Summer of the War by Gloria Whelan

of us with a flourish.
    â€œIt’s very good,” Carrie told Grandpa when she tasted the whitefish, but that wasn’t compliment enough for Grandpa, who was used to raves for his planked whitefish. He covered his disappointment, but we could see his feelings were hurt.
    Carrie saw it too. Later that night when we were getting ready for bed, she said, “I guess I should have said more about Grandpa’s whitefish. I was thinking of something else.”
    â€œYour dad?” I asked.
    Carrie was silent for a moment and then said, “Yes, I was thinking of Papa.”

Nine
    The next afternoon Grandpa took the little runabout to the mainland to pick up letters. He would have liked to take his Chris-Craft with its polished Philippine mahogany planking that gleamed in the sun, but the Chris-Craft used more gas than the smaller boat. When he returned, he passed out the letters, handing one to Carrie. He glanced at the return address. “Brad Nelson. Looks like you’ve made a conquest, Caroline. I hope for the Nelsons’ sake that that young man pulls himself together.” Carrie took the letter and hurried up to our room. Grandpa looked after her for a minute and then, shrugging his shoulders, asked, “Who’s going to help me bury the garbage?”
    Grandpa heaved a shovel over his shoulder like a soldier marching off to war. Emily, Nancy, and Tommy marched along behind him, each lugging a bag of onion and potato peels and other disgusting stuff that had to be buried. Stones would be placedover the burial spots so raccoons and skunks couldn’t dig it up. Nancy convinced Grandpa to let her scatter some of the garbage for the animals. “A little doesn’t hurt,” she pleaded. I begged off, and the raggle-taggle army, busy with their errand, went on without me.
    I wandered down to the dock, picking my way quickly over boards hot from roasting all morning in the sun. I stuck my feet in the channel’s clear water to cool off. I could see a school of silver minnows flashing first one way and then another. A silent message of bubbles percolated up from a clamshell. A crab scuttled by looking like a dead hand. Farther out a gull dove at the water and came up with a small fish in its mouth. I counted the days on my fingers until Carrie would go back to Washington. I didn’t see how I could put up with her. My room was always a mess—her clothes spilling out of the drawers, her makeup taking up every inch of dresser space, the floor cluttered with piles of stupid magazines. There was nothing left of me in the room. I felt I was disappearing.
    Tommy had left a fishing pole on the dock. I reached down for the minnow trap and captured one of the tiny silver fish. I hooked the minnow and cast out. Though it was hard to keep my mind on fishing, I felt like I had to do something or burst. On the third cast I hooked a good-size perch. I debated throwing it back. The rule was whoever got the fish had to scaleand clean it, a job I hated. I kept it and the next five perch I caught. Grandma would fry them for breakfast in the morning. Four of the perch were in the water on the stringer; the last one was thrashing around on the dock. I headed for the boathouse to get the scaler and the gutting knife. There was a light on. The light came from the runabout. It was immediately switched off. I saw a figure scramble out of the boat. It was Carrie. She must have entered from the door on the other side of the boathouse.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” I demanded.
    â€œNothing. Now that you’re letting me handle the runabout, I just thought I’d get familiar with all the switches.”
    â€œWell, the running lights are for fog or dark, and I’m not allowed to take the boat out then. Actually you shouldn’t be touching the boat at all.”
    â€œYou don’t have to worry,” Carrie said. “I’m not hurting Grandpa’s precious boat.” She ran out,