Abel Baker Charley by John R. Maxim Page A

you? Grandpa?”
    ”I thought I'd better relax her if I could. Baker will need to know that she's at peace.”
    “You get around, don't you, Marcus?”
    “Don't we all, Benjamin,” the voice answered. “But come, let us have a look at your Jared Baker.”

4

    The car had stopped moving. It had stopped once before, it seemed, but this time was longer. It had come to rest and rocked sideways once, and Baker thought he remembered the sound of a door being closed gently. He didn't care. The sleep was good. It made his body feel heavy and warm, and if he sank into it deeply enough, there would be no pain of remembering. And he could still feel Tina's touch against his cheek and around his neck. It made her seem close by.
    A part of his mind seemed to detach itself from the rest. It formed a thin and wispy ball and it floated among thoughts of Tina while the rest was left to seethe and boil by itself. They were not troubled thoughts of Tina. He saw her in a Christmas play when she sang “Edelweiss” for all the par ents, terrified that she might miss a note and only relaxing when she did. He saw her the first time she watched kittens being born, and when she first sailed his small boat by her self. He saw the letters from schoolteachers telling him how proud he ought to be. He saw her diving, which came easily to her, and he saw her skiing, which came hard. But she tried. Tina always tried. She even won that trophy. Baker had an odd notion that Tina was remembering that too just then.
    Another thought intruded. Another wisp from his brain licked up and began lashing about. The ball of good thoughts seemed to wilt and retreat. That annoyed Baker. He tried to shake the new wisp away, but it began prodding at him, probing, he felt, for a spot behind his right eye. He felt no touch, but it seemed that someone was trying to wake him. He resisted because now Tina was leaving, ex cept that Tina didn't seem to mind. She called from far away that Grandpa was coming. That was a dream. Tina never knew her grandfather. Baker blinked, then opened one eye.
    He knew at once that he was alone, even before the left eye followed and took in Meister's empty seat. The bright sky made him wince. It was a hot whitish blue and there were thin silver columns reaching into it. Dozens of them. Baker rubbed his face and sat up straight.
    It was a marina, he realized. A boatyard. He focused now on the tall silver masts and the white decks at their feet. Where was Meister? He scanned the parking area, but the lawyer was not in sight. There was only a small boy strug gling to launch a windsurfer, a fat woman sunning herself on the stern of a Chris Craft, and an older man with a fishing rod who limped down the dock in his direction. A steep gangplank blocked Baker's view of the fisherman's body, but Baker knew by the rhythm of his shoulders that he walked with a cane. Did he know the gray-haired man? He didn't think so. Yet a part of him thought he did.
    He could not make out the face. It was framed in shadow between the visor of a red baseball cap and a trimmed Ed wardian beard. His body too had the thick and substantial look of that period. And Baker liked him. He had no idea why, nor did he dwell upon it. He simply liked the man and wished they might talk.
    The man in the red cap rested for a moment at the top of the gangplank. Baker saw the cane now. That, and an old wicker creel that hung from his shoulder. The man smiled toward Baker before coming on.
    “Good afternoon, Mr. Baker,” the bearded man said pleasantly. There was a flicker of pain on his face as he reached down to rub the leg that he favored. Baker stepped from the car.
    “Maybe you should sit down,” he offered.
    “Walking is better.” The older man forced a smile. “At my age, one cannot expect to dangle his legs from a pier without some complaint from them. The body complains , however, no matter what I do. So I go right on spiting it and it goes right on getting even. An