The Alaskan Laundry (7 page)

Instead of a traditional Italian name, Grandpa Joe wanted to call his son Hercules, the last mortal son of Zeus who sprayed Hera's breast milk across the heavens to create the Milky Way. Her
nonna
would have none of it, and settled instead on Urbano, figuring—correctly—that he would be a man of the city.

As a teenager Urbano boxed. To hear Grandpa Joe tell it, his son was never much of a fighter until he got hit. And then—forget about it. “Your papa, he coulda gone pro with that temper of his. Just need to get him riled before a fight. He got those stone eyes, scared the shite out of those Irish boys.” Tara had seen the photos at the social club of Urbano's arm raised high, blood running from one eye. People respected him, even when, as a teenager, he chose to linger in the kitchen in his sweatpants, studying cake recipes with the women instead of playing stickball on Manton Street.

After high school Urbano joined the Army. Korea was over, and he served two years in peacetime. In Philly he returned to the bakery, grew the business, but quit socializing. He stopped boxing, didn't flirt with the girls at the public swimming pool, stayed in his billing office during the Italian Market festival. He took on the nickname Fava for his oversized head, and was still single at the age of thirty-five, interested only in his bakery and relaxing with a cigar at the Italian Market social club with his buddy Big Vic.

With his wife nagging him for
nipoti
, Grandpa Joe decided to play matchmaker. Soon he had a stack of Polaroids, a few cameos, and one oil painting spread over the parlor table.

After much consideration he selected a wide-hipped, long-limbed, curly-haired woman from the old country, the notch at the base of her neck filled with a scoop of shadow. This was Serena Isola, a distant cousin to Big Vic. From a fishing village on the eastern coast of Sicily, fourteen years younger than Fava.

Grandpa Joe mailed Serena's father a letter about the wonders of South Philadelphia, and his virtuous son—a quiet, intelligent man who didn't cheat or gamble, and owned a bakery known throughout the city for its cannoli. As a good faith gesture he included a picture of Urbano standing beneath the lit-up Marconi's Bakery sign, dressed in a three-piece worsted suit with a gold watch chain. A ticket for passage from Naples to New York City followed, along with a diamond-studded bracelet and a thousand dollars in cash. Serena's family sent word back that by Christmas 1972, their daughter would be in the New World.

Even as preparations were being made, Urbano insisted with shakes of his shaggy, graying head that he wasn't interested. But when Serena arrived, wearing the glittery bracelet on her thin wrist, medallion of Saint Anthony nestled into that notch at the base of her neck, it became clear to anyone who knew him that Urbano was smitten. “He's a slow cooker, my boy,” Grandpa Joe always said. “Not a loud sonofabitch like his old man. But we broke him. We got him now.”

For a wedding gift Grandpa Joe ordered the concrete dug up outside his son's row home, and planted a red sugar maple sapling. The very same one Serena would decorate each Christmas. Waiting patiently for Tara to plug in the lights.

WHEN SHE TOLD
Fritz that one of the tanks was low, he sighed and heaved his bulk from behind the desk. “Newt handy?”

“He's off at the processor.”

He spat a stream of tobacco into the grass and handed her a fish net. “C'mon then. Use the handle to chase away the fry so I can see what the hell's going on.”

Outside, she followed his instructions, herding the swarm of fish to one side. He scoffed, spit again. “Another goddamn leak. Where's Newt?” he repeated.

“Processor.”

He stomped off without saying where he was going. Tara busied herself organizing the workbench, hanging up individual tools and arranging the wrenches in descending order. Thinking about how disappointed Fritz had looked when he realized Newt was gone. Like he might as well have been left with no one.

Hearing a high-pitched honk, she went outside, watched as Fritz bucked a construction lift into the yard. He slid out of the seat, ran truck straps beneath the leaking tank, climbed back in, then throttled the engine and lifted the tank.

“Your hands cold?” he shouted. Confused, she shook her head.

“Well, then get them out of your damn pockets. Hold that tank steady.”

She cursed silently. She wanted to be a good worker, but he made it so difficult. He fiddled with the joysticks, jockeying the tank to where he liked while she tried to keep it in one place. Waiting for him to point out something else she was doing wrong. He scooted out of the seat and stopped a minute to look into the clouds.

“Might be working against the rain—snow, even, if the temperature drops hard enough. You look cold—you all right? Wanna go back and take a warm shower?”

Her knuckles itched. With his orangutan body he'd be slow and cumbersome. She'd stay out of range. She could take him.

“I'll be fine.”

But he was already under the tank, inspecting the leak. “I'd ask if you ever worked fiberglass before, but I'm pretty sure I know the answer.”

“We iced cakes with it at the bakery.”

He ignored her. “Just do your best to keep the thing still while I work with the sander.”

“Okay,” she said back, in a lilting tone to let him know she was purposely annoying him. When he came up he gave her a knotted glance, as if to say he didn't have time for her games, switched on the sander, and began moving the pad over the worn-away section.

Thirty minutes passed, an hour. Even in the dimming afternoon light, through clouds of sanded glass, she could see his pissed-off expression when the tank wobbled. He reminded her of her father, not only in his bulk, but also in how he seethed.

“Earth to Philly! Would you hold the damn thing still? I can't build up any pressure.”

She tightened her grip. It was either that or let go and start beating the fat fuck. She looked around the yard. At her wits' end, she shouted over the whine of the sander. “You know, there's a better way to do this.”

He shut off the tool. “What did you just say?”

She didn't care. Let him fire her. “I said, there's a better way to do this. Like, if we find something to set the take on.”

He slipped the facemask from his mouth. With the curved red marks on his cheeks he looked like an astonished, obese clown. Shreds of tobacco coated his tongue.
Go on,
she thought.
Say something insulting.

“And how, my little genius, are we going to set it down with me still able to sand under it?”

Desperate, she searched the yard. Cinderblocks poked out from the weeds. She pointed. “What about those?”

After a moment he said, “Well, hell. Go.”

She heaved four out of the wet grass and positioned them on end where they would catch the tank when it was lowered. He returned to the wheel of the lift. Her mind played the scene forward, the heavy fiberglass coming down over the blocks. “What about tying a rope to the straps so I can pull the tank when you lower it, make it easier to position?” she suggested.

“What, did you fall on your head or something?” he said. “Go on then.”

She ran across the yard, her face flushed. After organizing the warehouse she knew exactly where to look. Back outside, Fritz watched as she knotted the length of rope to the truck strap. He slid out of the seat, undoing the lump.

“Now pay attention.” He folded the rope on itself. “Pretend this here's a rabbit. Rabbit goes up out of the hole, over the log, around the tree, back over the log, gets scared and heads back down. Got it?” He sent the end through the hole, around, then in again. “Simple. You try.”

Her fingers shook. “The rabbit comes out, and then he . . .”

“Goes over the log.”

“Over the log, and around the tree.”

“Back over the log . . .”

“Back over the log into the hole.”

She held up the result, a ropey pile of nothing. He shook his head, retied the line, and eased the tank down. She adjusted the cinderblocks until the base of the tank hit squarely.

“Good!” he shouted, turning off the lift. He poured resin into a bowl, squeezed in hardener, then dipped long strips of mesh into the syrupy liquid. It smelled bitter as he smoothed the layers with a plastic spackle knife. “Here, use this one,” he said, handing her his respirator. “Didn't think you'd be helping out, otherwise I woulda grabbed a spare. My eggs are so scrambled, it doesn't matter anymore.”

Flakes melted on her forehead as she took the sander and began smoothing the fiberglass. Fritz stood up, hands on his hips, watching her.

“We just might make a worker out of you yet, Marconi.”

THAT NIGHT
, standing in front of the long mirror in her apartment, Tara traced the imprints on her cheeks left by the respirator. Shadows over her jaw from a summer of crackers and cream cheese were filling in. Dirt from the warehouse was trapped in the pores of her nose. When she ran her fingers through her hair, they caught on snags of matted curls. Grime rimmed her nails.

Still watching herself in the glass, she pulled off her tank-top, splashed water on her face, then leaned forward on her hands. Her ribs appeared darker, thicker. A shadow split the muscles of her stomach. After the day spent fixing the tank, she felt stronger, in a different way from boxing. As if the strength from punching the heavy bag were vitamin C and what she was doing here at the hatchery were the thing itself, an orange.

After her shower she slipped into sweatpants and climbed beneath the covers, the springs of the bed sagging. The temperature had dropped, and flakes drifted through the cone of light outside her window. Closing her eyes, she slipped a hand beneath the waistband. She came steeply, almost the moment she touched herself, imagining Connor over her, sweaty, that concentrated, intense expression on his face. She lay there, waiting for sleep to come, trying to ignore the feeling of the room closing in.

It wasn't happening. She dressed quickly, buttoning her coat to the neck. Hands shoved deep into her pockets, she walked toward the tug. Her rubber boots squeaked in the snow, which made a latticework in front of the mountains. Standing in front of the boat, she watched as flakes buffeted the wheelhouse windows, silver tracers melting into the black water. Her lungs hurt with the cold. The For Sale sign dangled from a corner in the porthole, rimmed with orange rust. If it had been outside, she would have ripped it off.

Back at the apartment, she flipped on the pendant light and took out a lined pad. As she sat with it on one knee, tapping the end of a pen against her front teeth, she thought of the time she had been frustrated with Connor for turning down a role in the spring play at St. Vincent's. He kept insisting he wanted to remain behind the scenes, build sets in his workshop. They got into an argument on the sidewalk in front of the house. She told him he never took chances, that he lacked the courage to just go for it.

When she opened the door, her mother was already wearing her winter coat, and Tara knew she had been listening.

“Come,
figlia.
We go to decorate the bakery.”

“Ma, I'm tired. I just wanna sleep.”

“Come,” she said, taking Tara's hand.

That evening, as they kneeled in clouds of cotton in the display window, snapping together train tracks, her mother said, “Do you not see? He is so patient.
Lui ti corteggia.
And you don't care at all.”

“He's not courting me, Ma.”

Serena jabbed at her own eye. “I see what I see. And I also tell you something else. Ones like this boy, when they see who they love”—she flicked her fingers to mimic an explosion—“ka-boom they go, like a balloon with too much air. They have been saving all their lives. And then—
basta.
”

“Ma, it's not like that.”

Her mother shook a section of train track at Tara. “You wait and see. I tell you now.”

27 October 1997

Dear Connor,

It's 2:17 in the morning. I can't sleep. The snow turns everything white. I'm just back from walking to the harbor.

I wish we could talk in person. It would be so much easier.

I know we're on our separate paths, and that's probably for the best. I'm still angry at your letter. But I'm also sorry. I hate the idea of you alone in that city. I hope you also understand how fucked up in the head I was. Like I'm starting to see how little I really know.

She stood up, pulled her shoulders back, and took a sip of water. The floorboard radiators ticked. In the window she could see the table and herself reflected above the letter. She took a step closer and saw, beyond her reflection, snow balanced on the branches of the spruce trees. After a moment she could feel the cold through the window.

Okay. I'm going to put down this pen and fold this into an envelope and send it before I catch myself. I miss you.

Tara

IN THE CHILDREN'S SECTION
at the library she found a book called
The Young Seafarer's Book of Knots.
Illustrations and step-by-step instructions for tying the bowline, laid out in sequence.

At the fishing supply store by the processor she bought a spool of thin braided twine called gangion. Back in her apartment she turned on the dome light over the table, nipped off a section from the spool, and opened the book.

Even putting the twine up against the drawings, it was difficult to figure out on which side to set the loop. She tried it this way, then that, pulling on both ends. Her result was bumpy and awkward compared to the elegant illustration.