Of Song and Water by Joseph Coulson

woman in a white coat with a little boy at her side puts a coin on top of the man’s Bible.

    â€œA big stick starts early,” says the man. “It breeds contempt and indifference.”
    From behind his bag of groceries, Dorian peeks at the man’s face. No one coming or going stops to listen, but the man continues as if he were addressing a loyal congregation.
    â€œThe miseries of a lifetime live in your body,” he says. “They grow, waxing and burgeoning, roiling in your guts and chest, gathering in lethal concentrations just under the skin.”
    The rest of the drive home is uncomfortably warm and silent. Insects splatter on the windshield. In the air is the smell of approaching rain. The transmission thumps, then the engine hesitates and whirs.
    Â 
    HE SEES the light in his mother’s face, the rush of hope, when the landlord fails to knock at the usual hour. He watches the newspapers and listens on the street for rumors. Weeks pass and the landlord leaves no evidence of his life except a house filled with antique furniture and a closet stuffed with fine clothes.
    The apartment building falls to auction and the new landlord turns out to be a woman. She often comes by for tea. A touch of confidence returns to his mother’s eyes. She smiles.
    Â 
    IN THE newspaper is a picture of Winston Churchill drinking tea. Faya clips it out and tapes it to the icebox. Dorian seems to like it. He mentions it each time he grabs a snack.
    â€œHow Dorian goes on about Mr. Churchill,” says Faya. “He thinks he’s a great man.”
    â€œDorian thinks too much. I catch him staring.”
    â€œStaring?” says Faya.
    â€œYes,” he says. “When I catch his eye, he turns away.”

    â€œA boy studies his father,” says Faya.
    He agrees but neglects to mention that whenever he arrives home, even as he takes off his hat, gloves, and coat, Dorian gives him the once-over. And then it’s the scraped and swollen knuckle, the split lip just under the mustache, or the bruised and puffy cheek that his son scrutinizes with particular interest. He makes excuses, blaming the injuries on clumsiness, on a box or a piece of equipment that tumbled from a dolly or the hand truck.
    Dorian seems nervous and vigilant, watching for the dark expression and listening for the heavy stride.
    He tries to reason with his son. “The current is changing,” he says. “Business is good.”
    Dorian says nothing.
    â€œThere’s plenty to do. Enough for both of us.”
    â€œI’m doing extra work at school.”
    â€œFight me if you must,” he says.
    Dorian folds his arms. “I won’t.”
    â€œIt doesn’t matter,” he says.
    Dorian wants to stay calm. “What do you mean it doesn’t matter?”
    â€œFight or not,” he says. “There’s no winning.”
    After a long silence, he talks about Saginaw Bay and a lifetime of boats. “If you’re given a gift, use it,” he says. “But respect it, too. Don’t trade it for something cheap.” He thinks the boy should be happy, exhilarated at the prospect of inheriting a wealthy kingdom. “I built this business,” he says. “I made a life for myself, and for you, too.”
    Â 
    IN TIME, with the first money from Halyard & Mast, he buys a summer cottage in Port Austin.
    He buys a powerboat but finds it noisy and unnerving. He trades it in for his first sailboat, a sleek hull with one mast that he rigs for singlehanded racing.

    When he isn’t competing, he takes out Faya and Dorian. They sail beyond the bay in clear weather, the blue water of Lake Huron stretching to the horizon.
    Dorian will learn to sail, he thinks. He’ll see why it’s necessary, as a crewman or a singlehander, to keep everything in its place.
    Â 
    HE STARES at the luminous dial.
    The station he’d been listening to has drifted into silence. He reaches for the