The Middle Ground

I’m thinking of the way John Hersey taught me to broil fish in 1992. It was how he wished me to prepare the bluefish we’d caught that afternoon, trolling the Vineyard Sound and the furious, blue-black oil slicks the schools turned the sea when they fed. He coated the fillet with a glaze made by mixing minced, sautéed scallions and ginger with mayonnaise and soy sauce, but I’ve forgotten the exact proportions. I recall John having included the recipe in his valentine to fishing, Blues; in moments, a copy is in my hands. I open to the title page—it’s addressed to my father by John’s second wife Barbara—and though in the hazy, grief-stricken aftermath of my own father’s death four years ago I asked my mother if I could have it, I don’t believe I’ve cracked the book open in the almost quarter-century since I mailed it to him from Martha’s Vineyard. Barbara’s inscription reads:

September ’93 Dear Jim Mueller— How John would have liked to sign this book for you! In Dan and John’s last summer together, your son brought friendship, protection, and joy to John. He has been equally wonderful to me this summer. He is a beautiful human being. This comes with my warmest good wishes to both his parents. Barbara Hersey

John Hersey, the author best known for Hiroshima, had passed away the previous March at age seventy-eight at his winter home in Key West, Florida. Earlier that summer, I’d taken part in a memorial service for him at the tiny, white-fenced cemetery on the road from Vineyard Haven to the end of West Chop, a route I often jogged in the afternoons