Patrick’s lanky frame made up a series of intersecting lines and angles; pointed elbows resting patiently on pointed knees, skinny forearms meeting together at the wrist where his sharp chin rested comfortably in the heels of his hands. He had found himself a comfortable seat on top of an empty lobster trap and was staring transfixed at the seemingly endless ocean horizon. Clad in the oversized wool sweater and hand-me-down jeans his grandmother had lovingly laid out for him the night before, he almost looked as if had just been transported from the pages of an LLBean catalog printed in the 1950s. His sneakers, which were black and highlighter-yellow, and with which he had recently taken up the habit of wearing without socks and without laces, set him firmly within the ranks of a child born in the modern era.
“What are you looking for?” His older brother, Joe, shouted over the engine from his spot at the steering wheel.
“Mermaids” Patrick stated, matter-of-factly.
“Mermaids?!” Joe snorted, “Find any yet?” Patrick heard the thinly-veiled sarcasm and didn’t appreciate it. He glared. Joe’s smile faded as he focused his attention back to steering.
“Papa and I used to look for mermaids when he took me out here,” Patrick said stiffly, “He knew all about mermaids. He told me that they use sand dollars as money, and they can breathe underwater even though they don’t have gills and that they follow boats around in case somebody falls off.”
Patrick looked to his older for affirmation but found he could not gauge any reactions by reading the back of his neck.
“Hey, Joe?” Patrick asked after a long pause, “I was thinking that, maybe? When Papa got buried at sea? Remember? Maybe the mermaids found him? And made it so he could breathe underwater.”
Joe’s hands tightly clasped and unclasped the cold metal of the steering wheel.
“Joe? D’ya think that, maybe? That’s why Nana started collecting all those sand dollars in the morning, Joe? So Papa could have them?”
Joe sighed deeply. Slowly, he reached down and turned the ignition key, turning off the boat’s rattling engine. He made his way over to the spot where Patrick was sitting and collapsed next to him.
“Hey, buddy. You know I love you, right?”
“I know.”
“And you know that I would never intentionally do anything to upset you, right?”
Patrick nodded.
“So when I tell you this, I want you to know that I’m doing it because...well because I think it’s the right thing to do.” Joe sighed again. “Look, I” He stopped, shook his head and tried again, “I don’t...shit. I don’t want to be the one...” Joe rubbed his callused fingers across his sunburned forehead. “Look, kid. If it was up to me, you’d spend your whole life believing in mermaids and, well, anything else you want to believe it. But the truth is...I just don’t think it’s healthy for a kid your age to go
on hoping...” Again he paused, shook his head.
“Nana started collecting sand dollars so she could paint them and sell them to make a little extra money. Papa was buried at sea because he used to be in the Navy and that's what they do sometimes. There's no such thing as mermaids. Papa is gone, and he's not coming back." Joe said all this very fast, perhaps in hopes that maybe the words wouldn't sting as much. "Look, I know Papa meant a lot to you. He meant a lot to all of us. And you being so young, I can't even imagine how hard all this is for you. But I can't, I mean, for you to go on believing that he's down there, at the bottom of the ocean with a bunch mermaids having the time of his life? It's just not healthy, and it makes me nervous that one day you'll go in looking for him."
Joe finally turned to look at his brother. Patrick gaze was steady, unblinkingly set on nothing in particular. He didn?t flinch, or cry, he just sat there like a crestfallen statue. It broke Joe's heart.
"I'm sorry, kid. I know this is rough." He briefly rested his callused hand on Patrick's skinny, protruding shoulder. Patrick didn't shake him off.
Joe stood up and brought the boat engine back to life. They continued on their way back to the dock. When they got there, Patrick helped Joe tie up the boat like he always had, but did it without the usual fidgety spring in his step. He moved slowly and deliberately.
"Hey, Joe?" Patrick asked after all his regular duties were finished, "I'm gonna go for a walk on the beach, OK?"
"Sure thing, buddy," Joe smiled. It was the least he could do.
Patrick stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jeans. His scratchy sweater was pushed up to his elbows. His head was bowed. The tan leather tongues of his hiking boots, which he wore without socks and without laces, flopped around aimlessly as he walked.
About halfway down the beach he stopped to turn and look at the ocean. The sky was azure and cloudless; the water was still and impossibly blue.
Patrick looked down. Not two inches from the toe of his boot there was a sand dollar, perfectly round and whole. His grandmother must not have seen it this morning. He picked it up and held it between his fingers. It was bone dry and a little warm. Gently he pressed it between his hands, feeling the markings around the tops with the tips of his fingers. For a moment, he just held it. Then he cocked his arm back and threw it as hard as he could into the water.
He turned and walked back towards the house before he could see where it had landed.
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