Chapter 8 - Diverted Flight
The Galveston seawall was empty save for a few stubborn gulls hovering against the twenty-knot Gulf breeze. The water was the color of slate, rolling in heavy, regular swells that broke against the granite riprap with a deep, percussive boom that vibrated through the soles of our shoes.
We walked along the concrete promenade until we reached the green wooden bench near 25th Street. On the backrest, a small brass plaque had been weathered by the salt spray until the letters were soft and green:
*ORIN MCCALLISTER*
*1948 – 2019*
*He never dropped his guard.*
Sage sat on the bench, pulling her hood over her ears, her hands tucked into her sleeves. She looked out at the horizon where three oil tankers were anchored in the roadstead, their hull lights blinking against the falling dusk.
"Grandpa Orin told me once that the hardest part of chess isn't finding the best move," she said, her voice small against the roar of the surf.
"What’s the hardest part?" I asked, sitting down beside her.
"Sitting on your hands while the other person makes their mistake," she said. "He told me people hate being quiet. They want to move something. They want to shout. They get nervous when the board is still, so they push a pawn they shouldn't push just to make something happen."
I smiled, pulling my coat tighter against the wind. "Orin was a wise old bastard."
"He was," she agreed, not even blinking at the curse word. "Dad?"
"Yeah?"
"Are we going to see Aunt Tessa again?"
I looked down at the concrete promenade where a few crushed shells were embedded in the aggregate.
"Not for a very long time, Sage."
"Is Tai going to prison?"
"I don't know," I told her honestly. "He has to talk to a judge. He has to learn that when you break things, the world doesn't just buy you a new one."
"He was always mean to me," she whispered. "Even when Mom was alive. When we were six, he took my little plastic knight and threw it down the storm drain behind Grandpa Hugh’s garage. He told me it fell. But I saw him do it. He watched it drop into the black water and he laughed."
I felt that cold, heavy wire pull tight again in my chest.
"Why didn't you tell me, sweetheart?"
"Because Mom told me not to," Sage said softly, looking up at me with her mother’s clear, unflinching eyes. "Mom said, 'Sage, your father carries the sky on his shoulders every day at work. Don't make him carry our trash too.' So I just didn't tell you."
The surf hit the granite boulders below with a heavy, hollow thud.
I reached out, wrapped my arm around my daughter’s shoulders, and pulled her tight against my side. Her small frame was warm inside the heavy coat, her head resting against my ribs.
"Your mother was wrong about that one thing, Sage," I said, my voice thick. "You never carry the trash alone. That’s what a father is for. You tell me every time. Every single time."
She nodded against my coat. "Okay, Dad."
We sat on the green bench until the sun dipped behind the hotels on the seawall, turning the gray Gulf water into a sheet of hammered bronze.
When we got back to the truck, my phone had a single voicemail from an unknown number with an 832 area code.
I climbed into the driver’s seat, started the engine to let the heater run, and hit play.
The voice was rough, strained, and accompanied by the heavy idle of an old diesel engine.
"Nolan. It’s your father. I’m down at the house in Pearland. I brought the boat up from Freeport. It’s sitting in your gravel turnaround behind the garage."
A long pause followed, filled only with the sound of Hugh’s heavy, labored breathing.
"The marina wouldn't let me keep it without the insurance certificate," Hugh muttered. "I can't pay the commercial storage rate, and Tessa’s HOA won't let a trailer sit on the street. It’s your mother’s boat as much as it is mine. You do what you want with it. Sell it. Burn it. I don't give a damn."
Another pause. The click of a lighter.
"I saw the video of the boy at the junior high," Hugh said, his voice dropping into a register I had never heard from him before—not rage, not bluster, but the dry, hollow sound of an old man who had finally realized the house he built was made of rotten timber. "He’s got bad blood, Nolan. Maybe it came from Craig. Maybe it came from me. But you were right about the computer. He did it on purpose."
The call clicked off.
I sat in the dark cab of the truck, the heater blowing warm air across my boots, watching the red taillights of the traffic heading north toward Houston.
"Dad?" Sage asked from the passenger seat.
"Yeah, kiddo?"
"Is Grandpa’s boat at our house?"
"Looks like it," I said.
She reached into her pocket, pulled out the little ivory queen, and placed it on the dashboard between us, where it caught the green glow of the instrument panel.
"We can paint it," she said simply. "Make it blue. Mom liked blue."
I looked at the little white piece standing straight on the curved plastic of the dash, steady despite the vibration of the eight-cylinder engine.
May you like
"Yeah," I said, shifting the truck into drive and pulling out onto the highway. "Blue sounds about right."
***
