ships marred the frozen horizon. The wind slapped up small waves, and the few tarp-covered boats bucked, furled sails shivering in place.
Decades earlier, the fishing boats had ceased to venture out--he remembered their decks heaped with fish of all descriptions and covered with dead squid like mounds of empty gloves. Long before the births of his grandchildren, the cannery had closed its doors, and now the brick structure brooded dismally at the edge of the larger dock. Its muddy reflection quivered.
While the wind stung at his unflinching face, he stretched and grunted. His compact body had remained lean throughout the years, his arms much harder, he knew, than the arms of many a younger man. He found satisfaction in the thought, but still his vision tracked along the horizon, searching. After a lifetime as a fisherman, he harbored no romantic illusions about the sea, but if it stirred no poetry in his soul, neither did it evoke the superstitious awe harbored by so many of the old men he'd known as a boy. If anything, he sported a faintly hostile, even grudgingly proprietary attitude, regarding it. Behind him, the corrugated roof of the shed rattled, and he shuffled away against the wind, not bothering to turn up his collar. Above all, he was a methodical man, practical, and often the futility of this daily ritual of inspection vaguely troubled him, but he shrugged it off, instinctively dreading the alternative. Better to rise at dawn and hurry to his dilapidated hut than to sit in his daughter's house and listen to the television and the vacuum cleaner and his daughter's blurring telephone chatter. Here at least--brewing coffee and playing solitaire--he retained some memory of purpose.
As he crossed the weathered dock, he savored the sound of the waves. His daughter might lament his advancing deafness, but the sea never fell silent for him. Even on days like this, so still, could he hear it slide against itself, coiling to hump against the pier, while all around him boats plodded up and down in their shifting places, refracted lights dancing on their hulls like memories of vanished summers. He shook his head. Smoke billowed away from him, and he tossed the chewed nub of his cigar in the water.
Something pale shimmered in the swells.
He squinted. Even on such an overcast day, the trembling surface glittered. The object bobbed between two of the old boats. Stooping, he strained to make it out. Some odd sort of fish, belly-up among the sodden pilings? Squidlike, the thing wavered down, now visible, now gone. He crouched at the edge of the rotting wood.
The surface stirred as a swell approached, sloughing sideways like an aquatic serpent. He bent to prod the thing with his cane, to bring it closer, but with the perversity of things in water, it twisted the other way, and he shivered, leaning farther.
Something watched him from the water.
A clammy heat climbed his back. Fear dropped through the tight knot of his stomach, and he gripped the post, struggling to maintain his balance. Memories welled, all the evil tales flooding back. In the old country, his grandfather and the other men of the village had often spoken of
Black tresses smoking around it, the face in the water turned away, one eye, white and yellow, emerging. The head rolled again, bobbed against a floating bottle.
Something pushed against the cane.
Numbly, he regarded the thing that first had attracted his attention. The digits, stiffened and outstretched, did resemble tentacles, and the knob of bone trailed filaments like a lure into the murk. Other things also floated among the pilings--he regarded them clearly now. Clutching at the warped and swollen post, he jerked to his feet and slapped fitfully at his coat as though beating away cinders.
Stumbling across the dock, he limped stiffly away from the peaceful lapping noises. He tried to hurry, but agony thundered in his chest, and pain sparked in his knees. Wheezing in the chill, and leaning heavily on the stick, he hobbled into the streets of the town.
Overhead, seabirds laughed like harpies.
The boy ran until pain slashed his lungs, until reeling with exhaustion, he staggered and caught himself against a fence. Gasping raggedly, he looked back.
No one followed. He hung there, chest heaving, while surge after surge of relief beat through his heart. After a moment, he tried to run again, still panting hoarsely, and sand rained from his clothes to the sidewalk with every jolt. Almost immediately a cramp seized his side. Slowing, he tried to maintain a normal gait, though his legs trembled. Appearing 'normal' was so important, the most important thing of all--this had been drummed into his head all his life.
The sky had dulled, and the squeal of a gull echoed above the street.
Leaves eddied along the sidewalk, and his longish hair blew loosely around his collar as he hurried past the church. With quavering hands, he fished a ball of tissue out of his pocket and wiped at his nose. For just a moment, he thought he'd lost his gloves again, but then he remembered he'd had to bury them because they'd gotten all sticky. He crammed his hands into his pockets and let the wind push him along. His cap almost blew free, but he caught it, tugged it down over his ears. Freezing, he blew on his hands. Around the corner, glacial cold struck at his face, and he marched along with his head down, staring at the sidewalk through sudden tears.
Crossing Chandler Street in front of the library always seemed the worst part of the trek. Bracing himself, he bolted for the dark scar of an alleyway on the other side. The narrow channel cut through the wall beside an abandoned restaurant, and he plunged in, hurrying until brick walls blocked out the world completely. Deep within the alley, he stopped running and peered back at the entrance.
A street lamp winked on.
He trudged ahead. The alley trailed behind the restaurant, frozen garbage blistering the concrete at his feet. Wind whistled.
A scream scalded his ears. With a savage movement, the creature rose, swelling to the top of a wall, then over.
The boy's knees unlocked. Just a cat. Heart hammering, he leaned against the frigid bricks and after a moment shuffled forward again. He knew there couldn't be much left around here for the poor animal to eat, and he thought tomorrow he might bring some food for it. Slowly, the convulsive throbbing of his blood diminished, and a moment later, the alley emptied into a deserted parking lot. Raw boards covered doors and windows along the rear of a warehouse.
Leaping a low dividing wall, he sprinted across a narrow street and darted blindly into another alley. Home turf now. The backs of buildings crowded together and blocked the lowering sky as the passage narrowed. Scraping the shoulder of his jacket, he squeezed around a pile of crates, careful of where he put his feet.
A door rattled--claws scrabbled loudly at wood, and a broad black nose rutted through a gap.
He ran. The alley broadened into a canyon of basement doors. In the airshaft above his head, gray clothesline twisted, webbing the fire escapes that tangled up the walls like vines, and wind throbbed through the clothesline as he scurried for the tallest building.
As always, he jumped for the fire escape and as always missed the lowest rung by inches. Dragging over a dented metal trash can, he stood on it, pulling himself up hand over hand, grunting until his thrashing feet found the bottom rung. The freezing metal scorched his palms, and he decided he'd need new gloves fast.
When he reached the first landing, he hugged his hands deep into his stomach, warming them. Then he leaned over the rail. He knew he'd messed up bad today. Empty windows overlooked the courtyard in every direction, and over the roof of the lowest building, he could observe a slice of empty street beyond. He'd been so scared, he'd even raced across that last stretch without checking first. Anyone might have seen. Plus he'd forgotten about that dog again. Eventually, someone would hear it bark. They would have to move again...soon. But it would be harder now--things had gotten so much worse. Thinking about the man on the beach, he trembled as the courtyard below him sank deeper into gloom. 'I don't want to die,' he whispered. 'Not now.'
Wind lashed the side of the building. He couldn't die now--she needed him. Something rattled below, and the dog barked randomly.
Finally satisfied that no one had followed, he charged up the metal stairs to the top floor. The window was open a crack, and while cold sucked around his neck and shoulders, he slipped his fingers under and strained. It always made too much noise. He shoved it up more slowly, shivering. At last, pushing through the sheer summer curtains, he slipped over the sill.
He slid the window down and locked it, pulled the shade. Still in the dark, he tugged off his hat and started
