Free Reading by Lightning by Joan Thomas Page A

insisted the night before should come out of the trunk so he could read it on the ship. Granddad gave him the guinea he would need for expenses on the journey and watched Willie pin it into his pocket. “You don’t want your knapsack pinched,” said Granddad. “You must take care to sleep with it under your head.” They acted as though they were preparing him for a week’s voyage instead of for his whole life.
    As no one was boarding they made their way into a pub. It was crammed, but Granddad managed to work his way over to the bar and came back with three pints, one in his one hand and the others held against the front of his jacket. “Here, lad, get that down your neck,” he said. There was no place to sit so they stood and looked out the salt-etched window. In front ofthem was the Mersey full of steamships and tugboats of all sizes and across the water the miniature town of Birkenhead. As soon as she took a sip of her ale, tears began to stream down Nan’s cheeks as though they were dislodged by her swallowing. She hung her head and the tears dropped in dark circles on the front of her dress. “There now, pet,” said Granddad. They watched the baggage being loaded onto the SS
Lake Manitoba,
trunks and crates dangling from huge ropes and skidding across the deck. Just as Nan looked up a tin trunk like my father’s swung wide and banged against the hull, splitting open. Everything inside fluttered silently through the air and fell into the water. Nan let out a little cry. “There now, pet,” said Granddad.
    â€œThere’s a thousand trunks on this dock just the same as that ’un,” said my father gamely.
    When they got back to the pier a voice was calling, “All aboard steerage” through a megaphone. There were throngs of men on the pier, but none of them recognizable as Isaac Barr. The band began to play Nan’s very song, “Goodbye, Dolly, I Must Leave You,” and she cried harder. My grandfather shook my father’s hand, and Nan pressed her wet face into his neck and sobbed. “I’ll do me best to send home,” said my father. If any of them had any other last words they were lost in the din.
    I know something about this kind of goodbye. It was impossible for my father to feel anything equal to the situation and so all he thought about was getting a spot on the portside deck so he could wave at his parents as the
Lake Manitoba
moved away. He was on his own and quick and he managed to work his way through the press of bodies to the railing, but by then his parents had been swallowed up by the crowd on the pier and all he could see was a flock of waving handkerchiefs. As the gangplank rose he felt a chasm of panic open at his feet, but he stepped back from the edge of it, tellinghimself that if he handled this bravely he’d be allowed to come home. But in this respect I know more about my father than he knew himself: I know the whole shape of his life and I know that he never will.

4
    Aunt Eva starts to climb the ridge and Gracie trails after her.
    You better watch! calls my mother. There’s poison ivy up there!
    My mother goes back to picking berries like a steam-powered machine. King stands under a basswood tree, lifting his tail and swinging it elaborately from side to side. It’s horseflies — they’re bothering us too, landing on our legs and digging in with a sudden malicious pick. My mother’s got the honey pail on a string around her neck and she picks with both hands. It was just a disagreement about where to pick, but any argument with Aunt Eva energizes my mother, and she’s been in a good mood anyway from the time she woke up.
    I’m
so
thirsty, I say.
    There’s lemonade, says my mother. We’ll have a drink while it’s still cold.
    Aunt Eva brought the lemonade. It’s in a vinegar jug under the wagon, and there are four tin cups. Guiltily we unscrew the jug and fill