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And the glory of that day! The glory of being back on the water and the sea around him sparkling and the sails billowing and the sky a bright blue—it was unspeakably beautiful with the foliage now changing along most parts of the shore, and Artie sat at the tiller and kept saying quietly, “My God. My God.”

—

For a couple of weeks, Artie was one of the happiest men alive on Earth.

On Wednesday, after Artie’s magnificent sail, there was a soccer game at the school and Artie sat in the front row of the bleachers next to Carl LeBlanc. The sky was cloudy, and it was cold, people clutched their coats, some folding their arms against themselves. Artie clapped as their team ran out onto the field; Danny Marino scored a goal within five minutes, his foot against the soccer ball making a resounding and satisfying smacking sound, and Artie and the fans clapped hard.

But in the second half of the game a fight broke out. Artie, who had turned to speak to a neighbor he knew behind him, missed exactly what happened, but apparently the referee had made a call that infuriated the father of one of the players for the other school’s team. The father ran onto the field, shaking his fist. And the referee kicked him off the field, blowing on his whistle hard, sticking his hand out again and again and then having a conference on the edge of the field with the other referees and the two coaches; the man was sent home from the game. And then students began to fight with one another. It was unbelievable.

Artie could hardly tell who was fighting who. He saw two young men he had had in class three years ago—they had since graduated—fighting with each other in the mess of fists that were flying around near the sideline a little downfield from where Artie sat. Whistles kept screeching and Coach Clark and the other team’s coach ran over to the group of fists and legs and arms and some parents joined them, trying to pull them all apart, and then Artie saw two parents he knew yelling at each other also.

When everyone was finally separated, Hoover Lakeland, the principal, got on the loudspeaker and said with real energy that this was not sportsmanlike behavior and would not be tolerated again, that any person caught fighting in the future would be banned from playing the game and also expelled from school. And that if this happened again soccer would be canceled for the season.

He was booed by some people in the stands.

Artie was really disturbed, and it was not until a few minutes later, as the game progressed, that he sensed that this had to do with politics, because he heard a person behind him yell, “Jew hater!” And someone yelled back, “Shut up, you fucking asshole!” Coach Clark turned in the direction of the stands behind him where these yells had come from, and he called a timeout. The refs came to the sideline, and the two people who had yelled these things were removed from the stands, again to sounds of booing.

When Artie’s team won the game, there was not the explosion of happiness there usually was; people were tense as the players trotted off the field, and Hoover Lakeland stood guard along with the coaches as the visiting team was escorted to their bus.

“Whoa,” said Carl LeBlanc to Artie as they walked off the field together. “That was ugly.”

“It sure was,” Artie agreed. An uneasiness settled into him that did not disappear, even as he told Evie—who was horrified—about it that night after she arrived home from work.

“Such a world,” Evie said.

Artie said, “I’m afraid it’s going to get worse.”

“I know, I know you think that,” Evie answered. “You are a doomsayer about the state of this country. Why don’t we just wait and see.”

But Artie was still taken aback, and he thought: There is a lot of anger out there these days, even more than I had known.

The sun was setting as Artie pulled into the parking lot of Spud’s Bar and Grille. The water was moving gently, and the color of the setting sun—an orangey deep yellow—shone through the few clouds and spread itself against the water, a thing of absolute beauty. As he got out of his car, Artie saw Kenneth Moynihan getting out of his car as well, and the men greeted each other with enthusiasm. “You all good?” Kenneth shook Artie’s hand, and Artie said, “I’m perfect. How are you?”

“Good! Good! Happy to see you.”

Inside, the place was not as busy as usual, the tables with their white cloths waiting with a kind of shy expectancy, the glasses and silverware shining. A hostess who knew Artie walked him and Kenneth to a table that looked out over the water, and they sat down. “Does Spud know you’re here?” the young woman asked Artie with affection on her face, and Artie said that he didn’t think so.

In a few minutes Spud came out of the kitchen to welcome Artie, thrusting out his big arm and saying, “Artie, how you been? Long time, man! Hey, how’s our friend Flossie doing?”

Here was the thing about Spud: He had a hole in his head. His head was bald, and the hole was up front right above his forehead, maybe an inch deep, the skin grown over it. Years ago, he had been working on a house and a bolt had gone through his head—this was all Artie knew about the accident. Somehow it had not affected Spud’s brain, but Artie noticed that as Spud got older, the hole seemed deeper. After the accident Spud had opened this restaurant and it had done very well. It was not a big place, but it was often full and active, waitresses bustling about.

“She’s okay,” Artie said. “Out in Ohio near her daughter.” And he introduced Spud to Kenneth Moynihan. The two men shook hands vigorously, and Spud said, “Any friend of Artie’s is a friend of mine.”

—

Ken Moynihan had known the family of Heather Morrison. This amazed Artie and he felt himself draw back, but Ken said, reaching across the table and touching Artie’s hand, “Terrible thing to happen to your son. Just terrible.”

“It was,” Artie agreed. “But much worse for her family. Obviously. My God.”

“Of course,” Ken said, sitting back.

Artie talked that night. He talked in a way he felt he had not talked since dear Flossie had left town. He talked about the fight at the soccer game, how deeply upset people were these days, he spoke about the hostages that had been taken in Israel a year ago, which was just terrible, and how awful it had turned out to be for the Gazans. Ken agreed that it was a terrible thing, the whole ongoing mess of it, they both nodded extensively in agreement. (They did not talk about the upcoming election in their own country.) “You know,” Artie said, leaning forward slightly in his chair, putting an elbow on the white tablecloth. “I teach history and I have been thinking about free will lately. What if there isn’t any?”

Ken looked startled. “To tell you the truth, I’ve never seriously thought about that,” he said. He told Artie that his job was selling ads online. Artie waved his hand dismissively. “Don’t worry about it, some stupid thing I’ve been thinking about, that’s all.”

Then Artie asked about Ken, where had he grown up, and Ken said that he had grown up in South Boston, his father had been a postman. Ken spoke about his two sisters, the different lives they had these days, one had stayed in South Boston, she was a bookkeeper at a car dealer’s, and the other one was in Virginia, she was a doctor. “Who knows why certain things happen to people?” Ken said, and Artie laughed and said, “That’s my point about free will. Who knows?”

“Ah-hah!” said Ken, pointing a finger at Artie. “Exactly. Now I get it.”