Мгла

           Thatraisedthefirstflushofanger.Thetreehadbeendeadforfiveyearsandheshouldhavelongsincehadittakendown.Nowitwasthree-quartersofthewaydown;ourboathousewasproppingitup.Theroofhadtakenonadrunken,swaybackedlook.Thewindhadswirledshinglesfromtheholethetreehadmadealloverthepointoflandtheboathousestoodon.Billy’sdescription,"bashed,"wasasgoodasany.

           "That’sNorton’stree!"Steffsaid.AndshesaiditwithsuchhurtindignationthatIhadtosmileinspiteofthepainIfelt.TheflagpolewaslyinginthewaterandOldGloryfloatedsoggilybesideitinatangleoflanyard.AndIcouldimagineNorton’sresponse:Sueme.

           Billywasontherockbreakwater,examiningthedockthathadwasheduponthestones.Itwaspaintedinjauntyblueandyellowstripes.Helookedbackoverhisshoulderatusandyelledgleefully,"It’stheMartinses’,isn’tit?"

           "Yeah,itis,"Isaid."Wadeinandfishtheflagout,wouldyou,BigBill?"

           "Sure!"

           Totherightofthebreakwaterwasasmallsandybeach.In1941,beforePearlHarborpaidofftheGreatDepressioninblood,mydadhiredamantotruckinthatfinebeachsand-sixdumptrucksfull-andtospreaditouttoadepththatisaboutnipple-highonme,sayfivefeet.Theworkmanchargedeightybucksforthejob,andthesandhasnevermovedjustaswell,youknow,youcan’tputasandybeachinonyourlandnow.