The Boat His Daddy Left Him

“My daddy died when I was twelve,” Elmer said out of nowhere, looking at the rain. “Logging accident. Nobody took me fishing after that. I taught myself, mostly, out of a library book and a lot of lost tackle.” He took a bite of sandwich. “I’d have given a lot for a Saturday like this one.”

Owen looked at him for a long time.

Then he said, “You can have this one,” and Elmer laughed, but his eyes were wet, and he looked out the side window for a while and did not say anything else.

On Sundays we went to church at First Baptist in Crane like we always had. Owen had stopped singing after the funeral, just stood there holding the hymnal shut.

In July, during It Is Well, I heard his voice come in under mine, cracking a little on the high part.

The second Tuesday in July, Clyde came in for mineral, and old Roy Pruitt was at the counter ahead of him, waiting on a load of feed.

Roy is eighty-one and has fished Table Rock his whole life, and he does not believe in keeping a single thought to himself.

“Clyde,” Roy said, turning around. “Saw your nephew Saturday out at Cape Fair. Fishing in Jimmy’s old blue boat with Elmer Wakefield. That boy is fishing like his daddy did. Hit a ledge I’d forgot about. You ought to be proud.”

I watched it land on Clyde. I watched him put it together, standing there by the counter, the boat and Elmer and Owen and the Saturdays.

His face went from red to white and back to red again, and then he looked at me.

I did not say anything. I just rang up his mineral. Two bags, thirty-nine fifty. I gave him the total and held out my hand, the same as I would for anybody.

He paid with two twenties. He did not wait for his receipt.

He walked out to his truck, and I saw him sit there in the cab for about five minutes with his hands on the wheel before he started it and drove off.

He left two quarters of change on the counter, and I put them in the coffee can for the church food pantry.

Three nights later, around eight, I heard a truck pull up out front of the duplex. I looked out the window and it was Clyde.

He sat in the truck a long time. Then he got out and walked up to the porch and sat down on the top step, and he did not knock. I went out and sat down beside him.

“I couldn’t walk past it,” Clyde said finally. He was looking at his boots. “That boat. Every morning I went out to feed and there it was under that cover, and I would think he’s coming to get it. He’s coming to get it any minute. And then I would remember.”

“And then you put up the sign on the house,” he said. “Jimmy’s house. He built that with his own hands on Strand ground, on Daddy’s ground, and you were selling it to some couple from Kansas City I never met. I was so mad at you I couldn’t see straight.”

“I couldn’t make the payment, Clyde,” I said quietly. “I tried. I did the math every night for six months. There wasn’t any way.”

“I know it.” He rubbed his face with both hands.