Epilogue Etta
The house had been taken over.
Boots by the door. Ice melting in a cooler on the floor that cost more than a truck. Ray Cullens at the counter with a beer. Jesse Crowe and Curtis Mehaffey arguing about the Sarah B's prop.
Yolanda was pulling dishes out of my oven like she'd been cooking here her whole life.
"You want this on the table or the counter?" she called.
"Table's fine."
"You sure?"
"I'm sure."
"Because the counter's closer."
"Table, Yolanda."
"All right, all right."
I counted. Eleven shuckers. Yolanda. Daniella. Orrin. Deshawn. Sven.
Sixteen people and the table wasn't long enough and nobody minded.
On the wall where a painting used to hang there was a photograph in a plain wooden frame. Two people on a boat. Young. Sunburnt. Smiling at somebody behind the camera like they had all the time in the world and nowhere else to be.
We'd had all day that day. We'd come in with the sun going down and watched it come back up through an open window facing the sea.
Eight years ago.
I started laying plates. White. Plain. Nothing matched and nobody cared.
The kitchen smelled like butter and old bay and the kind of cornbread Yolanda's mother used to make. Same recipe. That's how things lasted on the water. Not because you wrote them down. Because you showed somebody how.
Sven came through carrying a bowl.
"Where do you want this?" he said.
"Table."
He set it down carefully.
"What else?"
"The bread. And the greens."
"Curtis is looking for more beer."
"There's more in the cooler."
"He found it. All of it."
"How many did he take?"
"Three."
"He can have three."
He went back to the kitchen.
He carried dishes badly and nobody made allowances.
He'd been out on the water that morning.
Three mornings a week now, same as he'd been doing since the winter.
He still drove Daniella to checkups on Thursdays and bought her a milkshake on the way back and she'd stopped thanking him for it somewhere around the thaw.
Nobody treated it like charity anymore. Nobody made allowances.
He looked tired. Good tired. The kind you get from working, not the kind you get from sitting in an office deciding things.
Daniella was by the window with a glass of tea in one hand.
She looked better than she had in two years.
Better than I'd seen her since before she got sick.
The transplant had taken. She was off the machine and back on the water part-time.
She didn't talk about it anymore. There was nothing left to say.
"You need help?" she said.
"I'm good."
I kept laying plates. Fork to the left. Knife to the right. Glass above the knife.
Yolanda came up beside me and started setting glasses without asking.
"How many glasses you putting out?" she said.
"Same as plates."
"That's a lot of glasses."
"It's a lot of people."
"You made too much food," I said.
"No such thing."
"There's sixteen people."
"I know how many. I invited half."
"And you still made too much."
"Better too much than too little."
In the front room Orrin and Deshawn were talking about production numbers.
"You're not getting that volume this time of year," Deshawn said.
"I got it last year."
"Last year the water was warmer."
"Water's plenty warm."
"Not for what you're pulling."
Sven stood near them with his arms crossed, listening. Not saying much. Just watching the way he always did when people talked about the water. Like he was still learning. Like he knew he didn't know everything and wasn't pretending otherwise.
That was new. Or maybe it wasn't new. Maybe it had always been there and I'd just stopped being able to see it somewhere along the way.
I finished the near side of the table and moved to the far end.
Yolanda was watching me.
"Etta," she said quietly.
"I'm fine."
"I didn't ask."
"You were about to."
"That's different."
I set another plate. Then stepped back.
Sixteen places.
I reached for another plate. Set it down at the far end.
One more than there were people.
Yolanda looked at the plate. Then at me. Then counted.
Her face changed.
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Turned away fast.
Daniella was counting too.
"Mama," she said quietly.
"I heard you."
Daniella looked at me. Then at the empty place. Then back at me.
Her eyes were wide.
She didn't say anything else.
"Etta," Yolanda said quietly. Just my name. Nothing else.
I didn't answer.
"You're pregnant," Daniella said.
Not a question. A statement.
I met her eyes.
"Yes."
Yolanda's hand came to her mouth.
"Everybody sit," Yolanda called from the kitchen.
People came in. Ray took the chair by the window. Curtis sat beside him. Daniella and Yolanda took the near end. Deshawn and Orrin the middle. The shuckers found chairs.
"I'm not sitting next to Curtis," one said. "Worst table manners I've ever seen."
"I do not," Curtis said.
"You do," Daniella said. "You ate ham with your hands at Christmas."
"It was close enough to ribs."
"Ham's not ribs," Ray said.
"They're both meat."
"That's not the point."
"What is the point?"
"Use a fork."
"I was using a fork."
"Not all the time you weren't."
Curtis sat down without arguing further.
Sven was still in the doorway. Looking at the far end. At the empty place.
His face changed.
Ray reached for the potatoes but Yolanda stopped him.
"Wait."
"For what?"
"Just wait."
The table went quiet.
Sven stared at the empty plate like he couldn't figure out what he was seeing.
Then he did.
His face went white.
Deshawn leaned back, grinning.
"So what is it you do, exactly? Etta never says."
He knew. Everybody knew.
Sven looked at me.
I shook my head.
"Boone and Daughter," he said.
He said it to the whole room.
"Sixty-three years her family's been working that bottom. Forty acres of leased bottom in Kettle Sound. Eleven shuckers. Most over sixty. Her grandfather Delmer opened it in sixty-one and named it for his daughter Charlene. Etta's mother. She ran it after him. Both gone now."
"Sven—"
"She reads a bar by feel. Rebuilt the Charlene's engine herself three years ago on Orrin's dock. Curtis supervised because she wouldn't let anyone else touch it."
"Sven—"
"Let me finish."
His voice was calm. Serious.
"Hundred and twenty bushels off one boat last spring.
By herself. Portland certification. Crew that hasn't missed a delivery in two years.
Not one late. Not one buyer turned away.
And when the water's running she's out there at four in the morning in water cold enough to stop your heart because that's what the work is. "
He looked at me.
"That's what you do."
Nobody said anything.
Then Ray cleared his throat.
"We know. We work for her."
"Been aware," Curtis said.
Daniella laughed.
Sven looked at the empty plate.
He walked to the nearest chair. Put his hand on it.
Then sat down.
Put his head down. Hands came up and covered his face.
I'd never seen him do that. Not once in eight years.
Nobody moved.
Yolanda stared. Daniella looked at me, then Sven, then back. Orrin was still.
Sven's shoulders shook.
I started toward him but Yolanda caught my arm.
"Wait."
We waited.
The table was silent.
After a long time he lowered his hands. Didn't look up. Just sat with his head down, hands flat on the table.
His ruined hands.
Then he spoke.
"Will you marry me?"
His voice was rough. Quiet.
Nobody moved.
"I don't have anything. No ring. No plan. Nothing in my pocket. Just me."
He looked up.
His eyes were wet.
"Is that enough?"
"Yes."
I reached into my pocket. Pulled out the chain.
Silver. Thin. Long enough to wear under a shirt.
The ring hung at the bottom. Turning. Catching light.
My wedding ring. The one I thought was gone.
The one I'd been carrying since the storm.
I walked to the table. Set it down in front of him.
Third time I'd put that ring on furniture.
First time I'd left it on a desk and walked out.
Second time I'd taken it out on a boat.
This time I set it on a table full of my people.
He stared at it.
Then picked it up. Slow. Like it might disappear.
The chain pooled in his hand.
He looked at me.
"Yes," I said.
He closed his eyes.
Yolanda made a sound.
"I'm not crying."
Her voice was thick.
Daniella handed her a napkin.
"You are."
"I'm not."
She wiped her eyes.
"Okay I'm crying."
"Knew it," Daniella said.
"Shut up."
Daniella smiled. Curtis smiled. Ray smiled. Half the table smiled.
Sven stood. Still holding the ring. He was looking at me like he was afraid I might disappear.
"You said yes."
"I said yes."
"You're not going to change your mind."
"I'm not going to change my mind."
"You're sure."
"I'm sure."
"Because I'm asking. I'm really asking."
"And I'm really saying yes."
He nodded. Slow. Like he was letting himself believe it.
Then he sat back down.
Set the ring beside his plate. Didn't let go of it.
"Can we eat now?" Ray said.
Yolanda laughed. Half sob.
"About time," Curtis said.
"Starving," Ray said.
Orrin reached for the bowl of greens and passed it to Curtis.
"Congratulations," he said to me.
"Thank you."
"About time."
"It is," I said.
"Real good indeed."
"Thank you, Orrin."
"You did good."
"So did he."
I sat down beside Sven.
His hand found mine under the table.
Yolanda talked about Orrin's new boat.
"How much is it running you?" Curtis asked.
"More than I want to pay," Orrin said.
"That's always the answer," Curtis said.
"Isn't that the truth," Ray said.
"How much really?" Curtis asked.
"You really want to know?"
"I asked, didn't I?"
"More than you make in a year."
"Well that's not hard," Curtis said.
"Not hard at all," Ray said.
"Could be worse," Curtis said.
"Could be better," Ray said.
"Could be a lot of things."
Daniella mentioned the Portland inspection next month.
"I've got it," she said. "Done it three times."
"You need help with the paperwork?" Yolanda asked.
"I'm fine."
"It's a lot of paperwork."
"I know. I've done it."
"Three times," Yolanda said.
"She runs most of it now," Ray said.
"I run the house. Etta runs the water."
"And we run the boats," Curtis said.
"You run one boat," Ray said.
"One's enough."
"For you maybe."
"What's that mean?"
"Nothing."
"Didn't sound like nothing."
"Well it was."
"If you say so."
"I do say so."
"Then I believe you."
"No you don't."
"You're right I don't."
The noise rose. Voices layering. Laughing. Arguing. Forks on plates. Glasses set down.
Boots by the door. Ice melting on expensive boards. Seventeen plates on a table built for eight.
This was what I wanted. My people in my house at my table.
And him. Beside me. His hand warm. His ring on the table.
Ray told a story. Curtis argued.
"That's not how it happened."
"It is."
"It's not."
"Were you there?"
"No, but neither were you."
"Doesn't matter. I know."
"You don't know anything."
"I know more than you."
Daniella laughed. Yolanda shook her head.
Deshawn said something to Orrin I couldn't hear.
"Fair enough," Orrin said.
Yolanda caught my eye. Smiled.
I smiled back.
Sven's hand tightened.
I didn't let go.
Next morning we went out before light.
My boat. My water.
He was already up when I woke. Already dressed. Already pulling on boots.
We took the Charlene out into Kettle Sound. I killed the engine a mile out and let us drift.
"Here?" he said.
"Here."
He looked around. At the water. At the sky starting to lighten in the east.
"Good spot."
"It is."
The sun was just starting to come up. Sky dark in the west, going pale in the east. Gold and pink bleeding into blue.
Water flat. Glassy.
No wind. Just water lapping the hull. Gulls circling.
Sven had the old knife. Yolanda's mother's knife. Worn blade. Handle wrapped in gray tape gone soft and sticky with salt and time.
He pulled an oyster out and worked the knife in.
It slipped.
"Damn."
"Easy."
He tried again. The shell cracked. He pried it open.
Not clean. But open.
He held it out.
I took it.
Cold and clean. Tasted like the sound. Like salt and minerals and this water I'd known my whole life.
"Good?"
"Good."
He pulled another. This one came easier. Split clean.
I ate it.
"Better?" he said.
"Better."
"Getting the hang of it?"
"After a year you should be."
"Some people never do."
"You're not some people."
The sun kept rising. Water turned gold. Then pink. Then shades without names.
The sound went quiet before the day really starts. Before boats come out and work begins.
Just us. Just the light spreading across the water.
Somewhere out a boat engine started. Low. Steady.
"Curtis."
"Probably."
"He's early."
"Always is."
Sven set the knife on the rail. Leaned back.
His hands were scarred. Ruined. Thick and rough with lines where rope cut in and healed wrong. Fingers that didn't close right.
Not the hands of a man behind a desk. The hands of a man who worked.
And he was here.
In my boat. On my water. At sunrise. With nowhere else to be.
The day I'd asked for three years and never got.
I looked at him.
He looked back.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"You're staring."
"I am."
"Why?"
"No reason."
He smiled.
I smiled back.
The sun kept rising.
A man who had spent his whole life being brilliant at deciding what to keep and what to rake off the table was sitting in his wife's water at sunrise with wrecked hands, having kept exactly one thing.
THE END