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The figurehead washed in on the tide one day in August. We were playing the Drowning Game. It was Tom's turn to bob like a corpse in the surf. At the count of twenty-five he waved for help. Jeering his poor performance, John and I dove in to rescue him. We found him clinging to the figurehead. He said, It hit me.

On the shore, we examined our find. It was a life-size female figure. I parted the seaweed hair that covered her wooden face. She looked like mother. As the oldest, I was the only one with any real memory of her. Mother drowned seven years earlier, when I was six. Tom was four and John less than a year old. They remembered her only as a presence, if at all.

Looking down at her finely carved form, I said, Father's lonely.

The thought came to me fully formed. We would surprise father when he returned from the sea. We carried her home and scrubbed her clean. Then we hid her and waited for him in uncharacteristic silence.

Father came home at sunset. He gave us a gruff greeting and told us to light the fireplace and tidy up while he cooked dinner.

We did so and then seated the carving at the head of the table. When he saw her, his weatherworn face was unmoved but something glinted in his eyes, sun breaking through the grey of an overcast sky. He set down the serving plate and said, Dear Lord, boys. Where did you find her?

She came in on the tide, I said.

She looks just like your mother, he said. Eat. I'm not hungry just now. Eat with mother.

He returned to the kitchen and closed the door behind. I heard him uncork a bottle. Another sound followed, like that of a fist on the wall. After that I heard nothing. I would have given anything to go to him then, both out of concern and curiosity, but dared not.

Didn't he like our gift? Tom whispered. John leaned in to hear. Father's reaction had disturbed me, but I smiled at my brothers and said, Yes. He loves her. Come on, dig in before it gets cold.

John and Tom didn't need further urging. Mouths full they argued about comic books. I ate in silence, staring at the thing at the head of the table. What had possessed me to bring her to father? I should've known that the sight of her would cause him pain. I hadn't thought.

Father emerged after we had eaten, a bottle of spirits in his hand. He cradled the figurehead and sat down by the fireplace. With eyes like oil burning on water, he turned her in his hands, rough fingers tracing her contours. He said, I'll clear up the dishes later. I'll sit here with her awhile. Good night, boys.

Good night, father, we said. Even though it was not yet bedtime, my brothers fell asleep soon enough, but my mind wouldn't settle. I listened to the rain on the window and the creaking of timbers and couldn't get rid of the thought that we may have done wrong bringing her into our house. My anxiety mounted. I had to see if my father was all right. I slipped out of bed and peered through the keyhole. Father was stroking her head. He said, voice thick with sorrow, The sea gave you back, my darling.

I had to turn away, ashamed that I'd intruded on his private grief. Alone with my unease, I curled up under the sheets and imagined myself sinking into the endless depths. Eventually I drifted into sleep until I felt myself drowning and woke up with a start. All I could smell was brine and seaweed. The warmth had drained out of the house. Certain that something terrible had happened, I looked into the living room. The chair by the fireplace was empty. I peered into father's room. He was gone and he had taken her with him.

I ran through the storm to the docks and reached the pier in time to see his ketch turn in the wind. He stood as rigid as a statue at the helm. The figurehead thrust out from the bowsprit, pointing him at the open sea.

I watched until the rain erased them forever.

Joe L. Murr has lived on every continent except Antarctica. He currently divides his time between Finland and the Netherlands. Visit him online at joelmurr.blogspot.com