He did know that Witka would approve of Marco, his grandson. He said so. “Your son. He is like my father. Wait and see. I can’t wait for you to meet him.”

Thomas didn’t seem interested in Marco, either. He put down his bag. He used the mirror to shave.

“The big meeting’s tonight. Are you going? Floyd was quiet a moment. “Or is that what you are doing here? That’s why you came home, isn’t it?” the old man asked, realizing Thomas hadn’t come home for the love of humans, for a woman, a boy, or for him. He who had not been here for his loved ones was now here for the whale. He looked at his son and, awake now, even though he’d flaunted his son’s medals in a box, he saw all the way through him as if he were glass.

“I see you, son,” he said. “I see right through you. And we are wretched men. Both of us. More than you even know.”

As the sun traveled west, they left for the meeting together. People saw the wretched men and talked. “It’s true. TJ is home.”

Thomas listened to the sound of waves. All the while he thought, I am a hero to them, an island, but my father knows the truth, that I am wretched.

By the time they arrived, everyone was excited that the grandson of Witka had returned.

Ruth was already in the community center talking with some women and laughing with her head back, her legs slightly apart, when he walked in and first saw her and how well she seemed to have survived. They were laughing at her spotted oceangoing dog, still chasing its tail like a puppy, when she saw Thomas. The room was silent except for the dog. “Here, Hoist,” she almost whispered, as if he might be hurt by this man. Then even the dog was still and beside her. Ruth’s expression changed. She softened. Without even willing it, after all the years, she walked toward him, almost floating. He looked away, trying not to see her face, she who was his history, who was moving toward him until she was in front of him, looking at his face, his hair, putting her hand on his arm, him feeling he didn’t want it there, and yet he did. He didn’t want her there, but felt also the love in the touch and he wanted to cry. Again Ruth felt herself sinking, as so many years before, and there was a pain in her heart that almost made her double over and fall to the floor.

She stood back, quietly. “Your son, Marco,” turning her head in the young man’s direction. “He’s over there. That’s him.” Thomas glanced at him, the young man who looked so like him. He turned away. A deep silence fell over the room. They were watched. “Why?” Ruth asked, feeling his disdain. “Thomas. He’s your son, by god. Go talk to him, at least.”