Red Kayak: Chapters 6–11

And I was sure Mrs. DiAngelo would thank me personally because she was such a nice person. I even envisioned her bringing me a plate of that almond biscotti I raved about at her house.

It had only been a few hours since I left for school that morning, but as I entered the house, it felt as though I’d been away for a year. The smallest things seemed so welcoming. The vase Mom had made in her pottery class filled with dried cattails. The small mahogany table with the picture of me from sixth grade.

I sat down in Dad’s chair in the living room and put my feet up on the hassock while the reporter and I talked.

A thirteen-year-old Eastern Shore boy, alone in his 14-foot skiff plucked a three-year-old from the frigid waters of the Corsica River yesterday afternoon and resuscitated the child while speeding through pelting rain to waiting rescuers.

A thirteen-year-old Eastern Shore boy, alone in his 14-foot skiff plucked a three-year-old from the frigid waters of the Corsica River yesterday afternoon and resuscitated the child while speeding through pelting rain to waiting rescuers.

A thirteen-year-old Eastern Shore boy, alone in his 14-foot skiff plucked a three-year-old from the frigid waters of the Corsica River yesterday afternoon and resuscitated the child while speeding through pelting rain to waiting rescuers.

Virginia DiAngelo is reported in good condition this morning at Easton General Hospital, while Benjamin, who was flown to the pediatric intensive care unit at Children’s Hospital, remains in critical condition.

Not too long afterward, eighth grade had an assembly in the gym to talk about the upcoming orientation day we were going to have over at the county high school.

And at the end of it, Mrs. Owens announced: “If you haven’t already heard, we have a bona fide hero in our midst this morning. Brady Parks.”

It started to hurt my feelings that they never sought me out. But I wasn’t going to let on that I was miffed.

Still, every once in a while I couldn’t help but think about that reporter’s question, and a sick feeling churned my stomach.

Mom was harried; in fact, her hair wasn’t totally dry, and I realized that she was wearing the purple sweater she only wears to work, but with a pair of jeans, like she was half dressed.

Pushing our way through all the kids and commotion, I followed her to the front entrance.

I thought sure someone would make a wisecrack. But no one seemed to notice my mother.

So I changed into grubby jeans and reached for my hat, my Baltimore Orioles cap...

My teeth clenched and a tremendous surge of anger burst out of me.

But this is the truth: When I leaned over to peer into the river, the water was not brown and full of sediment, but perfectly clear.

Outside in the brisk air, with a few early songbirds starting up and our eyes getting used to the darkness, I felt a little bit better, like somehow life was going on.

We stepped into our rubber overalls, pulled on our rubber gloves, and started winching in crab pots, dumping out crabs, and refilling the bait holders with clams.

As Dad put his cap on and opened the door for her, I thought how easy he’d been on me considering what I had done. All that work and he’d brought home a measly two bushels.

“I just wondered what happened. I mean...why did Ben die?” I felt my voice quaver. “I thought you guys had a pulse.”

“But he had a lot of water in his lungs, and it gave him pneumonia, what they call aspiration pneumonia,” Carl explained. “That on top of the exposure—it was too much.”

“But he had a lot of water in his lungs, and it gave him pneumonia, what they call aspiration pneumonia,” Carl explained. “That on top of the exposure—it was too much.”

“See ya,” I said. But as she hobbled away with Ryan, I stood there wondering: Why would J.T. lie to me? And why would Digger not even want to talk to me?

Every day I kept thinking about what had happened on the river, and I couldn’t seem to get the traction I needed for forward motion.

By the time we got back from Richmond, it had stopped raining, and even though we’d only been gone for a day, it seemed as if spring had suddenly moved into Maryland. Clusters of daffodils and pudgy little purple hyacinths had sprouted up all over our yard.

The ground was squishy from water, and behind the house, where Mom had started raking out her butterfly garden, the earthy scent of marsh drifted up from the river.

“Well, let’s see.” Dad scratched his head. “The locusts are in bloom, so that means the crabs is havin’ their first molt. See, too, that Mr. Hennessey down the road planted his soybean field.”

I snorted. “Okay. What I meant is did anything exciting happen?”
Mom and Dad looked at each other.
“Like did anyone call?” I prodded.

I knew they’d contrived the trip to get my mind off things.

“Sometimes,” she said gingerly, “when there’s been a death, it drives a family apart, instead of together.”

Mom had also picked a thick bunch of daffodils, which she put in a coffee can with water and nestled into a corner of the box.

The DiAngelos’ driveway is pretty long, winding across the field where J.T., Digger, and I used to shoot tin cans, so there was a lot of time for me to agonize over this.

Even if I didn’t rebait them, I knew I needed to move the pots around. If you don’t—sometimes on Dad’s boat we even hose them off—they’ll gunk up and disintegrate.

She made a face and shrugged. “He’s been kind of funny about it. Like he’s not sure. But I don’t see how he can’t go along with the others. It’s his livelihood, Brady. It’s what puts food on this table.”