“I’ve got a father myself.”
“Not like mine. Ryan was almost grown-up before he left Ireland. Taught by nuns and all that. Besides, I’ve got six older brothers and two sisters. You’re the oldest kid. Ryan’s probably at least fifteen years older than your folks.”
“Is that really his name? Ryan Neal?”
“His full name is Timothy Ryan Neal, the same as mine. I’m Timothy Junior. He used Ryan when he went into politics because there was another Tim Neal around then, and we’ve always called me Tim to get away from the ‘Junior.’ ”
“I’m going to call him Tim again, like the nuns must have when he was young. Big Tim. You’re Little Tim.”
“Okay with me. I don’t know if Big Tim is going to like it.”
Something was moving, it seemed, out where the sun had set. Something darker against the dark horizon.
“What made you Junior anyway? Usually it’s the oldest boy.”
“He didn’t want it, and would never let Mother do it. But she wanted to, and I was born during the Democratic convention that year.”
“He had to go, of course.”
“Yeah, he had to go, Lissy. If you don’t understand that, you don’t understand politics at all. They hoped I’d hold off for a few days, and what the hell, Mother’d had eight with no problems. Anyway, he was used to it—he was the youngest of seven boys himself. So she got to call me what she wanted.”
“But then she died.” The words sounded thin and lonely against the pounding of the surf.
“Not because of that.”
Lissy upended the wine bottle; he saw her throat pulse three times. “Will I die because of that, Little Tim?”
“I don’t think so.” He tried to think of something gracious and comforting. “If we decide we want children, that’s the risk I have to take.”
“
“That both of us have to take. Do you think it was easy for Ryan, raising nine kids by himself?”
“You love him, don’t you?”
“Sure I love him. He’s my father.”
“And now you think you might be ruining things for him. For my sake.”
“That’s not why I want us to be married, Lissy.”
She was staring into the flames; he was not certain she had even heard him. “Well, now I know why his pictures look so grim. So gaunt.”
He stood up again. “If you’re through eating . . .”
“You want to go back to the cabin? You can screw me right here on the beach—there’s nobody here but us.”
“I didn’t mean that.”
“Then why go in there and look at the walls? Out here we’ve got the fire and the ocean. The moon ought to be up pretty soon.”
“It would be warmer.”
“With just that dinky little kerosene stove? I’d rather sit here by the fire. In a minute I’m going to send you off to get me some more wood. You can run up to the cabin and get a shirt too if you want to.”
“I’m okay.”
“Traditional roles. Big Tim must have told you all about them. The woman has the babies and keeps the home fires burning. You’re not going to end up looking like him though, are you, Little Tim?”
“I suppose so. He used to look just like me.”
“Really?”
He nodded. “He had his picture taken just after he got into politics. He was running for ward committeeman, and he had a poster made. We’ve still got the picture, and it looks like me with a high collar and a funny hat.”
“She knew, didn’t she?” Lissy said. For a moment he did not understand what she meant. “Now go and get some more wood. Only don’t wear yourself out, because when you come back we’re going to take care of that little thing that’s bothering you, and we’re going to spend the night on the beach.”
When he came back she was asleep, but he woke her carrying her up to the beach cottage.
Next morning he woke up alone. He got up and showered and shaved, supposing that she had taken the car into town to get something for breakfast. He had filled the coffeepot and put it on before he looked out the shore- side window and saw the Triumph still waiting near the road.
There was nothing to be alarmed about, of course. She had awakened before he had and gone out for an early dip. He had done the same thing himself the morning before. The little patches of green cloth that were her bathing suit were hanging over the back of a rickety chair, but then they were still damp from last night. Who would want to put on a damp, clammy suit? She had gone in naked, just as he had.
He looked out the other window, wanting to see her splashing in the surf, waiting for him. The ship was there,
