Morning Glory(5)

He smiles. “Well then, let me be the first to welcome you to Boat Street.”

I give him a confused look.

“Oh, it’s what we call our dock,” he says.

I nod. “Oh, I’m sorry. You were looking for someone? Henrietta?”

His grin morphs into a frown, as if he’s remembering an upsetting fact. “Oh, yeah,” he says, shaking his head. “Haines, where are you, old boy?” I watch, perplexed, as he looks behind him. A moment later a mallard duck peers cautiously around the side of the houseboat ahead. He waddles toward Jim, stopping briefly to look up at me. “You see, Haines here is married to a fine duck named Henrietta. But they fight a lot, and they had quite a donnybrook last night.” He speaks without sarcasm, as if the love lives of ducks are quite a serious matter. I’m not sure if I should smile, but it’s impossible not to.

“Do you think she’s run away?” I ask, giving my best effort to keep a straight face.

“Oh no,” Jim says. “She’s just off sulking somewhere. Last week I found her in a kayak. She’d been gone for two days, and Haines was beside himself.” He kneels down beside the duck, who fluffs his feathers and lets out a little quack. “Mallards mate for life, you know.”

“I’ve heard,” I say. “It’s really sweet.”

“Anyway,” he says, standing, “we’re all hoping for ducklings this spring.”

I smile. “Ducklings?”

He nods. “They’ve been going together for five years, and you’d think they’d consummate this marriage at some point.”

“Maybe this is their year,” I say.

“Maybe. Anyway, if you see Henrietta, let me know. I live four houseboats down.”

“Oh,” I say, remembering the garden I passed the night before. “You must have potted all those flowers—they’re so pretty.”

“No,” he says quickly. “That’s my mother’s garden. My parents live next door. I grew up here on the dock.” He looks thoughtful for a moment. “I stayed away for a long time, but when the house next door came up for sale last year, I decided to buy it.” He looks down the dock as if seeing it through the lens of the past, exactly how it appeared fifty years ago. “When I left this dock, I swore I’d never return. But I guess every eighteen-year-old thinks that, right?” He shrugs. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that time mellows things.” He eyes the potted plants in front of his parents’ houseboat. “No matter what, home is home. It’s where you belong.”

I nod hesitantly, thinking of my own home. I haven’t been back to Kansas City in years. The reason pains me, and I let my mind extinguish the thought like a flickering ember doused with water. And New York City—no, it isn’t home anymore either. I’m not anchored to any place.

“Anyway, I needed to come back,” Jim continues. “Mom and Dad aren’t in the best health. Mom broke her hip last fall. She’s finally up and about, but she’s frail. And Dad, well, he’s been having memory trouble. Some days are better than others.”

“I’m so sorry,” I say, thinking of my own parents for a moment. I feel guilty for the great wall of silence I’ve built between us. I didn’t do it intentionally, of course. I just couldn’t bear to hear their voices, see their faces—mirrors of the pain I felt. We went out to see them the summer before . . . I close my eyes for a moment, and I can see Ella jumping around in the steamy Midwest night air, reaching for fireflies. “Look, Mama,” she squeals, her voice still so fresh in my mind. She runs to me with hands cupped together. “I caught one! What should we call him?”

I smile and take her inside, where I find an old mason jar in a cabinet in my mother’s kitchen and show her how to make a proper firefly home, adding some twigs and leaves to the bottom, then piercing the metal lid with a steak knife to provide airflow for the little critter. “There,” I say. “Your very own firefly.”

She presses her nose to the glass. “Can we take him home to New York?”

I shake my head. “No, honey,” I say softly. “He belongs here.”

I don’t have to explain any further. She understands.

Ella understood so much more than most little girls her age. I sigh, thinking of that magical summer trip, thinking of James, and my parents, who’d had a new swing set installed in their backyard that month for Ella, their only grandchild. I shake my head. No, I couldn’t face them. So when my parents called, I didn’t answer the phone one day, and the next, and the next. Eventually, I sent a letter. I promised I’d call when I was ready. But I didn’t know when that would be.