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Drown short fiction by Don Hucks
Riptide. Notorious up and down the coast. Labor Day a drowning
up toward Gilchrist. A local boy this time, one of their own. Not some tourist. Not some college kid on break. Would’ve
known what to do. Must’ve panicked, lost his head. Damned shame. And they’d almost made it through the season
without a washup their side of the ferry. Kate knew the boy’s father, from the bar. Ran a shrimper out on the bay. Took
well whiskey and water. Twice. First one slowly, second one not. Now and then talked into darts, just one game, never before
the first taste of the second drink. Won, mostly. Always a two dollar tip. Always sure to say thanks. Hadn’t been in
all month, not since just before. Would he ever be back? Would he still nurse the first one? Still stop at two? Be talked
into throwing? Bother being polite? And later what? Years from now? One of those mean old drunks, bitter, sardonic, that nobody
can stand, and nobody left who remembers why? Always a reason, she figured. Everybody with a story nobody wanted to hear.
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