"
"Casting what?"
"Bronze. Small pieces."
"Hey, whoa, let me out." Oliver pointed at the ferry terminal, and
George stopped.
"Yeah, come on over tomorrow morning, if you're not doing anything."
"O.K., I'll see."
George beeped twice and drove into the thickening snow. Oliver bought a
ticket for Peaks Island. The ferry was nearly empty, cheerful with its
high snub bow painted yellow, white superstructure, and red roof. It
was not as spirited as the red and black tugs that herd tankers to the
Montreal pipeline, nothing could match the tugboats--but the ferry was
close; it had the human touch, a dory that couldn't stay away from
cheesecake, broad in the beam, resolute, proof against the cold rollers
of the outer bay. After two long blasts, the ferry churned away from
the wharf. A line of gulls on the lee side of a rooftop watched them
move into the channel and gather speed.
Twenty minutes later, the ferry slowed, shuddered, and stopped at the
Peaks Island landing. Oliver walked uphill to the main street, unsure
why he had come. Habit took him around by his former house. No lights
were on, no sign of anyone home. He continued around the block,
surprised at his disappointment.
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