The Pieces of My Self

16 - Gone Fishing

LILLIAN

Covington Docks, 6 June 2174, Monday

In the half-light of early morning, a tall, lean man with a pistol on one hip and a grizzled beard emerged from the shadow of a small pavilion and stood before me. He had olive skin and indeterminate racial features. I guessed he was in his late fifties.

"Not much fishing business these days," he said. "Most folks, they're struggling. Are you Lillian?"

I nodded, shoulders sagging under a backpack laden with water and lunches, hands tight on both children.

He waved for me to follow him along Dock A of the Southwest Covington Marina, stopping near an ancient 37-foot charter boat built for fishing and—for all I knew—smuggling. The name on the stern was Redemption. A coil of rope hung from the shoulder of the man's lime green shirt and drooped to the knee of his baggy, pocketed khaki shorts. He threw the greasy coil over the gunwale.

"I'm Remy."

"Figured," I said, guiding my daughter and son toward the gangway. "Thanks for doing this on the spur of the moment. I hope I didn't intrude last night."

"No problem. I was fixing equipment when you called. I run a shop near here."

"What do you fix?"

"Boats, motors, robots. All kinda things. Word-of-mouth business. How did you find me?"

"Word-of-mouth."

"That's what interested me."

We each held our smiles until I said, "Well, I'm grateful you were willing to take us out. The kids really wanted to learn how to fish. This is Amara, and the one with the perpetual smirk on his freckled face is Grady."

"Are you a Cajun?" Grady said.

The man gave a wink and stroked his beard. "I'm Houma. And a little Cajun. And a little whatever. And you, boy, what are you?"

I could see he was stuck on the disparity—white-skinned Grady, black-skinned Amara, me biracial.

"I'm my own thing," Grady said, defiantly.

"You must be Houma, then," Remy said with a straight face. "Put'er there."

Grady shook hands, flashing oversized front teeth.

* * *

We idled in gear, slowly pulling away from the dock in a southeasterly direction, sun in our faces, rising from the Gulf. After clearing the harbor, we doglegged west toward the Maurepas Swamp. I dug out snacks for the kids, told them to put on hats and sunscreen, then walked to the captain's side near the helm.

Remy broke his concentration and gave me a slow-eyed look, starting with my sandaled feet and bare thighs, finally settling on my face. "You're a fine-looking woman, missy. Reminds me of somebody I knew way back."

I returned his smile but said nothing.

"You ever been out here fishing before?"

I pulled my hair back and re-seated my baseball cap. "No, but an acquaintance of mine has. Maybe you've heard of him. Henri J. Knightly."

He paused for a moment, eyes squinting. "Maybe. Big deal in the government. He's dead, no?"

"That's what they say. Ever gone out on the water with him?"

"Lots of people come with me."