My father says the fish are all dying. “Particularly the grouper,” he says, not looking up from the cards he is holding in his hand.
We have had this conversation before, many times, about the fish. Right now we’re having it in a condo in Florida where he and Allegra, my stepmother, have come for a while to escape the cold winter in Vermont. We’re supposed to be going out for seafood tonight, only there won’t be any fish on the menu, he says, because they are all dying.
“There will be fish,” I tell him, discarding a four of diamonds. “It’s a seafood restaurant.”
