The Alaskan Laundry (33 page)

They returned to the galley. The tour made her feel better about things. Hale was at the table, bent over his pad. He looked up when she came in.

“Cap wants to see you.”

“Me?” Jethro said.

“No. Our Italian American friend over there.”

She went up the narrow stairwell leading to the bridge, her first time topside. King Bruce slouched in the mounted shock-suspension chair, socked feet up on the binnacle board. His face was lit up by the screens of his radar and fathometer and computer. A cage hung in the corner of the room, swinging gently, a blue parakeet cowering on the perch. When Tara held her hand out, the bird thrust its beak.

“Minnow don't take to girls,” King Bruce said. And she saw, with a sinking feeling, that his glass eye was out, sitting on a plate beside a coffee cup. Flesh in the socket appeared pink and moist. With a pang of sorrow she thought of Newt.

“‘Caught betwixt the devil and the deep blue sea.' Ever hear that saying?” King Bruce inquired.

She focused on the coffee cup, imprinted with a woman naked save for a slip of kilt covering her hips, blowing on a bagpipe.
If it's not Scottish, it's crap.

“I've heard people say it before.”

“Know what it means?”

She thought. “Like you've got a choice between two bad things.”

He sipped his coffee, then folded his puffed hands. “Devil means where the water touches your boat. ‘Caught betwixt the devil and the deep blue sea.' That means you're sunk. Drowned. You ever drowned?”

She shook her head.

“Well, I came near one time. Result of bad luck on the water—that's why I got Minnow here, my bird—we're old pals, we keep each other safe. Now, I'm not talking about an open-hatch-cover bad luck, leaving on a Friday, bananas on a boat, any of that stupid shit those little mom-and-pop troller operations get their panties in a twist about down in Port Anna. I'm talking about two people not getting along on a hundred-and-six-foot crab boat.”

Her breath grew tight. “Listen, dude. I'm here to work, to make money, and go home. That's all.”

The bird hopped to a higher perch, its small head jerking back and forth between them. King Bruce spoke slowly.

“Me, I know how to crab, been doing it since the age of seventeen, was just about born for it. I don't give two shits who I'm working with, swinging dick or not, don't affect me none. Ain't had much else in my life save for a cheatin' whore of a wife, and that quiet boy of mine who ever'time he seems about to get his wang out of his pants his Injun mother slaps the little thing right back. Rest of 'em are full of piss and vinegar, like me back in the day.”

He seemed to catch himself. His glass eye made a faint sucking sound as he nestled it back into the socket. “What I'm trying to tell you, Tara”—she winced as he leaned on her name—“is that, as captain of this boat, I can't let things get out of hand, see? It would be a risk to our season, and all our deck shares. So I need you to cooperate, and be part of the team. If they give you a little shit, you take it. That's how it goes when you're green.”

“I'm not gonna be some whipping post,” she said.

“That's not what I'm asking. Now, just . . . don't be so keyed up. That's all. Go on. Back to work.”

She took the stairs by twos, pulled on her jacket, and went into the sun, wanting to walk and consider the situation. Instead Hale shoved a plastic drill into her hands. “Take one of these bait jars, and make ten holes in it.” He pushed a couple crates of the plastic containers in her direction. “There's the rest of 'em.”

“Fuckin' prick,” she muttered.

“If you were a guy I'd deck you,” he said matter-of-factly.

She splayed her hand in front of his face, showing her bruised knuckles. Her heart thudded. “This didn't come from knitting, asshole. So go ahead, start a fight with me.”

He shook his head. “You're a crazy bitch is what you are.”

As the sun rose, she thought about dropping the drill in the ocean, finding the airport, and catching the next flight to Anchorage. The plane ticket would take her to under twenty-four thousand. Plus her ticket back to Philly. Still, it would get her away from this floating circus.

Hale jockeyed the pots, the crane wheezing as Jethro cleared space around the lift. “Coon-Ass, quit jerkin' your Cajun meat and gimme a hand shuffling,” Hale shouted. Coon-Ass hopped from one steel support to the next, the spring-loaded safety snapping as he hooked into the eye of the bridle.

“Mud, don't fucking push that thing,” Hale said as Rudy threw his weight behind a pot. “Lemme get it with the crane—you're gonna crack your back.”

The rubber of her jacket grew soft and pliant in the sunlight. King Bruce looked down from the bridge of the wheelhouse, the deck like a stage beneath him. Hale circled back around to check on her. He held up a bait jar, sunlight bright through the holes.

“What about knots?”

“What about them?”

“Can you tie them, smartass?”

“Yes.”

“Carrick-bend?”

She panicked. “I can tie a bowline, trucker's hitch, clove hitch, double half-hitch, anchor bend—”

“Old fart troller knots. What about splicing line? Back splice? Eye splice? Cunt splice?” He emphasized the word “cunt.”

“What?”

“Did I stutter?” He smiled, then took up two ends of line and placed one over the other, the empty space between making an oval. “C-U-N-T. Spells
cunt.
See that? A cunt splice. Personal favorite.”

He stood there, a cockeyed grin on his face. The tips of her fingers itched. Unlike with Jackie, she was confused as to whether she should hit this kid, how it would come off to the rest of the boat. Her confidence gone, she suddenly felt that her weather-bleached rain­gear and scarred brown boots were just parts of a fishing costume. Here at the far end of the Aleutian chain, this asshole was shaping her into a punch line.

Coon-Ass yelled down from atop a stack of pots. “What the fuck, Hale! You gonna get this deck cleared or what?”

Hale shook one end of the line at her. “Maybe you were hot shit down in the rainforest. But you're in Dutch now, where the big boys play. I'd say you got some work ahead of you, greenhorn.”

A FEW DAYS BEFORE THEY WERE SUPPOSED TO
head out to the Bering Sea, Hale lowered the boat's skiff with the crane and proposed taking a ride over the water into town instead of going over the bridge. The boys piled in, and Tara was left doing dishes in the galley, scrubbing the bottom of the casserole pan where a roast had burned.

“Fuck this,” she said, flinging the sponge into the sink. If she was supposed to be part of the pack, then she should be in that boat. She slipped on her rain pants and coat, went out into the squall, and climbed over the rail into the skiff. Hale had already started the outboard. He took a last swig from a whiskey bottle, tossed it over the side, and looked at her. “Where the hell you think you're going?”

“The hell does it look like? Town.”

“You done with the dishes? Because Skip said—”

Before she could stop herself she torqued her body, landing a right on his jaw. His hands clamped down on her ribs and they both went overboard. The cold was instant—she saw only specks of bubbles in the darkness. Her head went light as she felt her neck choked by someone yanking her by the hood back over into the skiff. Then there were hands clawing at her coat, and she was laid out over a bench, coughing, trying to find her breath.

“You okay?” Jethro said. She gasped. A cold she had never experienced seeped into her bones. Her hands and feet had vanished.

“Fucking menstrual cunt!” Hale shouted, ripping off his rain pants and rubbing his jaw. Bright white mast lights came on. “The shit's going on down there?” King Bruce yelled over the deck speakers. Tara sat up, looking around, trying to get her bearings. She saw Coon light a cigarette, shake his head, and snicker. “I guess someone had enough.”

Back in her bunk she changed into dry fleece. King Bruce called her topside, his good eye bleary and red with sleep. Hale watched as she came up the stairs.

“I got Bering Sea storms, blown engines, uncharted reefs, blown hydros, ADF and G up my ass—all manner of bullshit to deal with, and now I got my crew in-fighting?”

Hale worked his lower lip between his teeth, his boxy chin shifting. “You gotta leash this bitch, man.”

Tara stared at the sonar, the computer screen, the blinking satellite phones. Anywhere but at King Bruce.

“Don't bullshit a bullshitter, deck boss. I seen how you ride her. And you”—he turned to Tara—“didn't I just have you up here? And now you're out throwing punches? On a skiff, for fucksakes?”

She decided to gamble. “He was being a dick. So I hit him. Now he's gonna cry about it?”

King Bruce looked back at Hale. She had overshot. Wildly.

“Look at that, Cap. She's not safe, doesn't know her own ass end. She's gonna get herself—or worse, one of us—killed. She's a fucking liability.”

“Go on, the two of you,” Bruce said after a moment. “Get the fuck out of my sight. I'm too old for this candy-ass shit.”

In the galley she grabbed a fistful of candy bars and pushed past the others, past rows of dual-wheeled trucks in the parking lot, their flatbeds stacked with crab pots. She chewed a 3 Musketeers in a fury as she crossed the bridge, finding the Elbow Room on the other side. The bar smelled of beer and grime. The walls were hung with a harpoon, green-glass Japanese buoys, a life ring, scraps of net, and bullet-shaped Styrofoam corks. Xtratufed men in cable-knit wool sweaters with blackened singe holes, buck knives in leather scabbards attached to their belts, looked up from the red Formica tables as she crossed the floor, her boots sticky on the worn linoleum.

She ordered a can of Rainier, looked for paper to write Connor. Any sort of outlet for this rage. How would he do here? It was funny to think about. Initially she had thought he'd be swallowed whole by Alaska, not a match for the state's hard-bitten, zany ways. Now she thought differently. He was strong without having to throw punches and cause a ruckus. He was also intelligent enough to avoid being caught in a situation like this.

“Bar's dangerous enough without a pretty girl to rile the waters.”

She turned to see an old-timer with a map of wrinkles over his forehead. All she wanted to do was have a drink. Just one goddamn minute of peace.

“I can see you don't wanna be bothered. But it's either me or those boys over there getting ready to buy you a redheaded slut. I figured I'd save ya the trouble. Tuffy,” he said, putting out a hand. “What's got you in Dutch?”

“Tara. I'm working on the
Alaskan Reiver.
”

“Ah, the one-eyed Jack,” he said, finishing his drink, ice knocking against his teeth as he tipped the glass. “With the mixed-up flame tattoos on his head. Folks say he thinks like a crab 'cause he's actually been in the cage. Can I buy you a pickled egg? Or another a those beers?”

“Sure, why not.”

As they drank she relaxed, warming up to the man's stories of the Japanese occupying Attu and Kiska Islands. “Folks down south don't know the nippers actually invaded us,” he said, wiping egg from his gray beard. A few more crews arrived, each set of eyes landing on her before taking in the rest of the room. He noticed. “Bet the boys on the
Reiver
don't mind having a good-looking girl like you on board neither.”

“There's one guy who would just as soon have me off,” she said. “He might be the devil himself.”

“Aqetak,”
the man said. “Old Inuit chant to drive out evil spirits. Say it five times before you sleep. Might make him leave you in peace.”

She stood to zip her jacket. “I gotta go.”

“Sure you don't need a ride? Happy to do it. Also score me major points with the youngsters if I was seen leaving the bar with a pretty woman like yourself.”

She smiled. “Next time, Tuffy.”

“
Kaya
, Tara,” he said.

“What's that?”

“That's the only other Inuit word I know. And it should be the second part of the Alaska state motto.”

“What's the motto?”

“North to the future.”

“And what does
kaya
mean?”

He thought for a moment. “It's Inuit for ‘whatever you do, don't look back.'”

IT WAS ONLY THE ANTICIPATION
of being out on the Bering Sea that kept her from taking the next plane back to Port Anna. Finally, it was upon them. They were heading out the following day.

In preparation for the two-week opener—what Hale had described as fourteen sleepless days running from pot to pot, sorting through crabs—and because everyone seemed so “keyed up,” as he put it, King Bruce gave the crew October thirteenth off.

From the top of the harbor that morning she dialed Wolf Street.

“
Figlia
, I can't find you on the map,” her father said.

“I'm on the Aleutian Chain, way down at the end, a place called Unalaska.”

“Ah. Let me see.”

“Where are
you
?”

She heard a shuffling. “In the parlor. Wait. I still don't see.”

The thought of his finger skating along the map, beneath the photo of her mother, crushed her. Also, it was thrilling. “Can you find Anchorage?” she asked.

“Yes. Anchorage. I've found that.”

“Now take the tip of your finger and drag it left. Keep going, right along that line of islands until you reach Unalaska.”

“Ah. I see it here.”

“That's where I am.”

“So far out,
figlia.
Now tell me what it's like.”

“Well, no trees, but it's sunny. Mountains rise straight out from the water. Tomorrow we go on the Bering Sea.”