> ## Content Index > Fetch the complete content index at: https://www.jarviscoffin.com/llms.txt > Use this file to discover other available public pages before exploring further. # Pocketknife - Part Two - URL: https://www.jarviscoffin.com/workshop/pocketknife-part-two/ - Published: 2026-09-06T18:24:56.000Z - Updated: 2026-09-06T18:26:29.000Z - Description: I am old now and dream in reverse. I would be happy to be in the seat of the car behind my father, to be lifted on his shoulder, to scurry to his call. But the way is blocked. My childhood has new owners. - Author: Jarvis Coffin - Tags: Fiction Workshop We are back at the town beach the following Saturday when there is the possibility my father will be there with the boys—his new boys. We bring a picnic and a blanket. Claire has kicked off her sandals so she can wade in the water. I do not intend to leave the safety of our blanket. We wait. We do not recognize any of the adults or children on the beach. We live two towns over, moving several years ago to be closer to my parents as they aged. Anne and her husband, Jamie, followed with the children during the pandemic. They are the residents of this town with the beach. We come to watch Will and Phoebe swim. My parents came a few times. The summer before, my father watched from the car, with the window down. Parkinson’s had slackened his jaw, collapsing his face into an expressionless stare. We would wave from beside the water as the children splashed. His hand would rise to where we could see it, but there would be no wave back. Just a tremor. Claire begins to pack lunch away around two o’clock, just as a gray minivan pulls into the gravel parking lot behind us. She points to it. I am not anticipating the specter of my father with any eagerness. I would rather not confront his youthful presence again, except in some ethereal future. I used to fantasize about packing my pillowcase with essentials and running away from home in favor of life’s open road. I am old now and dream in reverse. I would be happy to be in the seat of the car behind my father, to be lifted on his shoulder, to scurry to his call. But the way is blocked. My childhood has new owners. The doors to the van open and, this time, three boys tumble out, the third one quite a bit younger. Is it the same van? A young woman exits the driver’s side. The boys bolt for the water, running toward us. The woman disappears behind the van, the back door open, already. When she reappears, she is carrying towels and a beach bag. The boys are past us, shirts off, fluttering to the ground. Splash. “Are those the boys?” Claire asks. Yes, those are the boys, and once upon a time, I was one of them. Claire steadies me with a hand on my shoulder in time to look over at the passing woman. When she is a safe distance away, Claire says under her breath, “At least she is not your mother.” The woman calls to the youngest child. “Danny, come get your swimmies.” He has been standing at the water’s edge, admiring the actions of his older brothers. He skips to her, stretching out his little arms so she can slide inflatable bubbles over them up to his shoulders. He keeps his head turned toward the action in the water. I look back toward the minivan. Apparently, my father is not part of this outing. We wait and watch the action for a while before I say it is time to go. Better luck next time. “I am going to introduce myself,” Claire says, standing up, sliding on her sandals. “To say what?” I ask, my chest, pounding. “Those children are about the same ages as Will and Phoebe. They might like to meet others if they are new to town.” “Oh no, Claire. No, don’t do that,” I plead, starting to rise. “That’s too weird. What about Anne? We can’t put this on her.” But Claire is halfway to the woman, who is sitting on the lawn at the edge of the beach, and when she arrives she stoops down and reaches out her hand, which the woman shakes while struggling to get up. Claire puts her hand on the woman’s shoulder to restrain her from the effort, but she ignores it and stands. They chat. They look over to where I am caught standing, gawking. The woman waves. I raise my hand. She is pretty. She has blond hair pulled back and tied with a bright ribbon. She is quite thin. She is wearing a white blouse, which hangs over red shorts. She has leather sandals on her feet. I try to smile. They look back at the children prancing in the water. There are smiles and gestures and more chit-chat. It goes on for just a minute. Claire is saying goodbye, and I can make out the woman saying thank you. She waves to me again. My hand has remained in the same raised position. Once more, I am like a statue. “They arrived three weeks ago from New York,” Claire reports. She starts to gather our things. She guides me off the blanket so she can pick it up and fold it. She points to her magazine, her lotion, and her mobile telephone and indicates they should go in the basket we used to ferry our things from the car. I stoop to collect them, robot-like. “The city?” I ask, straightening up with the basket in one hand. Claire looks at me. “Yes,” she says. My father was from New York City. “Her name is Margaret Clay. They have three boys, nine, seven and three-and-a-half. They are renting a house in town while looking for something more permanent in the area. Come on,” she says, surveying the ground around us, “up the hill.” For the second time in a week, I trudge up the slope, gravity’s weight hanging on me like a lead jacket. The picnic basket dangles at the end of my arm. It swings and slaps against my leg as we go. I think of my brothers. As it happens, I have heard from each of them in the past week. I said nothing about our father’s appearance. “Same old, same old,” I reported. As we head toward the car, I announce, “If this goes further, I have to tell Paul and Birch.” “Not until we meet him.” “You don’t believe me.” Claire stops, straightens, and turns. “No . . . that’s not what I mean. I mean, it will be better if we can both say we’ve seen him. Because Paul and Birch are going to want to talk to me after talking to you, and it won’t help anything if I can’t report that I have seen your father, too. And I’m not going to lie about it.” “You’ve obviously thought this through,” I say. “I haven’t thought of much else for the past week, George. Have *you?”* Claire starts back up the hill and I follow. “I guess that means more trips to the beach,” I say, with a sigh. “Not necessary,” Claire says from up ahead. “She told me where they live.” ### \+ + +