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anxious tokeep talking with his father, yet fearful that if his mother found out about it, she would try to sever their relationship
     forever.
    “Bobby, wait,” said his father. “I’ve got something to tell you.”
    Bobby started away, his heart on a cloud for being able to see his father for just that brief moment.
    “Tell me about it Saturday, Dad,” he said. “I’ve got to go now.”
    “But, Bobby, that’s what I want to tell you about.”
    Bobby stopped, his heart suddenly pounding. He waited for his father to continue, afraid of what he was going to hear.
    “I won’t be picking you up on Saturday,” said his father. “I promised to go fishing with some buddies of mine. We were in
     high school together, and we haven’t seen each other in years. You understand, don’t you?”
    Bobby’s heart stopped, and he felt riveted to the ground, unable to believe what he had just heard.
    “But you know that Saturdays and Sundaysare —” he started to say. He couldn’t finish. The words choked in his throat.
    Understand? Sure, I understand, Dad,
he wanted to say.
You’d rather fish with your friends than be with me!
    Well, go ahead! Don’t let me interfere with your fun. I’m just your son. You don’t have to keep a lousy promise to your son.
     Go ahead. Go fishing. Have a good time, Dad.
    “Hey,” said Billy, as Bobby stopped beside him. “You okay?”
    “Yeah, sure. I’m okay.”
    I’m fine. Just fine.
    I wish I were dead.
    “Where are you going?” his mother asked him.
    “I’m going to take the boat out for a while.”
    The instant he spoke he realized how bitter he sounded. But he didn’t apologize. He didn’t feel like apologizing to anybody
     this morning, not even to his mother.
    “Well!” she said. “And a good morning to you, too. What’s eating you? Would it have something to do with your father?”
    He had the porch door open, letting in the cool, morning breeze that was blowing from the lake.
    “That’s right. He’s not going to pick me up this morning. He’s going fishing with some of his buddies.”
    “He
what?
“
    He started out the door.
    “Bobby! Come back here!”
    He stepped back into the house, closed the door, but didn’t look at her. She had her hair up in curlers. Every Saturday morning
     she had her hair up in curlers, whether she was going anywhere that evening or not.
    “What’s this about him going fishing with his buddies?” she asked, her eyes focused on him like blue agates.
    “He told me that.”
    “When did you see him?”
    “Thursday. At the game.”
    “Is that so?” she said, suddenly ruffled. “Even after he agreed not to see you during the week.”
    “Well, I saw him there, and after the game I went over to talk to him a minute.” Bobby felt thathe should be truthful about it. “So you can’t blame him for that.”
    She kept looking at him. “No, I suppose if that’s the way it was, I can’t blame him.”
    She was silent a while.
    “Okay if I go now?” he asked, anxious to get out of there.
    “I suppose so,” she said stiffly. “Since it’s what you want to do.”

8
    H e went down to the beach and walked out on the narrow dock. Unlocking the large wheel at the side of the hoist, he gently
     lowered the boat into the water. It was a sixteen-foot, fiberglass Star-craft with a 110-horsepower engine that lay exposed
     in the stern. The cover for it was in the small beach house up on shore.
    The boat was not in top-notch shape because, like a lot of other things he kept promising to do, Roger Canfield had kept promising
     he’d fix the gas line running from the tank under the forward deck to the carburetor, but never had taken the time to do it.
     The leak from the brass fitting had become a sore Bobby had become accustomed to, and since it had not caused any trouble
     so far, he had practically forgotten about it.
    He inserted the key into the ignition, started the engine, and backed the boat out of the hoist. Some ten yards out,