Impact

38

Abbey had prepared cheeseburgers for dinner but they were overcooked and dry, the cheese had burned in the pan, and the buns were soggy. Her father sat across the table, chewing silently, eyes downcast, his jaw muscles working slowly. He had been ominously silent all evening.

He laid the half-eaten burger down on his plate, gave the plate a token push, and finally looked at Abbey. His eyes were bloodshot. She thought for a moment he might have started drinking again, which he'd done pretty hard after her mother's death. But, no, that wasn't it. He didn't smell of beer.

"Abbey?" His voice was hoarse.

"Yes, Dad?"

"I heard from the insurance company."

She felt the lump of burger in her mouth sort of stick. She made an effort to swallow it down.

"They're not covering the loss."

A long silence.

"Why not?"

"It was a commercial policy. You weren't lobstering. What you were doing they consider recreation."

"But . . . you could always say I was lobstering."

"There's a Coast Guard report, police reports, newspaper articles. You weren't fishing. End of story."

Abbey's mouth had gone dry. She tried to think of something to say and couldn't.

"I still owe on the boat, and until it's paid off there's no way I can get a loan for another. I'm paying on a mortgage that's worth more than the house. What little savings I had went to your year-and-a-half messing around in college."

Abbey swallowed again, staring at the plate. Her mouth was dry as ashes. "I'll give you my waitressing money. And I'll sell the telescope."

"Thank you. I'll accept the help. Jim Clayton's offered me a position as stern man this season. With what you make and I make, if it's a good season, we might just keep the house."

Abbey felt a giant tear creep out of her eye and roll down the side of her nose, hang there, and fall on the plate. Then came another, and another. "I'm really sorry, Dad."

She felt his rough hand seek hers, close around it. "I know."

She hung her head, the tears dropping on her burger bun, making it soggy. After a moment her father released her hand and rose from his place. He went over to his old Black Watch tartan chair by the woodstove, settled into it, and picked up The Lincoln County News.

Abbey cleared the plates, scraped the uneaten burgers into the bin for the chickens, and washed the dishes in the sink, stacking them on the side. Her father had talked about getting a dishwasher someday, but that day was never going to come.

Well, Abbey thought, with a curious sense of numb detachment, she had pretty much ruined her father's life.