Chapter 11 Part 3 11

11 I've spent the morning doing a big clean, determined to make myself useful.I changed my mother's sheets, did my laundry, and scrubbed places that hadn't been touched in years: the tile seams in the bathroom, the shutters, the radiator behind the refrigerator.I went into the pantry and threw out all the expired food—two big bags of stuff.I hauled her rusty golf cart out of the garage and started it up to see if it would go; when I saw the grimy bathtub grotto, I hooked up the garden hose and put it in good order. Rinse again.As I did this, I wondered why my mother refused to talk about my father's death, why Father Dominique was mentioned inexplicably.I also thought intermittently of Friar Thomas.I didn't mean to - he got himself into my head.For a moment I found myself standing under the unshaded lightbulb in the storage room, holding a twenty-eight-ounce bucket of tomatoes, thinking back to the night before when I had met him.The weather was warm and the winter sun was shining brightly.My mother and I sat on the porch for lunch, our trays in our laps, eating the gumbo soup neither of us wanted to touch the night before.I tried to get her to talk about Dominique again, but she just sat there and said nothing.

Trying to find a way to communicate with her, any way, I asked her if she wanted to give Dee a call at school, and she shook her head.I gave up.As I listened to the sound of her spoon scraping against the bottom of the bowl, I knew I had to take another route to find out about Dominique.I doubt she'll tell me anything, doubt we'll go back to what Hugh calls "the root of things."I hate that he might be right again.This set me off.After lunch, she lay down in bed and took a nap.She seemed to be trying to make up for all the sleep she'd lost.I slipped into her room while she was asleep, and was about to copy her doctor's name from the prescription bottle, so I figured I'd call her doctor.However, I did not copy it down.I stood there looking at her dresser and the ceramic Mary statue on top of it, with a chubby Jesus sitting on Mary's hip.The drawer is right there.I pulled the drawer open.The wood creaked and I glanced back at the bed.She didn't move.The drawers were filled with holy cards, rosaries, a prayer book, and old photographs of Dee.I rummaged through her collection, trying not to make any noise.Just like when I was a kid.Is the clipping still there?My heart was beating violently.In the deepest part of the drawer, my fingers touched something long and hard.I knew what it was before I took it out.I was stunned for a moment, the air around me hit me like a needle prick, and I mustered up the courage to take the thing out.That's the pipe I gave my father.I took one more look at my mother, then held my pipe up to the light that slanted in from the window.Nothing logical.My knees felt like sponges, damp and limp—I couldn't keep standing.I sit down on a chair.How did the pipe end up in this drawer?When did she put it in?It should be under the sea, with the Jessie Sea, with my father.I've replayed the scene countless times in my head - that's how it must have happened.

Joseph DuBois stood on his pleasure boat looking east in the last twilight, the sun just showing its shining brow on the water.He would often go out to sea in a boat "to meet the dawn" - in his own words.When Mike and I had breakfast and found out that Dad wasn't there, we would ask, "Is Dad still welcoming the dawn?" We thought it was a normal thing people do, like getting a haircut.He always went out to sea alone, smoking his pipe calmly and watching the sea cast a rolling film of light.I imagined him on the side of the boat beating his pipe on his last morning.Have you ever seen sparks fly out of a pipe nest?Have you ever seen how far they fly?He tapped on his pipe, but, unbeknownst to him, the pipe was leaking oil.A little ember, a hundred times smaller than a moth, flew onto a drop of gasoline next to the engine.There was a pop, a burst of flames.The flames went from one pool of oil to another, like pebbles jumping on the water.The fire was fierce and crackling.I always imagined that at that very moment when he turned his head, the flames poured into the gasoline tank, and everything caught fire and exploded to pieces.I've imagined this way so many times that I can't believe it didn't happen this way.Besides, everybody said the same thing—the police, the papers, the whole island.I close my eyes.I felt that the most important piece of history in my life had been unearthed, and it was clearly revealed that it was a completely fictional story.An almost insurmountable chasm opened before me.I gripped the pipe so tightly that it hurt my hand.I let go of my fingers.I bent down and smelled the pipe nest, as if I smelled my father.Everything started to reassemble.The ship fire was not caused by pipes.My mother was asleep on the other side of the room, and I sat by the dresser for a few minutes, letting this new discovery soak me in: no fault of mine.