What he remembered, instead, was Charlie’s innocence, his unflappable enjoyment of the whole vacation. On their second day of lessons, Charlie stubbed his toe on the rough wood of the dock. His blood leached onto the boat’s slick white deck. For a moment, Charlie had looked almost sick, devoid of color. Nate felt sick, too, when he saw Charlie go pale. He often wished Charlie would toughen up—yet when the boy was actually in pain, Nate softened and felt the urge to take the hurt on himself. Charlie’s pain was only momentary this time. After the sailing instructor taped him up, he began to look proud. “I hurt myself sailing,” he’d said with alert, nearly joyful eyes. As for whether it was this pier that they’d sailed from in June 1974, Nate couldn’t say. All of Newport’s pristine, parallel docks looked the same. And anyway, memory loss was routine for the almost-forty-year-old male. What you had to take note of, he’d read, was a diminishment of short-range recollection, especially if accompanied by joltish mood swings.
