North of Boston Read Free Page A

looking out anyway? They rely on radar in that weather. But the ocean is big and they’re not expecting anything, so if they see something small like your dad’s lobster boat, they might think it’s just sea clutter, like floating oil drums or garbage.”
    Noah’s lip is trembling. He’s trying not to cry. His tears are so rare that the prospect of just one falling makes my whole body hurt.
    But he gets himself together, gazes out the window. Across the street there’s a lamp store, a Walgreens, and an Indian grocery. Down the street there’s a park with a playground where he often went with his dad and where I’ve taken him, too. As a small child, he liked the swings but not the slide. On the swings he could keep an eye peeled for unusual occurrences; the slide was too disorienting.
    I wonder what he’s thinking. Maybe that the world is deeply unfair and dangerous, only he wouldn’t have the words for that. Maybe he isn’t thinking at all, just soaking it up. Cars, boats, fog. Drunken mothers, distant fathers. Crash. I wish now I hadn’t said his dad’s boat could have been mistaken for garbage.
    I draw a vessel that looks like the
Molly Jones
. “There’s something important I want you to know. Your dad probably could have jumped overboard and swum away, like I did. But if he’d done that, we both would have died because nobody would have known we were out there. So your dad stayed in the wheelhouse and called the Coast Guard.”
    Noah is staring at me, and I’m having a hard time looking back.
    â€œYour dad saved my life.”
    Noah frowns. He picks up his hamburger slowly. “Did he want to marry you?”
    â€œNo. We were just friends.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œWhy were we friends?”
    â€œWhy didn’t he want to marry you?”
    â€œHe just didn’t. Marriage is a special thing. We were happy being friends.”
    â€œHow come my mom and dad didn’t get married? Were they just friends?”
    This one’s tricky. I tell him they used to be more than friends, and then they became friends.
    He puts what’s left of his hamburger down, takes the bun off, peels a pickle out of its mustard-ketchup goo, and places it carefully on the wrapper. Without looking at me, he says, “If you and my dad got married, you’d be my stepmom.”
    That’s how I know how bad he’s hurting; he’s never said anything like this to me before. I take my time before I answer. “I’m not cut out for parenthood, Noah. But if I had to be someone’s stepmom, I’d want to be yours.”
    He looks into my eyes with as much trust as he can give to anyone, and I think three words I haven’t used since my mother died.
I love you.
I would say them to him, but I’m afraid I haven’t got what it takes to make good on the promise they imply.
    Noah takes something out of the pocket of his jacket. It’s a yellowish-white disk riddled with tiny veins and holes. Two inches in diameter, an inch thick, the edges smooth as glass.
    â€œThat’s nice,” I say. “Where’d you get it?”
    â€œMy dad. He gave me other stuff, too.”
    â€œWhere’d he get it?”
    â€œOff a whale.”
    â€œIs that what he told you?” It looks vaguely like it could have come from an animal, but I’ve never seen a bone like that. My guess is it’s some kind of rock. It’s obviously been cut and appears to have been polished.
    Noah leans forward and whispers, “My dad fought a whale once. He got in a little boat and followed it and killed it with a harpoon. The whale didn’t die right away. It pulled my dad all over the world, but he hung on with all his might. The whale was bleeding the whole time and finally it bled to death, and my dad pulled it back to the ship. He stayed up all night cutting it into pieces, and he took some of its bones. See?” He waves the