The Alaskan Laundry (31 page)

As they watched water splash out of the bilge, Tara thought of Irish out there with his alternator, in his wooden boat, battling those waves alone.

After a few minutes, the black disappeared. “Now, that, my friend, is a sight for sore eyes.”

Back inside, Keta came out from beneath the galley table. She hadn't given him his hip pills. She helped him onto the bench, pushing him from behind.

“It's over, monkey. We're good.”

BACK IN PORT ANNA
, the storm was the news on the docks. A skipper and deckhand had stripped naked to keep each other warm in the woods after their boat sank off Chatham Strait. A young troller floated in a tote for two days before being picked up by the Coast Guard helicopter. Also, Petree told her, a boat tied up on the transient float, near the
Pacific Chief
, had sunk, its tie-up lines wrenching at the dock. The harbormaster had been the one to cut the rope, releasing the
Dancing Fox
into the deep.

She gave Laney a call. “Tug's still for sale,” the woman said. “How's the saving going?”

“Two weeks king crabbing, and I'll have it.”

“I'm rooting for you, lady.”

It rained well into September. Salmonberries turned moldy, purple knots over the river. Chalky carcasses of fish melted into the sandbanks. She and Keta stayed on the
Revenge
, waking early in the morning in the rainy gray to take daytrips for chum. “Fishing tough,” Zachary called it, working through the wind and rain. They filled the hold quickly with the greenish tiger-striped salmon, saving time by pig-sticking the gills instead of dressing, plunging the fish into slush instead of icing each one individually. She had developed a routine on the boat, giving Keta his kibble, then his hip pills, plugging in the space heater and drying her socks by hanging them on the netting over the bunk each night, stowing books about various disasters at sea by her head. In the morning she strolled the docks with a mug of coffee, checking on the
Pacific Chief.

“You still thinking of wasting your money on that slab?” Petree asked. “Jesus, there you are, learning to fish on one of the best trollers in the fleet, and you want a tugboat. You don't think before you punch, do you?” He gave her a winning smile. “C'mon. Make me an offer on the
Invictus.
Start out with something that makes you money instead of costs you.”

“Yeah, but a fishing boat isn't a home.”

“Why not?”

She missed Newt. Petree said the
Spanker
was up in Yakutat—“Yak-a-scratch,” he called it, for how little fish you caught—far north. Meanwhile, King Bruce had radioed the harbormaster: the
Alaskan
Reiver
would be tying up October sixth. They'd run to Dutch Harbor, about eight days, and she'd crab for the opener. Thelma and Zachary had agreed to look after Keta. She had started to think about a plane ticket to Philly for Christmas.

But first, the tug.

On a Monday afternoon in the middle of September she went down to the Muskeg, tying Keta outside. The silence in the room made it hard to concentrate. In just the four days of the salmon opener she had made about three grand with Zachary, plus money from chum. After taking out for food, a survival suit, new rubber raingear and bibs, food and pills for Keta, her account hovered around twenty-three thousand. When she got the tug, she thought, it would be good to have a bit left over for repairs; the upcoming crab trip would sort that out.

“Sonofabitch had it coming,” someone murmured at the table beside her. She glimpsed the front page of the newspaper.
LOCAL MAN KILLED IN COLLISION WITH BUOY
. There was a photo of a skiff, the bow crumpled.

A low-level alarm sounded in her ears. She knew that boat. She went outside, crossed the parking lot into the newspaper office. The printing press, about the size of the
Chief
's Fairbanks-Morse, chugged behind the front desk. She set down fifty cents and took a paper, still warm, out of a basket.

Port Anna community member Peter “Betteryear” Johns was killed yesterday evening when his skiff collided with Jameson buoy, just west of the airport. Port Anna Mountain Search and Rescue discovered the body off Hellebore Beach.

She gasped. He had been running alone at night with no lights, returning with a boat full of halibut, the article said. The running lights he had meant to fix. He hit the buoy, was thrown from the console, and shattered his skull. On the back page of the paper was a grainy photo of him as a younger man, a bearskin draped over each of his long arms.

The service for Betteryear was held several days later at the ANB building. A Native girl wept openly. An older woman stroked her hair. Tara heard about Betteryear's hunting abilities, how he loved his walkabouts through the country. Dancers in tasseled boots made of speckled seal fur stomped on stage to a slow, steady drumbeat.

How little she knew about the man, Tara realized. He had two daughters, one of whom came back from Tucson, where she ran a spiritual retreat center. She said a few words about her father's intelligence, how he wasn't always the easiest to be around, but had a good heart. That was true, Tara thought.

The second daughter stood up. A few people murmured, and then the room went quiet. The girl was heavy, with a long, thick braid. Her underbite gave her a bulldog quality. She opened her mouth, then shook her head. “I can't,” she said, and returned to her seat.

For a moment Tara was about to stand, to say no matter what others might think, Betteryear was a good man. He had taught her things, had been patient, and had persisted when she was difficult, hard to know. But some weight she could feel in the room stopped her. It was the first time on the island she sensed a darkness, the dimensions of which she couldn't quite fathom. She knew then, sitting in that room, that she never would. She didn't have rights to it.

THE EVENING OF OCTOBER SIXTH
Tara waited with her duffel on the deck of the
Chief
for King Bruce's crab boat. She had asked everyone she knew about the skipper, and she didn't like what she had heard. A crazy man, seemed to be the consensus, although people agreed he had a knack for finding crab. Just get through these weeks, she told herself, then come back, collect her dog, and this boat beneath her feet would be their new home.

Before heading out, she had called her father.

“Tara. You're safe?”

“I'm good, Pop. Are you okay?”

His voice sounded ragged. “I'm well. Listen—Connor stopped into the bakery the other day. He said you might be coming home for Christmas.”

She tried to detect something in his voice, some acknowledgment of how he used the word
home
. But nothing came across. No recognition that she would be walking into a house he kicked her out of two years ago.

“There are a few things I have to do first. But yeah, maybe.”

“Good, Tara. Good.”

After she got off, she stopped by the post office, where she found a short letter from Connor.

September 17, 1999

Dear Tara,

Writing quickly to say I got your note. I'm back in New York, into the swing of things once more. Do you have plans for the millennium? This summer when I got back from Kansas I used money from bricklaying to buy a shell of a house at a sheriff's sale in South Philly. It'll be a project. I'm looking forward to it.

I guess I also wanted to say that I've been thinking. I feel bad for sending that first letter a couple years back now. There was a lot in there I could have kept to myself, or at least figured out a better way to say it. I think I was going through my own weirdness at NYU. I hope you accept my apology.

Sometimes I think all of this would be easier if we could see each other. Which is why I like this idea of yours to come back for Christmas. In the meantime I got a mobile phone. If you ever need to call I'll include my number.

More soon,

Connor

She put the letter in the envelope, folded the slip of paper with his number into her pocket, intrigued by this new idea that she could reach him at any time.

A black shadow of a boat moved through the gap in the breakwater. As it drew closer she made out white letters on the bow—
Alaskan Reiver.
Cages were stacked on the forward deck. Black smoke rose from the stainless exhaust over the castle as the captain gunned the engine. The boat swung around, narrowly missing the
Chief
's prow.

She picked up her duffel, walked down the gangway and along the dock to where the boat was mooring up. Rust streaks ran down the hull. A line landed with a thud on the planks. An amplified voice said, “Tie off that hawser to the steel posts.” Tara looked around, then picked up the rope, whipped a starfish stuck to the steel pier into the water, made a wrap with the line, then two neat half-hitches.

“You don't wanna go to the bull rail?” someone yelled, and she thought it might be addressed to her until a voice on the speaker responded, “I'm not gonna have my dick out in a storm.”

A ladder clattered over the side, followed by a broad-shouldered deckhand with a mousy beard over his cheeks.

“You don't tie off a crab boat with half-hitches,” he snapped, then strode over to the hawser line and unlooped her knot. He made a bight and cinched up a clove hitch. She was about to shoot something back when an older man, bald with a red goatee, came down the ladder. He was short, slightly hunched, with a scrape over his forehead.

“Tara Marconi?” he asked. A blurred crab was tattooed on one side of his neck, and
Trust No Bitch
was stamped in Gothic letters around its base. He wore a threaded wool workman's cap, which he removed, then performed a small bow, revealing tattoos of red and green flames above each ear.

“King Bruce, skipper of the
Alaskan Reiver.
That's Hale over there with the line.” A couple more deckhands had joined him on the docks. “Boys? Manners?”

One extended a thick, oil-smeared palm. “Jethro. Skip's son.”

A kid who appeared to be in his late teens, with a scraggly beard, stepped forward. “Jeremy. Folks call me Coon-Ass.”

Hale tapped a foot and looked toward the harbor ramp. “And this is Rudy. Skip, we should get moving if we want one of those booths down at the Front.”

“Care to join us, Ms. Marconi, for a beverage or two?” King Bruce asked.

In a quiet parade they went along the docks, up the ramp, through the parking lot, and along Pletnikoff Street. Hale stayed out in front, his long arms swinging. Jethro fell back beside her. “You crabbed before?”

She shook her head.

“Well, in case you pick up on some weird vibes, I'm just gonna tell you what you're in for. Hale's best buddy, Thibault, got crossed by a pot and had his leg crushed, so he couldn't make the trip. No one thought the old man would take on a girl.”

“And now they think I won't be able to pull my weight.”

He didn't say anything. He had a calm demeanor, and his slow, careful speech reminded her of Connor. “Just giving you a heads-up, that's all.”

At the bar the crew slid into the booth beneath the jukebox. Hale ordered popcorn and tater tots from Cassie. King Bruce went next door for Chinese food. Hale poked Tara in the arm. “You ever see any of these troller pussies in here throw a punch? Or are they too busy keeping their balls warm in their armpits?”

Already she hated this kid. Maybe Petree would come in and kick his ass.

Coon-Ass, who also had a tangle of half-grown beard over his skinny adolescent face, and a red handkerchief loosely tied around his neck, ordered a row of Jagermeister shots. He set the tray on the table, lifted a glass, and said in a southern drawl,

May there be crawfish in your nets,

And gumbo in the pot.

May the Sac-au-lait be biting

At your favorite fishing spot.

May God's sun be—

Hale cut him off. “All right, Coon. We all know you're from Louisiana. Boys?”

They tipped back the glasses, banged them hard on the table, then ordered another round. An Asian girl arrived with pot stickers, cream-cheese wontons, and egg rolls. When King Bruce gave her a twenty-dollar tip on the fifteen-dollar tab, Hale shook his head. “Basic demand-side economics—invest in areas of the economy that will show a return. That's money wasted.”

King Bruce waved a hand. “Maybe I'll marry her, who the hell knows?”

One of the deckhands, the one who reminded her of Little Vic with his olive skin and broody eyes, ripped open a soy sauce packet and squeezed it down his throat.

“Rudy's from Portugal,” King Bruce explained to Tara. “He's addicted to salt. Ain't that right, buddy?”

“Time to get this party going,” Hale said, standing. Wiping their mouths, Coon-Ass and Rudy followed.

King Bruce clapped Jethro on the back. “What's up, son? Don't want to join in the fun? Cat got your tongue around the pretty new girl?”

She thought of Newt and looked around the bar. If he found out she had a job on a crabber, he'd start whooping.

“You writing letters in that head of yours?” King Bruce said. At first she thought he was talking to her, then saw him shake a finger at Jethro. “I know you got aggressivity in you. Soon or later it's gotta come out.”

Shouts came from the pool table. King Bruce set aside his pull-tabs and his half-eaten egg roll. “Here we go.”