An atomic bomb seemed to go off in my father’s head, though his face was expressionless. He accused me of collecting after the Crab-ren (crab siren) had sounded.
I had spent
a few extra seconds securing my final catch after the horn, but it was
already netted – and it still put me ahead of his haul by one tasty
meal. Another silent head explosion was followed by his unbucketing of
crabs onto our kitchen floor, sending them scuttling towards the sliding
doors. “Count them again!” he bellowed like the commander of a warship,
before realizing that he’d destroyed any chance of an accurate recount.
Mother
attempted to soothe him, but he paced across the sundeck and down to
the beach. At the sea’s edge he began dunking his head under the water
to muffle the screaming. The rise and fall of the waves made it
difficult to hide the angry carbon dioxide bursting from his lungs. I’m
no psychologist, but this was probably less about crabs, and more about
Grandpa Bertrand dying and leaving him the responsibility of the family
empire.
Grampy’s death really ruined our holiday.
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