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I don't know how old I was, or where it happened exactly. Until earlier today, I had forgotten all about it. The engine on my Dad's boat, The Carpetbagger, a 24-foot Luhrs, blew up. It might have been the late '60s or the early '70s ('70 or '71, at the latest). I don't really remember much. A few snapshots. Almost like I wasn't there. Like someone told me the story once and I remember it from that. I was young, that's the way memories work, I suppose.
One
snapshot
is
my
brother
Mark
and
I
in
the
cabin
— my
mom telling us to stay there. The smell of singed hair. Maybe burning flesh. I don't recall my brother Mike or my Aunt Delores being injured. But they were. Second or third degree burns. Yes, third, I believe. I don't recall being frightened, just the feel of adrenaline burning through me. The air tasted like fire.
Another snapshot is some of us crawling across a rope onto one of the boats that had flocked over to help. It was almost immediate
— it seemed like a full circle of big and small boats had miraculously appeared. Men shouting, tossing fire extinguishers. Me and my singed hair on some stranger's boat. I still didn't know that Mike had been hurt. Maybe he and Delores weren't on that boat with us. Maybe they went on some other boat straight to the hospital. Maybe Mike remembers.
The next thing was the ride in the back of the police car. I'd never been in a police car. I had that smoldering feeling that follows the adrenaline burst. The car seat was clean and uninviting. I felt like I could just slide right out of it into oblivion. I think they drove us to the hospital where Mike and Delores were. My Dad, probably Uncle Marty (Delores' husband), and Uncle George stayed on the boat. Uncle George wore a life vest all the time he was on the boat because he couldn't swim, but he loved to fish. Afterwards, my Dad wondered if George was brave or stupid. I think he was brave. I think my Dad thought he was brave, too. But my Dad doesn't express things like that very well. They got the fire put out and they got the boat towed.
My Aunt Delores had thrown one of her shoes overboard because she thought we'd have to swim. That's how she got her leg burned. Or part of how. I remember her throwing the other shoe down on the floor in the entryway of the old house. She said: "I guess your dog can play with this." Our dog was a St. Bernard named Bruno. He didn't play with shoes. He was a bit too old for playing in general by then. It was a nice gesture, but at the time I remember thinking how silly it was to give Bruno a shoe to play with.
I
think
I
remember
Mike
going
to
school
with
the
bandage
on
his
arm.
Mike
had
been
eating
an
apple
and
sitting
on
the
engine
box
when
the
engine
blew
up.
The
engine
was
situated
in
the
center
of
the
deck
and
had
a
big
box
over
it
because
it
jutted
up
onto
the
deck.
The
engine
box
was
a
great
place
to
sit
while
you
were
fishing,
although
it
sometimes
got
hot.
Or
in
Mike's
case,
sometimes
—
well,
at
least
once
— it blew up. It must have thrown him into the air. He blamed the apple. He joked that it was a rotten apple. You have to blame something. I doubt it was my Dad's fault. He's good with engines; he respects them and understands them. He'd never have gone out with so many people on the boat if there was a problem. So the apple is as good a place to lay blame as any.
Almost
an
eternity
later,
we
were
upstate
for
some
sort
of
court
hearing
or
trial
or
whatever.
Delores
had
sued.
I
don't
think
she
was
angry,
but
I
don't
know.
They
don't
tell
things
like
that
to
children.
Maybe
it
had
to
do
with
getting
money
out
of
the
insurance
company.
So
I
remember
being
in
a
courthouse
in
upstate
New
York
for
this
court
thing.
I
wasn't
allowed
in
the
courtroom,
so
I
waited
outside
with
my
mom.
I
got
the
hiccups.
She
had
a
packet
of
sugar
in
her
purse
for
me
to
swallow,
followed
by
cold
water
from
the
water
fountain.
I
loved
that
remedy
— and still do. It rarely, if ever, fails. I loved letting the sugar dissolve in my mouth slowly, using my tongue to grind the granules against each other. Sweet grit. Then a cold splash melting it quickly until all that was left was the sweetness. And the hiccups were gone.
Later,
there
was
talk
about
how
Mike's
doctor
and
Delores'
doctor
had
given
very
different
instructions
on
how
to
deal
with
the
burns.
Mike's
doctor
had
been
in
some
war
and
had
seen
a
lot
of
soldiers
with
burns,
and
he
told
Mike
to
keep
the
dressing
on
his
burn
until
it
stunk
so
bad
he
couldn't
stand
it
anymore.
I'd
imagine
a
young
boy
would
be
able
to
stand
a
pretty
strong
stink
— boys can be like that. They like to fart. Delores' doctor was an old country doctor type. He told Delores to change the dressing on her burns every day. She ended up with some bad scarring.
(Now
that
I
think
about
it,
it
might
have
been
vice
versa
with
Mike's
and
Delores'
doctors.) I guess she sued so she could get money from my Dad's insurance company to pay for some skin grafts or something. I really don't know and I probably shouldn't speculate. Mike only had some minor scarring. But he used to get white splotches there every summer. Scar tissue doesn't tan the way regular skin does. I don't think he has a problem with it anymore. It was at least 30 years ago.
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