There he was sitting on a log washed from the sea.
“You’re Andy Dufresne aren’t you?”
He stared at the sea as if nothing was there. “Are you a U. S. Marshall?” Andy said.
“Than who are you?” Andy said and turned to examine me closely.
“I heard your story and wanted to meet you.”
“I’m Andy,” he said. “Who did you hear my story from?”
“Family. My father was in Shawshank when I was born.”
“Shawshank. Do I know him?” Andy said.
“No, he said you were hard to get close to.”
“What is it you want?” Andy said turning back to the seas and allowing the wind to part his hair.
“I just want to know how you’re doing?”
“You care?” Andy said.
“Sure, why do you think I came all this way?”
“Than let’s walk for a while and talk,” Andy said.
“Dad said you weren’t much of a talker. He said you were a man of deep things, things that no one could touch.”
“That’s right,” Andy said.
“I don’t want to touch them. I just want to know what they are.”
“Your father is dead,” Andy said.
“Yes, how did you know?”
“What you really want to know is you father’s deep things, right?” Andy said.
“Yes, that’s what I really want to know.”
“Than we shall walk and I will tell you,” Andy said. “There is hope and there is love. Love keeps hope alive.”
A minute or so passed.
“Is that it?”
“Now tell me about your father,” Andy said. “Maybe I do remember him, but I’m certain we are brothers.”
I stopped and Andy walked on for another two or three steps.
“You’re going to string me along aren’t you?”
Andy grinned, an old man’s grin with deep carved wrinkles. “If your father was my brother that makes you my nephew. You have been the only one to visit me. That makes you my favorite nephew. Come on, walk next to me, let me tell my story in my own way.”