Page 10 of Knox Unleashed
And I don’t know if any of us are ready for me to do that.
4
MAREN
As I carry the panels we use to shutter the windows out of the storeroom the following morning, I notice the framed photograph of my mother as a child with my grandparents. As I study it, I see more similarities between us than I care to admit. I have the same pale blue eyes and thick lips. And just like Mom, I have limited friends.
My mother was a coward, but I don’t blame her for it.
Maybe it’s hereditary, because I am too.
I mean, I used to be. But approximately two thousand dollars of therapy has helped me make sense of who I am. It’s also cured me of the notion that if I’d been a more perfect child, she would have stayed.
In fairness, it’s probably hypocritical to believe that she should be able to withstand another minute in my father’s company, given he spoke to her in the same soul-destroying way he speaks to me. So, I get why she left…I just don’t get why she never took me with her.
Or how she could leave without saying goodbye.
As I’ve gotten older, I’ve begun to reconcile the years she was abused by my father with her capacity to only save herself. Butonly because I think that, deep down, we both knew that my father would hunt her down to the ends of the earth if she took me with her. Not because he loved either of us, but because he’d fear what it would do to his reputation if we were gone.
So, I only got eleven years with her.
Even now, to keep the peace, I try to give the illusion that everything is fine between me and my father if we’re in public, because the repercussions are ugly if I don’t. Plus, he sits on so many community advisory boards. Licensing, among other things. He’s explained in graphic detail just how difficult he could make life for me. That if I don’t comply with the illusion of family, I’ll lose the license for the cafe, or the airboats, or the bait shop.
Which means there are days when it feels as though my ribs are knitted together with fragile thread. The sound of his tires on the lot outside often makes my stomach flip.
I glance toward the window that faces the dock. Out past the pilings, the marsh is already restless. The wind bends the tall grasses in slow waves, picking up water as it blows across the surface. “Two more panels,” I mutter to my reflection.
I inhale slowly, then breathe out. Slow and steady. One after another. The air smells of brine and motor oil and mud. But beneath all that is the scent of a storm.
Somewhere out in the distance, a boat engine splutters to life. A brave soul to be sailing now. I’ve still got to move all three of the airboats into the boathouse. All the shutters that cover the boathouse building’s windows are lowered. And I lowered the shutters on the apartment above the store before I came to work. Even moved my food across to the refrigerator in the small hurricane-proof apartment built into the boathouse along with important documents and precious items just in case it lands sooner than we expect.
Once I’ve covered the last two windows on the old building, I unlock the front door and flip the sign toopen. I don’t really expect anyone to come in today, but seeing as I’m here, I’d be foolish to turn away a sale.
Every day, my grandfather used to walk through the business. He loved the rhythm and routine of it. And I follow suit as the wind gently rattles the roller shutter. I move through the shop in the same order he always did, although he would make mental lists and I record mine on my phone. The bait coolers are full. I take a moment to restock the hooks and straighten the boat polish near the counter.
“All the dock furniture is in,” Leo says as he walks through the door. He’s wearing the old polo shirts my grandfather used to make the employees wear. I’ve bought new ones in a pale blue. But he prefers the old, faded pale gray ones that seemingly make him disappear into the walls of this place.
“Thanks. We should probably put the sandbags out around all the doors as an extra barrier. Use the wheelbarrow to move them, please.”
“Already done,” he says. “Just gonna bring the rest of the signage from the road into the boathouse.”
One of the joys of Leo having been with this business for so long is that I don’t need to tell him what needs doing. He cares for the bones of this place as much as I do.
But every time I try to suggest he retires, he simply asks what else he could do. Where else could he go to work that feels this much like home? His wife tells me it gives him a purpose that many of his retired friends don’t have and helps her by keeping him out of her hair four days a week.
I’ve joked I’m someday going to retire his bland gray polo shirt to the rafters of the store like they do when a player leaves the NBA.
“Sounds good. I’m just gonna place an order for some new hooks and get the panel that sits between the main door and the roller shutter that covers it. I’ll put it in place tonight, even though it’s not supposed to land until tomorrow evening.”
“Good idea. I’ve seen a few hurricanes in my time, and they’re never as predictable as we’d like them to be,” Leo warns.
“And you should head home soon too. There’s nothing more that needs doing here, and business is going to be dead. Everyone’s at home prepping for tomorrow.”
“Gonna mop the deck then head out.” Leo salutes. “Stay safe, Maren.”
“Same to you.”
Leo has only been gone a few minutes when the small bell over the door rings, and I glance up to see two men step into the shop. They’re new here, not local. Probably on vacation.
