The Alaskan Laundry (36 page)

Back in Dutch they unloaded and tied up, and Bruce went to the bank, returning with thick envelopes. In her bunk she counted her share. Sixteen thousand three hundred dollars. She knew the boys were all sticking around for opilio crab season in January. King Bruce hadn't asked her. She didn't want the invitation, anyway. She had toughed it out, and now held the check to prove it.

In the late afternoon she climbed the ramp to use the phone. First she left a simple message. “Hi, Laney, it's Tara Marconi. I have twenty-five thousand in cash. I want to buy your boat. Call me back.” Then Connor's cell. No answer. Finally, she dialed Wolf Street. Just the machine. He was probably at the social club.

On her way back down to the
Reiver
, she passed the boys. Jethro slowed as the others walked on. “We're headed to the Elbow Room—come?”

She watched his expression, knowing how the night would end.

“Maybe I'll catch up with you. Hey!” she shouted. “Hey, Hale!”

Across the parking lot his stocky body turned. She lifted a hand. He seemed confused. After a moment, he lifted one back.

Then she was in her bunk, punching clothes into her duffel, wrapping her raingear in a bungee. At the harbor she used the payphone to call for a cab. A minivan in the parking lot flipped on its lights, drove over to where she stood.

“Elbow Room?” the man asked.

“Airport,” she said.

“No planes till morning.”

“Just drive, dude.”

He went the short distance to the tip of the island, taking sips from the beer in the cup holder. “Keep the change,” she said, handing him a hundred-dollar bill. “Actually, gimme two of those beers.”

“No shit,” he said, clicking on the vanity and holding the bill up to the light. She slid open the door and yanked her duffel free. He handed her the beers. “Thanks, honey.”

She was about to snap back at him, saying she wasn't his honey, but was too tired.

At the airport she sat on a bench, sipping from a can, watching images on the soundless television of army tanks rolling around in the desert. These maps with curved red arrows describing troop movements appeared as hieroglyphs from some distant world. She felt loopy and starved.

In the restaurant she ordered the special, a big bowl of wonton soup with crabmeat. The rich broth and doughy noodles calmed her. And then, like a bad dream that steadily works itself back up around you, there was that chestnut-whiskey smell. She looked up to King Bruce's blistered hand pulling at his goatee. His good eye matched the glass one for shine.

“Making a run for it, are you?” he said. “Not even goodbye?”

She tapped the plastic spoon against the table.

“Don't know what I was thinkin', takin' on a girl like you. Hale's right. You're a liability.”

Slowly, she stood, taking a hundred-dollar bill from her envelope, slipping it beneath her water glass. She wanted to say that the world would be a much better place if he had stayed in that crab pot and sunk to the bottom of the ocean, but instead found herself reaching out, feeling his body stiffen when she hugged him. “Thank you for taking me on, Bruce. Good luck in January.”

She picked up her duffel, looking into his stunned, rubbery face, and then walked toward security.

SHE STEPPED OUT OF PORT ANNA AIRPORT
into the late-fall scent of wet spruce and rotting alder leaves, and hugged Zachary, pressing her face against the waxed cotton of his oilcloth jacket, inhaling his familiar tobacco and fish smell.

“Geez,” he said, patting her back. “You okay?”

“I missed it here,” she said, not letting him go.

“There's someone in the cab who misses you right back. He insisted on sleeping out last night, beneath the truck.”

When Tara opened the door Keta leapt, sidestepping her, curling around to show her his haunches, whining as she tried to pet him.

“Oh, monkey, come here. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry.”

Finally he gave up and filled the air with a mournful howl, white whiskers shaking as his black lips puckered. A few tourists loading into a van took pictures. She sank her head into his fur, pulling him near.

“I know, it's awful, every little bit of it.”

“You sure you're okay?” Zachary asked again, setting her bag in the pickup bed. “You look like death.”

“I'm fine. Tired. Thelma's good? The kids?”

“Everyone's good. Thelma's answering all sorts of 911s about bears in the trash. And the kids couldn't get enough of the dog.”

“I pushed an eight-by crab pot across the deck.”

“Oh yeah? One of the big boys?”

She nodded. He held the door open for her. “Not bad. Load up, doggie.”

Keta leapt onto her lap, arranging himself over her thighs. “You seen Newt at all in town?” she asked when Zachary got in.

“They were up north in Yak-a-scratch, hear they did pretty good. Then he went down south to pick up some girl.”

The little guy was actually doing it.

“Where am I taking you?” he asked.

“To my new boat, if it's not too much trouble.”

He looked at her. “You didn't.”

“I did.”

He shook his shaggy head. “Now I know you're not okay.”

“I've never been better. Promise.”

ON MONDAY SHE WIRED LANEY
her twenty-five thousand dollars—then half jogged with Keta trotting by her side to the DMV and filled out the change of registration.

The top read:

Year: 1944

Make: Clyde W. Wood

Hull: wood

Type: tugboat

Propulsion: propeller

The woman behind the desk hovered her stamp over the paper, looking at Tara. “You know what they say about boats. Two happiest days are when you buy 'em and when you sell 'em. And this here's a big one.”

“I know.”

The stamp thudded down. “Well, congratulations. You're now the proud owner of a big wooden tugboat. Lord help us all.”

Outside she held Keta's cheeks and kissed him on the snout. He stood still, eyes shut, allowing her to clean the brown threads from the ducts. “You ready for your new home?”

They cut through the gravel floatplane turnaround, crossed the parking lot, and went into the harbor office. When Tara announced she had bought the
Pacific Chief
, the room went quiet. “I'm giving you till Thanksgiving to get that ugly bird under power,” the harbormaster said. “Then she becomes fish habitat. Laney knew it, now so do you.”

She went cold. All the elation from the DMV drained away. “That's not enough time.”

“You're the hot shit girl just back from the Bering Sea. I heard the stories. You know how to put in a day's work. Boat's yours now. So is the responsibility to move it.”

“Laney never told me about the deadline. The engine block's cracked.”

“Learn to weld.”

“You can't weld to cast-iron.” She had read this in one of her books.

The harbormaster fastened her weary eyes on Tara, the same blue as the faded, ugly banner around her neck. “Sweet lord, why didn't you just stay away like I told you?”

Before Tara could respond, the phone rang. The woman tipped the microphone to her lips. “I'll give you till Christmas. Now git.”

HER FIRST NIGHT
on the boat she stretched out in the rope hammock and stared up at the hemlock tongue-and-groove ceiling, making constellations of the knots. She could hear Keta snoring in the salon below. How many times had she imagined this, smelling the salt brine coming through the open portholes? Somewhere, she was sure, her mother was smiling.

In the morning she brought out a bucket of bleach and scrubbed the moss-stained lettering of
Pacific Chief
, using a toothbrush to root out mold. For lunch she rested a sandwich on the whale vertebrae, settled into the Adirondack chair, and opened her notebook.

The volcano appeared purple over the water, clouds spinning around its peak. It would rain later on, she thought. Or perhaps this was just the winter settling in. It seemed like yesterday it had been summer solstice, when it never got darker than twilight. She took a bite of her sandwich, propped up a leg, and started a letter.

Dearest C,

Just wanted you to know—I bought the boat. Army TP-125, with an engine the size of a school bus. Which I've got until Christmas to get running. And after that, I'll

“Y'all rentin' out berths on this here beast?”

She turned. At first glance she didn't recognize the thick-necked man standing on the dock with a woman beside him. But then she saw the eye patch, pushed aside her notebook, and threw her arms around Newt. His head was shaved, and his fingers were wrapped in tattered tape, gummy with dirt. The woman stood about his height, with plank shoulders and knit gloves.

“T, I'd like to introduce my one true love, Ms. Plume Rand.”

The woman wore shorts over rainbow-striped tights, a wool sweater with half-dollar wooden buttons. She left off petting Keta, stepped forward, and extended a hand. A bolt of jealousy shocked Tara.

“I'm real, for better or worse,” she said, smiling at Newt. Even his teeth looked whiter.

“This guy back here,” Newt said, pointing to a bright-eyed toddler with a felt cap. “This is Luis.”

She looked between them. Plume reminded her of herself a couple years back, her eyes working over the tug, mesmerized. Luis chewed his fingers, gurgling.

“I don't know, Newt,” Tara said. “You'd have to baby-proof it.”

“Ain't nothing hard liquor and a hammer won't fix, right, babe?” he said to Plume. “Plus, this guy's a tough little gummer. Rugged stock.”

They both turned at the sound of footsteps. Petree and Irish stumbled along, Irish carrying a suitcase of Rainier.

Petree slurred his words. “Kangaroo, tell me the news ain't true.”

“Still up for helping to get that engine going?” Tara asked.

He gulped back a beer. “C'mon, Irish. Girl's got a temper on her. You stand around too long, she's like to smack you one.”

Stung, she looked out over the water.

“Go on, boys, drink somewhere else,” Newt said. “We got business to discuss.”

“Is that basil?” Plume asked, pointing toward one of the portholes.

Tara looked at the plant, which she had picked up at the hardware store. “It is.”

She watched Petree and Irish make their way toward the dead end of the dock. After a moment she started up the gangway. “C'mon inside.”

She'd finish the letter later.

SHE SMELLED PETREE
before she saw him—the scent of ginger and hops. He had a plate of the Fairbanks-Morse on the engine room floor beside him, and was shining a light into the crankcase.

“Who let you on my boat?” she asked.

“Your friend Newt.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Your buddy and me struck a deal. I get this girl running, he'll buy the
Invictus
. Plans to fish it with his family.”

She continued to look at him, wary. He tore open another ginger chew.

“We'll have to grind down the cracks, seal 'em with JB Weld, see if they hold.” He caught her gaze. “Look, word is you have until Christmas. You gonna help or what?”

She rolled up her sleeves. There was no time to waste.

“Teach me.”

After a morning of feathering a grinder blade over the belly of the exhaust manifold, eyes throbbing from the orange sparks, she walked through town to the library and called her father.

“Figlia.”

“Hey, Pop.”

“Where are you?”

“Back in Port Anna.” There was a lightness to her voice, she could hear it. An airiness in her muscles she hadn't felt before.

“I tell the boys down at the club what you are doing and they cannot believe it. Was it good? Did you make money?”

“Enough for a ticket back to Philly.” Silence. “Pop?”

“Yes. I just—I thought, I just wasn't sure.”

“Weren't sure about what?”

She heard some talk, followed by Eva's laughter. He came back on the line, his voice frail. “Just, it's nothing. Vic wants to see you. Acuzio's back from Santa Fe. Little Vic, too.”

“There's just one more thing I need to do. And then I'll be there.”

“Is it money?” he asked after a moment. “I can send some. Just—come home.”

“I'll be back soon.”

“You come straight to Wolf Street.”

She smiled at the order. “Okay, Pop. I will.”

FOR THE NEXT FEW WEEKS
she worked twelve, sometimes fourteen hours a day in the engine room, helping Petree rebuild the compressor, run WD-40 through the braided lines, clean and polish the oil strainers. They moved onto the Deutz three-phase generator, taking apart each of the six cylinders, Tara cleaning the heads and rings and rods with a soft cloth while Petree measured tolerances.

“We'll show her, just you watch,” he said. “Hell with a hundred yards. We'll do a drive-by, drown 'em in our smoke.” She began to get the sense that running the engine was Petree's final revenge not only on the harbormaster in Port Anna, but on all the harbormasters who had ever given him grief when he arrived into port with one of his hard-luck boats.

Around Thanksgiving, Miles, back home from college in Bel-lingham, stopped by. It didn't take long for him and Petree to bond. He took on the job of cleaning out the heat exchanger over the boiler, reaming out each of the rods, then making a new gasket on the fifth, smaller air compressor cylinder. When she handed Miles a container of Locktite to smear on the bolt threads as he tightened up the cylinder head, he smiled back at her as if it was the nicest thing anyone had ever done. “Thanks, Tara.”