Part 25 (1/2)

Suddenly he stops walking. He joins us on higher ground, checks his watch and smiles.

”Fifteen fifteen on the nose,” he says. ”The tide is now at its lowest. Now look. Look where I'm pointing.”

He points out toward the horizon, maybe twenty yards out. A mysterious, uneven ridge of some kind bulges ever so slightly from the surface of the muck, like a row of rotted molars.

”See it? See the tips of those rocks sticking up? They're only visible at dead low tide, which is what it is now.”

He turns to us with a triumphant smile. ”Cobblestones,” he says. ”The foundation of an abandoned pier, or some d.a.m.n thing. Whatever they are, they're mine! All mine!” All mine!”

He starts to laugh insanely, as if we've come upon Captain Kidd's treasure. He even does a little bit of a jiglike dance on the sand. ”We load 'em up, we take 'em away. Gonna have me a cobblestone path, that's what I'm gonna have.”

”Dad. You can't be serious.”

”Why not?”

”This is stealing.” stealing.”

”It is? Who the h.e.l.l are we stealing from?”

I think it over. ”One way or another, I know that this is city property.”

He laughs out loud. ”City property? You think the city knows there's an old broken-down pier here on Flus.h.i.+ng Bay, a pier that's been forgotten for a hundred years?”

”I don't know. Probably not. But I have a feeling that if they did did know, they'd have problems with a guy taking it away one stone at a time.” know, they'd have problems with a guy taking it away one stone at a time.”

”Well, then, son, do me a favor and don't tell them. These stones have been underwater since before any of us were born. It's time they saw the light of day once again. It's a sin, leavin' them to waste away down here. It's time they were useful useful again.” again.”

I turn to my son. ”I really don't think this is a great idea, Jake. We should go.”

Jake's eyes widen in disbelief. ”Dad, come on. We have have to do this.” to do this.”

”Why?”

”Because if we leave, Danny'll try to do it by himself, and it could kill him.”

”That's right,” my father says. ”I'm doing this with or without you. Me, a senior citizen. It's a lot of stones and quite a bit of climbing, and if I drop dead in the process it'll be on your head.”

Just what I need-to be responsible for the death of another parent. My father knows he's got me. He grins at me, and tugs on his boots to make sure they're up as high as they can be. ”Now I'm going out there and pullin' these things from the muck. You either carry 'em up to my car, or you don't. It's as simple as that.”

He squelches his way into the muck, his feet leaving holes that quickly fill with black water. p.i.s.s clams squirt into the air, jarred by his footsteps, and I'm amazed that anything is able to live in this stuff.

My father reaches the ridge, bends over and pulls out a stone, which he carries back to us, cradled against his chest.

It's an ugly thing, ragged with seaweed and coated in muck. When he reaches us my father pulls off the seaweed to reveal it as a rectangular-cut cobblestone, bearded with barnacles.

”Look at that beauty,” he says. ”Ten, maybe twelve bucks if I was to buy it.”

He hands it off to Jake, who takes it in his gloved hands and stares at it in wonder. ”Why do you suppose they had a pier out there, Danny?”

My father shrugs. ”Who knows? Maybe this was a pretty place back then. Maybe people docked their sailboats here and had lunch in a nice restaurant, before it all turned to s.h.i.+t.”

”Wow,” Jake says. ”Imagine!”

”Lay it down in the car the same way you did with the cement,” my father tells him. ”Don't carry more than one at a time. And watch you don't slip on the hill, Jake.”

”Gotcha, Danny.”

It's as if they've known each other for years. Jake heads off with the first stolen stone. My father looks at me, wipes a speck of muck off his nose with the back of his glove.

”Your son is in. How about you? You in?”

I tug the gloves on. ”I'm in. You knew I was in. You guilted me into it.”

”Yeah, I knew that'd work.”

He heads back to the long-lost pier, pulls out another stone and carries it back. This one has even more seaweed on it than the first one, plus a cl.u.s.ter of mussels that clings to it like a bunch of grapes. He tosses it on the sand. ”Find yourself a piece of driftwood and sc.r.a.pe it as clean as you can. No sense hauling c.r.a.p we don't need to the house, is there?”

Without waiting for an answer he returns to the mother lode, while I look around for a piece of wood to sc.r.a.pe the stones clean.

It quickly becomes an a.s.sembly-line process-my father plodding out to the muck and uprooting the stones, while Jake and I sc.r.a.pe them clean and carry them to the car. This bizarre Sullivan family reunion is in full swing.

I can't resist sticking it to my son. ”See the kind of work you wind up doing when you leave school, Jake?”

”Yeah, Dad, I see.”

”Imagine doing work like this for the rest of your life.”

”Don't have to, Dad. Remember, I have a plan.”

”Oh yes, your big plan.”

”I never said it was a big big plan. Just a plan.” plan. Just a plan.”

”You ready to tell me what it is?”

”I only want to explain it once, so I'm waiting until tomorrow, when I can tell you and Mom at the same time.”

”Jake. Come on. Tell me.”

”Dad. Be patient. I'm a little busy here, helping my grandfather steal a pier.” He won't say anything more about it.

Soon we fall into a rhythm, timed so well that each time my father returns with a stone, one of us is there to take it. There is no way to stay clean. The stinking muck is all over our forearms and the bellies of our s.h.i.+rtfronts.

Again, I am struck by what a good worker Jake turns out to be. Soon his speed and enthusiasm upset the rhythm of the process-he gets up and down the weedy hill so fast that he ”laps” me, and then the two of us are standing there waiting for my father's deliveries.

”Admit it, Dad,” Jake says, ”this is kind of fun.”