In the Year of Long Division

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DUKE’S brother died under the ice in spring, the season I met Duke. The other kid survived — shivering, fat-lipped, the instigator, littler. A miracle, the search team said. Just a hurt front tooth, a gash, a stitch. A boy’s likely story. This is what I heard, but not from Duke.

Duke said, “Go.”

Duke said, “Ladies first, please.”

Rock, rock, gap, stone-cold to the lighthouse — Duke and I were spiny in the dark. Weeds swam up. Weak sunk stars, a lap, suck, and bubble. The usual. Lake and pier. Us and us. Month after month.

Duke was always finding things to skip across to who knew where.

August.

Pinkness hovered.

A school was in the ebb of the tide, bellied over easy.

“Ready or not,” Duke said.

We were our age.

Fishing was the only sport in our town. How it was. Pick. Any house in our town was any house in our town. Any wind in our town was the wind in our town. Down was down. Queasy was a way of life. Bored to crackers, snap, kerplunk.

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