The Whiskey Sea Read Free

his favorite chair on the front porch, squinting into the afternoon light that had settled over Highlands as soft and silky as a yellow chiffon scarf. Still wearing his clammer’s overalls and shucking clams out of a bucket sitting at his feet, he was preparing for one of his lectures, Frieda thought grimly.
    She stood with her feet planted and her arms crossed. “I’m not going to secretary’s school. I’ve done what I had to do. I hated school but I finished, for you.”
    Silver looked up with that wary expression in his eyes he got every time they disagreed, which was often. “Then what you going to do with yourself? You’re eighteen. Not a kid anymore. You got to have a future.”
    Frieda stepped forward to the porch rail. She wore a pair of Silver’s old pants, hitched up and held at her waist with one of his belts, into which she’d carved extra holes. He’d bought her a graduation dress, which hung on a nail in the room she shared with Bea, but she’d never even tried it on.
    The house, in its snug spot at the end of the road, sat perpendicular to the water, and she looked to her left toward the bay, where the breeze was lashing up little whitecaps and the late, slanting light sparkled on the swells. Out there was the only part of the earth that spoke to her.
    She pushed back a tendril of long, unruly hair. “I’ll clam with you.”
    With her firm gaze, she followed some incoming fishing boats. On the water—that was where she belonged. The sea didn’t care about differences in human lives; it didn’t judge. Out there the rest of the world seemed far away, and the inner emptiness she’d felt for most all of her life eased. Something else filled it, something other than her anger toward the townspeople, her fear for Bea’s future, the looks people gave her, or her constant worry about getting by. When the bay was furious and churning, those frothing waters pulled the resentment right out of her and fed it to the waves. And when the tides stopped surging and the bay became silver and flat, it was as if some almighty power had smoothed her rough edges while leveling the surface of the sea with big, broad hands. She felt as if she could sail out past the land and lighthouses and float on forever.
    Silver tossed the empty clamshells into a different bucket, and the loud clinking sound told Frieda he was getting ready to say something she wouldn’t like.
    “Clamming ain’t no work for a woman.”
    Frieda stood tall and hinged a hand on her hip. “Why not? Any work on the water is better than something shoreside. It’s been good enough for you.”
    “Because I didn’t have no other choice.”
    “Well, I do have a choice, and I’m not going to any more schools. I’m done with that. Besides, remember I took a typing class junior year? I was terrible at it, and I hated every minute. My fingers didn’t work when I couldn’t look at the keys, when I had to keep my eyes on the paper. I have to look at what I’m doing.”
    He sat back. “Well, I cain’t work much longer.”
    Frieda had noticed. Silver had always been old to her, lined with age and the sure tracks of a hard life out in the sun and sea winds. But he’d also been spry for his years. Going out in the boat every day, making runs to the school, cooking, and taking care of two girls had made that a necessity. Now he was beginning to lose stamina, move slower, and complain about aches and pains. Over the past two years his time on the water had gradually been cut in half.
    Silver said, “We got to get you some working skills.”
    Keeping her gaze on the bay, she said, “I can take over the boat now.”
    She could feel his piercing stare on her back as he said flatly, “I sold it.”
    His words hit her like a rogue wave, fierce enough to slap her down but not kill her. Sold it? She spun toward him, gasping for air. “What?”
    He looked down. “Like I said, I sold it.”
    Her heart started thumping, and her voice came out in a screech.