If You're Lucky Read Free Page A

said very little to each other. His world was the oyster farm. My world was less clearly defined.
    The party turned out to be unbearably nice. Colorful pots and casserole dishes were laid out on a long wooden table in the dining room at the Heron. Too many people brought baked beans but it didn’t matter. Jeff and Miles closed the restaurant and Marc, the Heron’s temperamental chef, roasted some turkeys. Our neighbors brought salads and breads and cakes and liquor. There had to be about ten guitars in the room, and Lucky’s friends played all his favorite songs until later when a reggae band started up. I sat next to Vince, Lucky’s surfing buddy from just up the road. He got me a glass of wine at the bar and another one when I finished it. He didn’t know that I’m not supposed to drink because of my meds. The wine warmed me and unclenched my stomach. After the band, it was open mic. Lucky’s friends came up and spoke, one by one. Vince had had a few beers by then and he stumbled purposefully up to the stage.
    â€œThis is total bullshit,” he said loudly into the microphone. “Because, you wanna know why? Because shit like this doesn’t happen to guys like Lucky. It happens to assholes that don’t know how to read waves. I knew Lucky since we were six, man! Lucky was the one who made us safe on the water. That guy saved
me
so many times I lost count. I totally owe him my life. I don’t know how this could have happened to him but it’s total bullshit . . . okay?” He stared the crowd down and then he lurched off the stage.
    The open mic was the hardest part of the night. Especially when my dad rose slowly, unsteadily from his chair and made his way to the stage, holding a mug of beer. I cringed. I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear what he had to say. The room went silent. He stood there a moment, gazing at something off in the distance. Then he cleared his throat and began speaking: “Thank you all for coming. My son . . . you know him as Lucky but he was born Ludwig, named for my grandfather, a stupid name for a boy like that, we soon realized. He was nothing like my grandfather at all. He was . . .”
    My dad stopped. He took a deep breath and went on. I couldn’t look at him.
    â€œI’m sorry, I’m not accustomed to talking about him in the past tense. Anyway, Lucky had a way of living that made me envious. He was ravenous for life. He couldn’t seem to pack enough of it in . . .” He paused. The room waited. “And he was always like that. When he was four, he started coming out on the boat with me and he’d stand up the whole way—he already had his sea legs—and he’d watch the horizon as though he was trying to figure out the fastest way to get there. He’d point to it and say ‘Papa, can we go there?’ ” He paused again and inhaled raggedly and then he seemed to remember something that made him smile.
    The crowd waited patiently. He looked out at all of Lucky’s rosy-cheeked, dread-locked, tattooed friends.
    â€œAnd look at all of you. Most of you I’ve never even met and here you are, some of you came so far. My wife, Madeleine, and I are very, very grateful. It makes us feel better to know that you knew our son too . . . and that you miss him, and that you won’t forget him. Thank you.”
    My dad raised his mug.
    â€œTo Lucky.”
    The crowd raised their glasses: “To Lucky.”
    My dad returned to his chair next to my mom, draping his arm around her shoulders. She kissed him and he took a folded handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbed her tears. My mom had pulled herself together for the party. She was wearing a long denim skirt and a mohair sweater. I could see her telling my dad she wanted to leave. They got up together and slowly moved toward the entrance of the dining room. People stood up as they passed and my dad shook hands with the men and the women kissed