Drew still wasn’t satisfied. Why was it so difficult to come home? he asked. Lockwood laughed caustically and replied, “You sure don’t see when somebody wants to change the subject, do you, kid?” All right, he could explain his manner this way—he was a seaman. He had practically been raised and schooled at sea, going at age twelve as both son and cabin boy to their father, and he’d learned then that seamen had to guard one another from one another’s personalities. The only way to keep a happy and disciplined ship, because the biggest vessels got to be right small places on long voyages. If you disliked a shipmate, you could not let on that you did or you would disrupt the smooth running of the ship. If you were sad, or afraid, or lonesome, you kept it to yourself, lest your sadness, fear, or lonesomeness spread to the rest of the crew. You learned to keep yourself under wraps. It was a sacrifice you made to the ship, because that’s all that really counted: the ship. Maybe after a while that keeping yourself under wraps got to be habit, whether you were ashore or at sea, and maybe after another while, the habit became second nature. He hoped that would suffice as explanation and reassurance that he cared a lot for his half brothers and wasn’t the least bit standoffish, even if it seemed that way.

“Whatever pickle jar Lockwood’s got himself into, you can bet the old man will pull him out,” Eliot was saying now. “When you think about it, he sure does treat old Lock better than us. Hell, you don’t have to think about it, even.”

Nathaniel, leaning toward the port rail to make sure that a big yawl bearing down on them was going to yield right of way, said nothing, though he remembered vividly all the times the old man had rushed out the front door to pump Lockwood’s hand almost before he had a chance to pay his cab fare. Slapped his back and called him “old bucko” and nicknames like that, bestowing love with such generosity that the change from his usual emotional stinginess was like a metamorphosis. The curious thing was that Lockwood never responded in kind, as reserved toward Dad as he was toward his half brothers. He would draw back from the hearty welcomes, as if he found them a little offensive, and get all starchy and offer some stilted greeting like “Good day, Father. You’re in good health, I trust?” And that’s how he would be throughout his stay—never disrespectful but always at an arm’s length, as if the gift of paternal love was not important. That puzzled Nathaniel and made him resentful, for the same reason that a hungry man resents someone who rejects a banquet.