Grandfather could have gone too. At least, he could have gone a few years ago, before the cough had come to weaken him so much. But fie would not go like the others.
“That is not fishing,” he told them, wagging a knobby finger at those who would listen. “That is manufacturing,” And he would tell Josefa to look for the difference between the bread her mother baked in the little brick oven at home and the pale white things Diego’s store kept on its shelves for the tourist boats. She did not understand, really, but since Grandfather said it was so, there must be some truth in it.
“Perhaps the sardines will come next week, Grandfather.”
“Perhaps,” he replied, nodding down at her.
96
A Miracle of Small Fishes
Another attack of the cough came, and this time it bent him over and he had to put a hand against a wall for support. Josefa wanted to scream. Instead she looked away to where a dog was sniffing at a mousehole. Grandfather stopped coughing, forced a grin at her.
“That was a bad one. But I know how to handle it. You must roll with the cough, the way the Hermosa rolls with the big seas in a storm. Now I think it is time for you to go home, querida”
“I would rather go with you, Grandfather, and make the tea for you.”
“No.” He bent to kiss her in the parting of the night-black hair that fell to her waist. “Your mother and father would not like it. Go home now, and maybe I will see you tomorrow. I will have some splices to make in the net and you can help.”
He turned and walked away from her, a tall, proud silhouette against the evening sunset. But he was only a shell. Josefa could remember, just two years ago, when Grandmother had left them. That had weakened Grandfather more than the cough. Soon the seas would grow too high for him to roll with. Then he would join Grandmother in the little family plot behind the church.