I get off the bus and stroll around on the cargo docks, hoping to see him by chance. I don’t know if he’s gone already and don’t have the nerve to go on board and ask. I’m going to make it look like I’ve just been taking a stroll, like any other day, like in the old days with Dad, before he moved out. We used to wake up early and walk down to the harbor and talk to the old guys in the small fishing boats who were cleaning their nets or just arriving at the docks. Or we’d go on board a trawler where Dad knew somebody he wanted to see. We’d sit chatting with other shipmates or machinists or sailors and Dad would have a coffee with something strong in it, but I’d have a root beer and some chocolate cookies. Then we’d go to the harbor café to meet some more old guys, and maybe have a donut or a sandwich. And the old guys always had this smell about them, of salt and seaweed and oil and tobacco. Sometimes Dad had some tobacco, and sometimes we got fresh haddock to take home with us to Mom.
