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Chapter 2
Before sunrise on Saturday morning,AlphéBeaumont rose from the couch where he’d been sleeping for the past year. Getting out into the bay in his fishing boat at the crack of dawn would ensure a good catch that day. But first, he’d swing by Saint Anthony Padua and light a candle before he said the rosary and his morning prayer.
Tiptoeing into the bathroom with his clothes in hand, he turned the light on and squinted at his reflection. For not being forty, he felt like he looked old, his black, curly hair with strands of silver the first thing he saw, not the smooth, tan skin or his bright, clear blue eyes. But he didn’t hear the comments made when women passed by him or saw him at the dock, unloading his catch.
“Oh my god, look at Alphé workin’ without his shirt. Lola Beaumont needs to have her head examined.”
Or, “Did you ever notice the bulge? His wife hooked up with old man Casson. I wonder howhemeasures up?”
His back ached, so even though he’d showered the night before and risked waking his estranged wife, he got into the shower again and let the hot water beat down on his body.
Fortunately, she didn’t wake up. After shaving a chiseled jaw and carefully dressing in chambray and denim, he snuck into his daughters’ room to kiss them goodbye.
On the lower bunk, ten-year-old Pris, her arms hugging a ragged stuffed dog, didn’t wake when he kissed her.
The older girl was waiting for him.
“Angela, I’m leaving,” he whispered.
Her black curls fell over her forehead when she sat up to hug him goodbye.
“Okay, Daddy, have a good day out there.”
In his sons’ room, there was a body sleeping on the floor in a sleeping bag. Or maybe there were two. His children were free to have their friends sleep over anytime; Lola was good about that. He had no complaints about the kind of mother she was, at least not yet.
On the lower bunk, five-year-old Rumor slept soundly, so Alphé left him alone, tucking the blankets around his shoulders.
“Noel, I’m leaving, son,” he whispered to the older boy, stretching to the upper bunk to reach him.
“Dad, can I go out with you tomorrow?” Noel asked, sitting up.
“We’ll talk to your mother tonight. Are you sure you want to give up a Sunday to fish?”
“I do, Dad.”
Ruffling his son’s hair, Alphé felt proud and sad. He wanted his son to aspire to more than fish.
“Bye, Dad. Be careful today,” he said, kissing his father goodbye, not caring if his buds saw it.
The kids had heard enough stories about fishermen drowning that they made sure their dad knew that they loved him. And their mother’s disdain for Alphé only increased their concern.
After grabbing a large brown bag lunch that he’d fixed himself with his kids’ help the night before, he quietly left the house. Getting into his dilapidated orange Ford pickup truck, he prayed it wouldn’t backfire when he started it, heading to the church first for his morning entreaty, and then the dock.
Gus was already there at the dockmaster’s shack, drinking coffee, a pot of coffee plugged into dock power with paper cups and cream and sugar and a big basket of beignets for the fishermen who made their living from the boats docked there. The rent they paid ostensibly paid for Gus’s salary, and he took care of them in any way he could think of.
One out of seventy jobs in Louisiana were related to the fishing industry. And it wasn’t easy work. Gus had known many of these men since they were boys. Gus knew Alphé Beaumont because his father had also been a fisherman, and Alphé had been on the boat since he was a toddler.
“Mornin’, Gus. Today is gonna be a good day,” he said in his thick Acadian accent. “And thank you for the coffee. I don’t want to wake the family up brewing coffee at five a.m.”
“No, sir, that’s why I have it here. You got your thermos, Alphé? Let me fill that for you.”
“Thank you, sir. I much appreciate it. It’ll go good with my lunch today.”
“And what’s in your bag?”
“Fried catfish from yesterday,” he said, laughing. “My ma still makes the best fried catfish in Cypress Cove.”
“I’m jealous now,” Gus said.
