The Alaskan Laundry (28 page)

Outside the building, they gathered around a welded stainless-steel structure, open on both sides, built to simulate an engine room.

“Okay. I want you to imagine that this is not only your livelihood, but also your home. With all your possessions, your dreams, your hopes, all of it sinking from beneath you. Now I need a volunteer.” The instructor's eyes roamed over the crowd, settling on Tara. “Feeling lucky?”

It was like stepping into the boxing ring, she thought as she climbed over the side, spreading her feet, finding her balance on the diamond sheet-metal floor.

“Bring it,” she said.

He handed up a plywood box. “These are your tools. If you fail to stop the leak, you drown, along with the rest of your crew. Ready?”

“Ready.”

He smiled, then turned the lever on a plastic ball valve. A leak sprang from the floor, soaking her jeans. She jumped back, shooting him a look.

“You said you were ready.”

“The box, box,” someone chanted.

She dumped the contents onto the deck, thinking of Newt, how he would know exactly which tool to grab. She seized a tire scrap and wrapped it around a wedge of two-by-four, hammering it into the gash. A geyser erupted from a pipe. She took the vise grip with a chain and ratcheted a boot over the rip. Water squirted against her leg, coming from the stuffing box, where the crankshaft exited. The only tool left was a wrench. She used it to torque down the bolts.

Breathing heavily, she looked around. Drips from the roof hit the bill of her cap.

“Congratulations,” the instructor said, smiling as her classmates began to clap. “You live.”

SUNDAY
, August fifteenth, the night before the king salmon opener, she took an unlocked bike out to Salmonberry Cove.

In Betteryear's cabin she stood at the burner, shuffling beach asparagus and cubes of chicken-of-the-woods with a hand-carved spatula. Out the window she caught a glimpse of Keta, roaming the beach, investigating tide pools. Betteryear didn't want him inside, scaring the cat.

There was the
whomp
of the handle as Betteryear shut the door on the wood stove, followed by a click as he slid the catch home. It wasn't that she didn't want to be there; she still enjoyed the seclusion of the cove, the sound of pebbles receding with the waves. But there was so much afoot. She was excited to fish with Zachary, and to make good on her promise to Laney.

“You still have your rifle under the cot, don't forget,” he said, coming into the kitchen. “It's hunting season. We should get you a deer of your own.”

She concentrated on the orange chunks of mushroom, the twiglike stalks of beach asparagus turning bright green in the cast-iron pan. “One day. But my plan now is to make money and get the tug. I'll crab up north on that job I told you about, then go back to Philly to see folks.”

He stood in front of her, interlacing his long soapy fingers.

“And after that?” he asked.

She looked around for plates. “I'm trying to be patient.”

“Move in here,” he blurted. “To the cabin.”

When she didn't answer he moved closer. “Tara, listen to me. I've known you since you first came here. Trust me when I say this boat makes no sense.”

The cat, curled on the quilt at the end of her cot, yawned. She looked out the window for the dog.

“All I'm asking is that you think about it. I could build an addition.
We
could build an addition. I'd teach you to use hand tools. And we could make dinners. I wouldn't charge rent. Just help with gathering, canning, keeping things clean and swept.”

She extinguished the burner, set the pan on a potholder, and took two plates from the shelf. His whining was beginning to grate on her.

He took the plates from her hands and gripped her shoulders. “Tara, let me help you. Please.” His lips were shiny with saliva. She saw they were trembling. “Please, Tara. I know what I'm doing. Trust me.
This
can be your home.”

The words jarred her. She imagined herself twenty years into the future, hair streaked with gray, bent over the stove cooking mushrooms. Keta buried at the tree line, Betteryear soon to follow.

She drew away, grabbed her coat from the hook, and pushed open the door into the rain. Betteryear followed. “Where are you going?” She took her bike from where it was leaning against the tree. Keta watched Betteryear. “What about dinner?”

She pushed down the pedal, rising high in the saddle.

“I need to get ready for fishing.”

“You don't understand!” he shouted at her back. “You have
nowhere to go
!”

She pedaled up the trail, bouncing over roots. Keta followed at a trot. Betteryear shouted something else, his voice melting into the sound of the rain. Her lungs burned as she climbed.

Keta kept pace as she coasted past the church, looking up every couple of seconds at her, panting. On the curved stretch to Maksoutoff Bay, she began to sob in gasps. Past the trailer court, turning onto Kiksadi River Road. Keta lagged behind, and she stopped to wait.

The new asphalt shined beneath the recently installed street lamps. Grave plots blurred between the trees. Her thighs hurt. When Keta caught up, his tongue lolled out to one side. She biked slowly, tears and rain running down her face. She wanted to sit by the river, in the darkness, and just think with her dog.

When she dismounted at the trail, Keta began to whine. She quieted her breathing. The dog kept glancing up at her, making small yips.

To her right a shape rose from between the trees. A dull, vegetal smell, decaying earth, proteins breaking down, drifted through the air. The dog's lips went up, and he stepped forward, growling.
Kushtaka,
she thought. Land otter spirit. Death-bringer. Her punishment for running away like she did. For not listening to Betteryear. For not seeing beyond her own grief. She repositioned her bike in front of her body, backing toward the road. The shape kept pace, ignoring the dog.

“What do you want!” she screamed. It stopped. Her breath came in hitches.

Bailey stepped into the light. “I thought you were done with the woods, girlfriend.” When he took another step toward her Tara raised her fists. “What, you think you're going to box me now?”

Out of the dark Keta lunged at him. Tara screamed as Bailey brought down a beer bottle on the dog's shoulders. She hit him on the side of the head, his skull hurting her fist. Keta yelped, then continued to bark as Bailey sauntered back into the woods, laughing.

Shaking, Tara crouched and felt the dog's bones, wincing when he whimpered in her ear.

“You're all right, love. We're good.”

She walked, dog by her side, to the harbor. On
Leda's Revenge
she found a can of beef soup for Keta, and pet his soft head as he ate the brown chunks in gulps. When she curled up on the bunk he sat on his haunches and faced the door.

EARLY THE NEXT MORNING
, on a blowy Monday, Tara woke to the sound of Zachary unloading groceries.

“Ready to catch some fish?” he said.

A hearty, upbeat nature was exactly what she didn't want to deal with now.

“Got some good reports at Fulton Island, and some at Dos Santos Bay, near the southern tip of Archangel. Salmon are like the rest of nature, I guess,” he said, arranging milk, butter, and eggs in the icebox. “Hard to predict.” He held up a package of bacon. “Don't tell my wife.”

The dog stepped onto the docks, stretching, keeping a wary eye on Zachary.

“Whoa! You didn't say you were bringing a wolf on board.”

“He's chilled out. Doesn't bark.”

“You look like you could use another five hours of sleep.”

“I'm fine.”

She ignored his raised eyebrows as she brought more groceries into the galley. He climbed the ladder to the flybridge, then hoisted up the roof so the chute from the processor could drop into the hold. Their ice appointment was for five
A.M.
He gave her the job of inflating the buoy balls until they made a hard knocking sound against her knuckle.

“Cut her loose there, partner,” he shouted down. She undid the bow, stern, then the midship line, and stepped aboard.

“Forgetting something?”

“Shit,” she said. The dog watched her, standing on the end of the dock. With a pulse of the engine Zachary pushed them back.

“You might as well undo our shore power while we're at it.”

“Shit,” she repeated. The boat swiveled, tilting the blue dock post where the yellow cord was attached. She hopped back onto the dock, threw the breaker, and swung the cord over the bow.

“C'mon, love. Hop hop!”

With a surprising nimbleness Keta leapt over the gunwales onto the deck, giving Tara a quick lick when she leaned down to kiss his cheek. Again Zachary backed out, then swung the boat around the breakwater of Crescent Harbor and cruised beneath the bridge. Cars passed above, the sound of tires over the joints echoing off the water. Tara leaned against the hold, watching the sun rise behind town, jealous of Keta snoring away on the galley bench. Seasons were made or broken by salmon openers, she knew. She needed to get on with it.

When they approached the pilings of the processor, Zachary threw the engine into reverse and a backwash kicked out from the stern. She waited with a line in one hand, then leaned against a piling, caked with barnacles and scallops and a few starfish, to make them fast.

“The tide's pulling us,” Zachary said as she seized the rope and began to tie a clove hitch. “Just come right on back to the boat.” Unsure, she looked back at him.

“Here. Always go from bow to stern when you tie off to pilings. And leave some slack so the hull doesn't rub.”

A voice came from above. “Holy shit, is that Tara Marconi you got on board?”

It was Trunk, peering down, earphones around his neck. “You stealin' my employees, Sachs?”

“What can I say?” Zachary shouted back. “She was ready for some real work.” He turned to Tara. “Tie her off at the bow, then come and help me with this hatch cover.”

Trunk lowered the hooped cylinder of the ice chute. “Tell me when!” Zachary dropped into the hold, caught the chute, and shouted up.

“All right!”

There was a rumble, and then the familiar bang of Trunk hammering on the chute with his wrench, followed by the scurry of ice chips. Zachary filled the stern hold, then the two sides.

“One minute!” Zachary hollered. Trunk hit a lever and the ice slowed. Zachary pushed the chute over the side of the boat.

“Y'all stay safe out there,” Trunk shouted down. “And you take care of yourself, my lady.”

She leaned over the gunwales. She liked how he said this, as if she were some aristocrat. “I will.”

The hatch cover slid home with a whomp. The sun broke through the clouds, lighting the volcano a rusty red as he motored out past the breakwater. “You get seasick?” Zachary asked.

“I didn't on the tender.”

“That old scow doesn't bob up and down like this one. If you need to throw up, just go right over the side. You wanna lie down?”

“I'm good, just hungry.”

“Make lunch.”

She smeared peanut butter and jelly onto a tortilla while he checked the tide tables. The RAM of the autopilot made barking noises as it shifted, the system keeping the boat oriented west-southwest, just off the volcano.

“You bring food for the dog?”

Keta's ears perked up. He looked between them.

“Nope.”

Zachary shook his head, turning the knob on the VHF, adjusting the volume. “Well, I hope he eats fish.”

Southeast Alaska waters, Cape Decision to Cape Edgecumbe, small craft advisory. A weak trough will dissipate over the panhandle Monday. A high-pressure ridge will build across the panhandle and eastern gulf Monday night. A weather front will move northeast into the central gulf by Saturday morning, with southeast gales up to forty knots diminishing to fifteen knots late. Seas sixteen feet.

Zachary grimaced. He opened the tide book again, and looked toward the volcano. A green-tinted line of clouds moved east off the ocean. The teapot on the Dickinson clattered against its railing. She handed him a sandwich, which he ate in large bites, holding a paper towel to catch loose jam.

“You ever take wheel watches on the
Adriatic
?” She shook her head. “Just keep an eye on the radar, and ahead of you for dead-heads—floating logs. If you see one, go in the other direction. Red channel markers on your right, green on the left. I'll be right back. The other day the bilge was pumping oil. I want to make sure we're okay.”

She stood in front of the wheel, keeping one hand on the dial. It was like a video game, making sure the image of the boat remained between the red and green points on the screen, and out of the light blue shallows. Glancing up at the radar every now and then, watching the blobs of islands and boats shape and reshape every few seconds. There was an intermittent whine, and she stayed quiet, trying to hear what it might be, until she realized it was the dog.

“You need food, don't you?”

When Zachary returned, Keta was eating the second half of his beef stew. Zachary lit a cigar, the wheelhouse filling with its odor. “That's good beef. Coming out of your crew share.”

“I'm new at this taking-care-of-another-creature thing,” she said, moving over so he could take the wheel. “Sorry.”

He smiled to show it had been a joke.

“So why didn't you finish out the season with Teague and Jackie?”

One thing she had come to appreciate about Alaskans: when it was clear you didn't want to talk about something, people laid off. So she felt confident he'd let it drop when she said, “It just didn't work out.”

Except he didn't.