It worked out perfectly. There was one last can of gas under the workbench, one of the rugged plastic ones his father had bought recently, meaning in the last ten years. He slid a case of dusty Iron City tall-necks aside to get at it—heavy and cool from being on the concrete. Setting it in the wheelbarrow, he thought he could find a use for it at home (though he already had one in the shed for the mower, and Lise would never let him take it in the car). It seemed a waste, like the tools on his father’s bench he didn’t need—even the old Iron City case there, the very name making him nostalgic.
They were down to less than twenty hours now, but he felt as if they were already gone. The police had abandoned the marina, whatever that meant. He could see how today would play out, and tomorrow, the battle of packing, getting the bikes on the car, and finally the long drive. At least he’d have Sunday to recover.
He left the garage door up. He had to come back for the key anyway, and a hat. He’d steal his father’s favorite, an ugly blue-and-white mesh job from a local trucking company with its phone number under a flying semi. He could salvage that at least.
“When are we going to go tubing?” Sam called from the porch.
“As soon as I get the boat ready.”
“Need help?” Lise asked.
“I think I’m all set. You can get the kids’ towels together.”
It was easier to just take the cover off by himself, reaching across the tube to pull the hood off the motor and then down the gunwales on each side, using the driver’s seat to scissor over the windshield and kneel on the bow to unhook the front bungees. He didn’t risk tossing it at the wheelbarrow, just balled it up and dropped it in the passenger seat. He was sweating already and ditched his shirt. They still had a third of a tank, so he muscled the new one in and shoved it into a corner, yanking a stubborn loop of the towrope out from underneath.
“All right,” he said, wiping his face on his arm.
If Meg wanted to come she’d have to grab a life jacket, otherwise they were good to go. He left the wheelbarrow on the dock, thinking he should pull the motor up when they were done. He didn’t know when Smith Boys were supposed to come for the boat.
“Is there room for one more?” Arlene asked inside.
She had shorts on, and her hair tucked under a yellow NAPA cap. Meg said she didn’t absolutely have to go, but he could see she wanted to.
“It can take all of us, it’ll just be a little cramped.”
His mother passed. She was busy cleaning out the kitchen cupboards.
“I’ve got more than enough to do here, thanks. Maybe when you come back you can help me with some of the heavy stuff.”
“We women can help too,” Meg reminded her.
“Good, because I’m going to need all the help I can get.”
“Are we supposed to not go?” Lise asked when they were alone in the garage.
“She’s just talking to herself.”
“It didn’t sound like it to me.”
He slapped the cobwebs off the extra life jackets, weighing the cost of the argument. All he had to do was keep quiet.
“I’m sure she’s just freaking out about everything,” he said. “It’s better to stay out of her way.”
They were all waiting for him on the dock, lined up to one side like his crew. There were only four seats for the eight of them, three really, since he needed the driver’s seat.
“All right,” he said, clapping once, “how are we going to do this?”
Again they waited for him. With his father gone, the job of captain fell to him, another responsibility he didn’t want. On the water he had complete authority, and they knew to respond to his orders when things went wrong, because at some point they would. Usually it had to do with the motor, whether it got caught in the weeds or flooded and refused to start or came down with vapor lock—say, when he changed tanks. The boat was almost as old as he was, and had a way of reminding him of how mechanically inept he was and then displaying this shortcoming to everyone onboard. He would get them back if he had to paddle (and that had happened), but somewhere out there he would be reduced to turning the key and thumbing the choke button and swearing through his teeth so the children wouldn’t hear. The funny thing was, he could remember his father—an engineer with skilled hands—struggling with the motor the same way, but somehow he had kept his sense of humor, made it a game or a problem to be solved. When Ken tried that, he felt phony and even more incompetent.
He assigned the life jackets and cranked the boat down so it floated before sending them on in order. Arlene and Lise could squeeze up front with him. Meg would be in back, the girls could share a seat, and the boys would sit on the tube, or in it, since that might be safer. No one complained or questioned him, they just helped each other on and waited for more instructions.
“All right,” he said, “we’re going to paddle out past those weeds there. When we push off, Sarah, I want you to paddle backward. Meg, you’re going to go forward when we pass that last piling. The rest of you sit tight.”
“Aye-aye,” Lise said next to him.
“Thank you,” he put her off.
He knew he was being rigid, afraid of making a mistake when it didn’t matter.
They came back straight, drifting for the Lerners’ dock.
“Push off with the paddle,” he called to Sarah. “Okay, that’s great. We want to head directly into the wind so it doesn’t push us into the dock.”
His first urge was to go back and paddle, but he held off. When they came alongside the dock again, he said it was all right, they were getting there.
“I’m not having fun,” Meg said, and Sarah and Ella changed places.
A fisherman puttered by and Ken waved.
“You folks all right?” the man asked.
“We’re fine.”
“Okay,” he said.
They cleared the end of the Lerners’ dock, and Ken sidled his way back to prime the motor, squeezing the rubber bulb to feed it gas.
“Can we stop paddling now?” Meg asked.
“Wait till I get it going. I don’t want to get stuck back in there if it doesn’t start.”
“Well, hurry up, I’m getting tired.”
“I can paddle if you’re tired,” Arlene volunteered.
“You are not paddling,” Lise said.
He sat in his seat and looked over his shoulder like he was backing up a car. The weeds weren’t as bad as last year, but he still worried about fouling the prop this far in. He lifted the throttle past halfway, as his father had taught him, pushed the button and turned the key.
The starter ratcheted but nothing caught and he killed it quick so it wouldn’t flood. The second try was a carbon copy, and the third sounded dry, as if he hadn’t primed it enough. He spun and bumped his way through everyone. “Keep paddling,” he said, and squeezed the bulb hard so that an oily sheen formed on the water—too much. He hustled back and tried again and got blue smoke. Again and it almost turned over, the blenderlike whine of the flywheel spinning. They were on the other side of the Lerners’ dock and heading for the Smiths’.
“Keep paddling.”
“We are,” Ella said.
This time the motor chattered and caught, turned over and slowly chugged to life, sputtering. He inched the throttle up and listened to it grind, solid.
“Okay,” he said, “stop paddling,” and chunked it in gear, keeping his speed down as he steered through the weeds. Once they were in open water, he throttled down and slipped it into reverse to clear the prop, then headed for Prendergast Point and the marina, the ramp there busy now, trailers backed in on both sides. He cruised through the no-wake zone, then turned it loose. The bow rose up as they gathered speed. The wind was cool and the kids shouted when they smacked down after jumping a wave. He put his father’s cap on and sat up straight, peering over the windshield, swiveling his head to watch for oncoming traffic, as if he knew what he was doing.