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just getting started and hadn’t found a regular stern man yet. It was a Saturday, and I had nothing else to do, so I agreed. I like to try new things.”
    â€œOh, I didn’t realize you’re not an actual fisherman.”
    â€œNo, just a pretend one. A fishing dilettante, you might say. Although once a person’s been involved in a fatal tragedy at sea, I don’t think that distinction should really matter.”
    â€œNo, probably not.” He appears chastened in a way that lets you know it’s only momentary. “I guess Ned explained what to do.”
    â€œHe taught me how to bait lobster traps before we left the harbor. Said he’d show me how to haul the pots on the way back. We were supposed to be home before dark.”
    â€œDid he ever say anything about why he wanted to switch to lobstering all of a sudden?”
    â€œHe worked on corporate factory trawlers and long-liners for twenty years. Maybe he got tired of spending weeks at sea hauling groundfish for a soulless corporation and wanted his own boat, his own little business. Makes sense to me.”
    â€œBut he never said exactly why?”
    â€œHe wasn’t into self-disclosure. He talked about the Red Sox, Bruins, and Patriots in depth. And the weather. As in,
Nice day, huh?
Or,
Looks like rain to me.
”
    Larry has been weaving his way around lampposts and mailboxes, trying to stay abreast of me on the narrow sidewalk. He’s wearing a ratty old trench coat over a dark gray pin-striped suit jacket, black T-shirt, and jeans. I think he could at least have found some nicer pants for the occasion. Sometimes it feels as if the whole world is giving up, going over to shabbiness. I guess I’ve got a bit of Phyllis in me.
    â€œWhy do you want to know all this?” I ask, my irritation mounting.
    â€œJust curious, I guess. We fell out of touch. I didn’t know what he was up to.” Then, as if he just thought of it, he asks, “Can I walk you to your car?”
    â€œWe’re here.” I manually unlock the door of my Saab.
    He shuffles his feet awkwardly. “One more thing: Did you, uh, did you see who hit you?”
    â€œYou mean the boat that ran us over?” I can’t believe he’s asking me this question right now.
    His eyes slide sideways. “Yeah, did you happen to catch the name on the stern transom or any numbers on the side?”
    â€œNo, I didn’t see the name. It was just a boat to me. A great big fucking boat.”

Chapter 4

    T he second half of the ritual—the after-funeral party—takes place at Ned’s favorite watering hole, Murphy’s Pub. All of his friends are there, none of his immediate family. There’s a buffet table with cold cuts, lasagna, garden salad, cakes. There’s a DJ who’s been told to play sixties, seventies, and eighties music—the songs Ned lived his life to. It’s like a wedding reception, only without the happy kissing couple and the girls in horrid dresses. But everyone talks, laughs, cries, and drinks the same way, as if their lives depended on it, and it’s a safe bet that many of them expect to make a long night of it, so that the rowdy hell that is in them can break loose if it wants to.
    I see Noah and Thomasina sitting at the bar and make my way across the crowded room. Noah has been served a ham sandwich, chips, pickle, and Coke. The bluish shadows under his eyes and the fact that he’s loosened his tie make him look like a tired banker. He seems relieved to be out of God’s jurisdiction, but uncertain how to behave among grown-ups who are acting like unruly kids. Thomasina steals a maraschino cherry from the bartender’s store and offers it to him. He refuses—he’s a stickler for the rules—so she pops it into her mouth and lays the stem on her cocktail napkin. The glass in front of her is full of a clear liquid, tiny bubbles, and a lemon wedge. “Sparkling