The Alaskan Laundry (39 page)

Tucking her chin, Tara pushed off the bottom rung of the ladder, breast-stroking in the direction of the splash. The headlight illuminated the outline of the bulkhead. She ducked under it, kicked. A Styrofoam cooler bounced off her shoulder. Her breath came in gasps, her feet throbbing with cold.

“Stay calm, Tara,” she recited.

The white beam flashed over the bronze “Fairbanks-Morse” plaque on the engine. Water lapped against the belly of the exhaust manifold. Her breath came in ragged gasps.

As she swam the tip of her boot brushed a boat rib. She stood, balancing, water almost to her chest. Rafts of yellow floor planks floated around her. She gritted her teeth against the cold. And then she saw it—a flash of white in the headlamp's beam, water gushing in around the sides of the loose through-hull.

Right then she understood what had happened. The end of the hundred-foot hose they had used to pump out the bilge had been left in the ocean. After the bilge level dropped she had unplugged the pump. Overnight the hose had back-siphoned, gulping ocean, flooding her boat as they slept. And now there was water coming in around the seal of the through-hull, which had been put beneath the waterline by the growing weight of the boat.

From back in the cargo hold she heard a noise. She curled her fingers around the lead pipes, swinging herself forward, pedaling her feet in the water. Just before ducking beneath the bulkhead, she stopped. The pump, she thought. Get the pump out of the bilge, stop the water from back-siphoning, that was a start. Even better, find the plug end and start the pump up, start emptying the boat. How quickly she had worked in the simulated engine room, clamping on a shred of rubber, tapping in a wedge with a hammer. She needed that same speed now.

Seawater lapped against her chin. She tasted again the dull, rotten flavor of used engine oil. Her fingers ran over the iron lever on the strainers for the oil manifold. There!—the cord of the 110-volt pump. She pulled and up it came, its plastic casing dripping oil. She gripped the metal handle and slipped beneath the bulkhead.

“Tara! You down there?”

Above the hatch she saw the dark outline of two men, Zachary and Connor. She found her footing on the stationary planks beneath the water, elbowed aside the open chest freezer and blocks of insulation, and pulled the pump through the water. The end of an extension cord dangled in front of her. She reached up.

“Careful. Don't get your fingers in the—”

One hundred and ten volts shot through her bloodstream. “Motherfucker!” she screamed, jumping back.

“Standing in water—not the best time to put your finger onto the hot,” Zachary said.

Angry now, feeling that old urge to box whatever dark force had shocked her, she grasped for the soaked plug. A vibration moved through the water and she felt the bilge pump gulp between her feet, followed by the holy sound of water splashing into the ocean above.

“Take this,” Zachary said, handing down a black marker. “Draw a line at the high-water mark so we can keep track. You got that Honda trash pump? We need to start gaining—further down she sits, the quicker she'll get heavy.”

She recalled another lesson from the class on the importance of storing a backup trash pump high in case of emergency—which she'd done while organizing the workbench.

The pump was too heavy to carry with no footholds. She found a section of planking, got purchase on a bulwark with the tips of her boots, and lifted it onto the floating island of wood.

“Bridle this to the frame,” Zachary said. She took the line he handed her and made a triangle, then fastened the end with a double half-hitch.

“Good!” she yelled up. She reached the ladder and pushed the pump from the base as he lifted. Connor offered a hand and she took it. A few people had gathered on the transient dock, watching with the confused expressions of drunks in the morning.

Zachary popped out the choke on the pump, then pulled the cord. Silence.

“Did you prime it?” she asked.

He gave her an incredulous look. At the thud of rubber boots, they both turned. Headlamps bounced on the planks as a group of firemen jogged toward the boat, two carrying a pump between them. Fritz was out in front, his stomach, framed by suspenders, shuffling as he ran.

“Hop-skip! We got a boat sinking.” He pushed a kid with canvas pants bunched at his knees up the gangway. “Fire department charges extra when I have to run,” he told Tara. “You got a hatch forward? Looks like she's way heavy in the bow. We're gonna need more pumps than just the one. Horn, set that pump up forward. Top o' the mornin', Zach. That pump shit the bed?”

“She won't turn over. Moisture or bad gas.”

“Horn, head back to my truck for a can of ether out of the box. Grab that gas jug too.”

Tara lowered herself back into the cargo hold. “Where we at, kiddo?” Fritz asked.

She shined her light across the area. “Leak around the through-hull on the forward starboard side,” she said. “An inch in the last five minutes.”

He crouched down, gripping either side of the hatch rim and peering around.

“Listen to me now. As the boat drops down the sea's gonna start pouring through planks that have lost their caulking. We've got to lighten her load. That through-hull leak is the least of your worries.”

“Okay. I'm going in—if you drop down your pump from the boat I can catch it.”

“Look for Horn up around the fo'c'sle hatch.”

The higher water level made it easier to swim. She stopped in front of the through-hull. White water came in from all sides now—like Fritz had said, the deeper the boat sank, the faster the water. Very soon, she knew, it wouldn't be safe to be down here.

Boots pounded the deck above. As she swam she imagined water sloshing around the big oak wheel, picking up her mattress like a leaf. The cross-shaped mast sinking in a rush of foam and bubbles, the caged trouble lights flickering as the boat went under.

White light shined in her eyes. She brought a hand to her face. “Can you not point that at me?” she asked.

“Sorry,” the kid said. He held up the hose end from the pump with one hand, and his pants with the other. “Fritz told me to put this in the bilge somewhere.”

She muscled through the water. “Give.” He had no urgency about him. She wanted to slap his face.

“Get that deep as you can!” Fritz shouted from somewhere above. She plunged the pump end with its plastic cage into the bilge.

“Get out of the way,” she said when the hose caught on the kid's leg.

“Set!” she yelled up.

“Fire in the hole!”

The hose shook in her hands, and a shadow of water pulsed through.

A midship hatch to the engine room opened, and she saw an oblong shape of a head, a snorkel and mask.

“Hey there, darlin',” Newt said, shielding his good eye from her headlamp. He pulled a blue gallon bucket of roof tar into view and waved a spackle knife. “Gonna try and muck up that starboard leak from the outside. You okay?”

“I'm not okay.”

“We'll plug it. Listen, there's a Coast Guard prick out here who says he needs a word.”

Then he was gone, but leaving behind his lighthearted confidence. It would be all right. Grace and wonder come from heartache. Newt had said that once, and she was beginning to realize how true it was.

She pulled herself up the ladder and out on deck, where pumps worked—two on the stern, one smaller fire department pump amidship, and the larger one dumping off the bow. A steady chorus of water splashed overboard. Diapers floated around the hull, soaking up oil. Her boat was in intensive care, tubes and wires attached, everyone working to keep her alive.

Connor, in his flannel pants, was speaking with a gray-haired man in a dark blue windbreaker who matched him in height. A Coast Guard insignia was stitched over his left breast. Marine Safety Detachment.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

The man turned. “Are you Laney Mitchell?”

“No. Tara Marconi.”

“Are you the owner of the boat?”

“I am.”

“Ah. The records must not have gone through.” He checked his clipboard, then handed over a card with his name embossed on it, alongside the crossed anchors of the Coast Guard. “I'm gonna need to ask you a few questions here. Ms. Marconi. Ms.?”

She looked toward the hold. “Yeah. It's not the best time, to be honest.”

He rubbed the back of his head, scrunched up his face. “So it appears. Is that oil dripping off you?”

She observed the ring of black water gathering at her feet.

“We'll come back to that later,” he said. “I'd like to start with the layout of the boat. Can you tell me how the tug is partitioned?”

“Partitioned?”

“I mean, is the lazarette separated from the cargo hold, and is the cargo hold separated from the engine room?”

“Everything's separated by a bulkhead, if that's what you're asking.”

“That's
not
what I'm asking,” he said, in a sharp tone. “If you knew about boats, you'd be able to give me a clear answer.”

“I know enough about boats to see that mine is sinking, how about that? If you'd like more information, you're welcome to come down and help stop this leak.”

She turned to go, felt his fingers close around her arm. “Ms. Marconi. I—” She sprang back, tamping down the urge to swing. Connor stepped in front of her.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Trust me, buddy. You don't want to be doing that.” The man stared at Connor, and was starting to say something when Petree came forward. The three of them converged on him.

“I-I'm trying to do my job here, okay?” he stammered. “Sinking will mean oil spill. It will mean diesel spill. Both classified as federal emergencies and crimes. Not to mention a two-hundred-and-twenty-ton boat on the bottom of the ocean.”

Tara ground her molars. The man looked back at her, waiting. She heard steps, was pushed to one side. “Macclenny, did someone forget to lock your cage this morning? Go on, man. If there's an investigation, I'll tell everyone you did your job.”

It took her a moment to recognize Jackie's blond hair peeking out of the faded blue handkerchief, tied in a neat triangle over her head.

Fritz yelled across the deck. “The hell's going on over there?”

“You know this boat, Jackie?” the man said, jabbing his clipboard.

She looked older, tired. “Yeah, the skipper used to work with me. Heard there were issues.”

Without waiting Tara climbed down into the cargo hold, and soon the sound of their voices drowned out. They were gaining on the water level, which had lowered back down to the black line. It was working. The boat was rising. In broad strokes she swam into the engine room and moved the forward pump as far aft as the hose would stretch.

Fucking useless Coast Guard,
she thought. If the boat floated, she'd make Zach, Fritz, Newt, Petree, and now Jackie a box of cannoli. Each. She couldn't believe the woman had come to help her. She'd bring back from Philly soppressata sausages and pepper shooters stuffed with provolone and prosciutto from the Italian Market. Hell, she'd make them all godfathers of her first child, never mind that her father would insist on Little Vic. And Jackie the godmother. But please, let this boat float.

She brought the 110-volt bilge pump aft into the cargo hold, followed by the tip of the fire department's pump. Already, the waterline had dropped another inch and a half, thanks to all the pumps sucking from one spot. Their plan was working.

Water from the hoses gushed over the side. She could almost feel the boat growing light beneath her feet, and it left her with a weightless, breathy excitement. Zachary stood by the railings. “Good thing you were up early, to get on top of this before it got too bad,” he said.

She hadn't thought about that—if she and Connor had lazed around in the hammock just a few hours longer, she could have gone down with her boat. Along with Keta, Plume, Newt, and the baby. It was too awful to think about.

They both watched Newt, his back pale as a seagull's breast, finish smearing black roofing cement over the through-hull. He gave a thumbs-up, then swam toward the stern of the boat where Fritz had set up a rope. As Newt climbed aboard, Zachary sighted down the cap rail.

“The hell's going on?” he said, his voice rising as he spoke. She felt a shift of weight beneath her boots. Zachary walked forward toward the windlass, then glanced back at her with an expression she recognized from the night of the storm. “Hey—hey! Fritz! She's going ass-over-teakettle!”

And she was. As soon as Tara saw it, she jumped into the hatch, not bothering with the ladder, landing in the water, twisting her ankle against a bulwark. She heard Connor calling her name, and then Petree, yelling for her to get out of there. But she was already swimming, pulling herself along the manifold, ignoring the burn in her leg, yanking at a pump cord to unplug it. Water sloshed against her chest as the boat continued to tip forward. The aft pumps had made the stern light, and the weight of water in the bow was taking the tug down. It was her fault.

She heard a noise. There were arms around her waist. Connor was dragging her through the water toward the cargo hold.

“Get off me!” She kicked and hit her foot against the engine. Her leg rang with pain. She wrenched away from Connor. “You're not helping,” she shrieked. “We just need to get these pumps forward. Get off me! Newt, help,” she pleaded.

Newt, shirtless on the ladder, said, “T, listen to me. In seven seconds water's going to be coming in through that hatch above us. And we will drown. Either you move aft and we go out that back hatch, or the two of us will drag you. Choose now.”

“I need to stay.”

“No—no, you don't.”

The boat lurched forward. Her head hit the engine block. “Go!” someone shouted. She felt a wetness on her forehead, then arms pulling her beneath the bulwark, into the cargo hold, slanted now at a steep pitch. She grabbed a ladder rung and hauled herself up through the hatch with Connor pushing her from behind. Then she was on deck, trying not to slip back into the house as the boat tipped to vertical. People shouted. She glimpsed the harbormaster swinging what appeared to be a machete, trying to hack the last line that connected the
Chief
's stern to the docks. Fritz held her back.