn’t want his mother or sister to hear. He wasn’t sure he’d have the guts to ask straight out. But he thought that, maybe, if they were alone his father might ask the right questions, like he used to, years ago.
Behind the counter in the candy store, in those years before Sara had come along and put the knot between them, slackening their bond, he and his father had been like two ends of a seesaw, balanced, reciprocal parts of one whole, sensitive to the other’s slightest mood change.
Sometimes he felt his father pulling hard, trying to make things come tight and smooth again between them. But so often Sara was always there, in the middle, making it impossible.
“What, in this weather?” he heard his mother say. There was the usual rise and fall of voices: his father’s deep, sincere bass, his mother’s hesitant soprano that soon faltered and fell silent, allowing his father’s voice to go on alone with convincing assurance.
He was too excited to eat, but his father’s uncompromising gaze beat him back into his chair, and he understood that this was the one thing his father had conceded to his mother. The stuff was awful! Sticky and scorched and tasteless like everything else his mother cooked. So he stirred it around with the spoon, trying to reduce the amount by getting some of it to stick to the sides of the bowl, so as not to hurt her feelings. Out of the corner of his eye, he studied his father: the face rugged with stubble, the happy, expectant eyes, the red flannel shirt.
He loved that shirt. It was
Jesse, her terror transformed into fury.
“Lemme alone!!” Her eyes were hot slits.
Go ask a face like that for a favor. His heart sank. “Listen,” he began hopelessly, his voice measured and cajoling, “can you just go into Daddy’s room and tell him that it’s time to get up if we’re going fishing, okay?
“Fishing?” She sat up.
“Come on! I’ll do you something good. I swear. I’ll…I’ll,” his imagination faltered. She was a strange little creature to him. A girl. “I’ll let you watch Queen for a Day and Mighty Mouse—that is, if the Dodgers aren’t playing…” Watching the spark of interest in her eyes fade, he rushed on recklessly. “You can come too!”
“Fishing?”
“That is, if you want,” he hedged, filled with immediate regret. That was all he needed. Sara tagging along! Then something else occurred to him, and he smiled. “Sure you can. Just do like I tell you, all right? Go in and wake up Daddy.” He laughed silently, watching her throw off the covers and rush past him into the hall straight into his parents’ bedroom. He heard muffled groans, and soon his father showed up, sleepy and disheveled.
“You didn’t forget, Dad, did you?” “What?”
“Fishing. Remember what you said last Sunday?” Jesse read the answer in the twinge of startled recognition that widened his father’s eyes.
“What do you think I am, huh?! Forgot? Who forgot! A promise is a promise is a promise, right?”
Jesse followed his father’s reluctant gaze toward the darkened windows. Outside, trees bent in a harsh wind.
“Looks pretty cold,” Dave began doubtfully. “I thought for sure, after Passover, it would be nice weather already…”
“But it ain’t raining. Remember you said cold is nothing. You said the fish bite better in the cold when the bay is empty…”
“Awright, awright,” he said, holding up his palms in surrender. “I said, so I said. Eat a good breakfast and then let’s get this show on the road.”
Jesse struggled into his warm woolen socks. They were too small, he realized with pride. Way too small. He could feel his father’s happiness each time he grew an inch, his young shoulders inching up past his dad’s. It had been so long since they’d been on their own somewhere. There was always somebody else hanging around: his mother, Sara, the baby, the cab. There were so many things he wanted to talk about man to man. Things he didn’t want his mother or sister to hear. He wasn’t sure he’d have the guts to ask straight out. But he thought that, maybe, if they were alone his father might ask the right questions, like he used to, years ago.
Behind the counter in the candy store, in those years before Sara had come along and put the knot between them, slackening their bond, he and his father had been like two ends of a seesaw, balanced, reciprocal parts of one whole, sensitive to the other’s slightest mood change.
Sometimes he felt his father pulling hard, trying to make things come tight and smooth again between them. But so often Sara was always there, in the middle, making it impossible.
“What, in this weather?” he heard his mother say. There was the usual rise and fall of voices: his father’s deep, sincere bass, his mother’s hesitant soprano that soon faltered and fell silent, allowing his father’s voice to go on alone with convincing assurance.
He was too excited to eat, but his father’s uncompromising gaze beat him back into his chair, and he understood that this was the one thing his father had conceded to his mother. The stuff was awful! Sticky and scorched and tasteless like everything else his mother cooked. So he stirred it around with the spoon, trying to reduce the amount by getting some of it to stick to the sides of the bowl, so as not to hurt her feelings. Out of the corner of his eye, he studied his father: the face rugged with stubble, the happy, expectant eyes, the red flannel shirt.
He loved that shirt. It was
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