The Alaskan Laundry

by Brendan Jones

  “You know anyone headed to P.A.?” she asked the girl.

  “This fella comin’ in right now.”

  A reedy older man in a clean pair of Carhartts stomped up to the counter and set down an eighteen-pack of Rainier beer alongside a few boxes of white wine.

  “Hey,” she said, not surprised to see Petree. The man chuckled, shaking his head.

  “Now I remember you, from that day on the ferry. You seemed like a little gerbil back then. And now look at you, in your work pants and Tufs. Fish blood behind your ears.”

  Tara moved to one side. He had shaved his white beard, and smelled like Vic’s barbershop, hair tonic and talc.

  “You clean up well,” the girl behind the counter said.

  “Yeah, well, I got a date with my new boat. Figured I’d dress for the occasion.”

  The fan continued to knock. The idea of spending twelve hours on a boat with this man was worse than spending the rest of her life in this outpost.

  “Hey,” he said, turning to Tara again. “Don’t I recall you saying something about an old tug? I know all about them engines. If I could preside on you to help me keep a Jimmy six seventy-one good and primed on the way south, we’d both win out. You know anything about that?”

  She recalled the engine—favored by fishing boats—from the book she had bought at the garage sale. “You don’t have a reservoir?”

  His eyebrows shot up. “That’s right. We’ll be running off containers.”

  Tara gestured with her chin at the beers. “And you’ll be drunk on those the whole way down, I’m guessing.”

  Petree fondled his change. “How ’bout this. I’ll lay off the Vitamin R until we hit Lost Sound. It’s either that or you’re gonna end up delivering a baby.”

  Tara looked at the girl, who was doing some sort of complicated breathing.

  “All right. As long as I don’t have to dress up to meet some stupid boat.”

  “Aw, don’t be saying that too loud,” he said, looking hurt. “She’ll understand.”

  They walked through town to the harbor, where Petree untied the Invictus, a drab-looking squat double-ender troller, the wheelhouse hardly big enough for two people.

  “Need to get the fuel pump fixed, probably a new tank welded up. Few other things. But she’ll fish,” he said, resting a hand on one of the cedar poles. “Little thirty-eight-footer. She’ll get in the shallows while the big boys are out there dragging the forty-edge.”

  He set the boat due east, and they coasted out of the harbor. In the open water he showed her how to switch one jug of diesel for another, making sure the hose nested deep inside the can. Tenakee Inlet grew small behind them. It felt as if she were coming up from the underworld.

  69

  AFTER TWO MONTHS OF CIRCUITS on the Adriatic, she could sense where they were by the wind. The wind off Glacier Bay, near Homeshore, that brought with it the tinny smell of blue ice. The unfettered wind off the cape, how it wrapped around her. Chatham Strait’s flinty williwaw wind, funneled between Archangel Island and the mainland. And the softer, spruce-brined wind of Peril Strait, which they turned into now, ZZ Top blaring on the deck speakers. The scent of sap and needles as they ran along the coast.

  “You doing all right back there?” Petree yelled. He held out a box of white wine.

  “Deal was no alcohol,” she shouted back.

  He raised a finger. “We said no Vitamin R, Kangaroo. Don’t worry, wine just makes me chatty. It’s the beer that makes me mean.”

  His skin, shaved and glistening before, now appeared torn, crêpey, like dough with not enough water. White whiskers sprouted from his cheekbones.

  “What’s with calling me Kangaroo?” she asked.

  “You know, like them fighting kangaroos in Australia. Don’t expect them to box.”

  She smiled at this. “You ever been on the Pacific Chief?”

  “That old tug? Owned by that good-lookin’ couple? Gal with the red shawl? Had sex with the feller up in the wheelhouse? Heard she zipped herself in a Tyvek suit and scrubbed every inch of that bilge. Came out the other side black as a leech.”

  He was a treasure trove. “That’s a new one.”

  “Yeah, with the hippie trust-fund husband.”

  “I’m saving to buy her.”

  “Then I’d say you’re plumb crazy. She’s got a cracked engine block. That witch of a harbormaster’s on the edge of sinking the darn thing, and I can’t say I think it’s a bad decision.”

  There was a break in the trees. They were passing Sitkoh Bay, to the north. She saw something at the far end, and took up binoculars from the binnacle board. It was the Adriatic, with boats unloading on either side. Teague worked the hydraulics from the bridge. And there was Jackie, hopping up to grab a tag line, dragging a bag of salmon over the tote. Miles hosed down a Traico, her job.

  “Dumb bitch,” she whispered.

  She wanted to see if the woman’s eye had swelled up, and adjusted the wheel on the binoculars, bringing her into sharper focus. But she couldn’t tell.

  “Seemed like the two of you were pretty tight in Hoonah. Something go sour on that boat?” he asked.

  She lowered the glasses. “You could say that.”

  They arrived at the Narrows as the sun set, just after seven. Petree took a rolled chart from netting strung between the ceiling beams, pushed aside out-of-date tide tables, a used paper towel cylinder, bills, amber pill bottles, electrical tape, and unfurled the map in the galley, pinning the edges with four Rainier cans. He tapped the chart with a finger.

  “They dredged just about twenty-four feet here; that’s where we’ll cut, between the two islands. Over there you got a rock and a submerged ledge. Head out on the bow and look for whirlpools, logs, dead sea lions, anything that might sink us.”

  The passage couldn’t have been wider than a few lengths of the boat. Tangles of bull kelp were draped over the rocks, wrapped around bleached spindles of driftwood. Whorls of it spun off the bow. The tide pushed hard on their stern as they cut through boils of current, rushing past the islands. A row of cormorants on the rocks, shapes vague in the evening light, shuffled around as they passed. How much closer she was to the water on this small troller.

  “Live to see another day,” Petree said when she returned to the house. He rolled up the map, eyed the four beer cans on the table.

  “We had a deal,” Tara warned.

  They tied up to a mooring buoy by Haley’s Rock, on the southern side of the mouth of Fish Bay, a couple hundred yards offshore. The sky held its tint of soft blue as trees along the beach darkened. It was a warm evening—no wind, the water bathtub calm. Off to one side she heard the flat splash of a fish jumping. The bay stretched out in front of her, dark and silent.

  “Lookee there.” He pointed to a pumpkin-colored half-moon rising behind the trees. “Ring around the moon means cold, that’s what the Sourdoughs say. Maybe it’ll start feeling like Alaska again, instead of this swamp swelter.”

  “Hey, you know anyone looking for help on one of these trollers?”

  He held a spotlight like a gun and shined it into the trees. The tide had spit driftwood onto the gravel flat. Drops of popcorn seaweed glittered. Green eyes blinked from the tree line. “Ever shoot a deer?” he asked.

  She thought of Betteryear, alone in his cabin on the beach. His cat with the leaky eye. “No. But I saw one shot.”

  He nodded. “Thought maybe I could send you in for some dinner. Season opens in August. Guess Bambi gets to see another moon. That’s fine, because we got Bullwinkle waiting inside. What’d you ask? No—you’d have to do like the rest of the world, walk the docks. Either that or put your name up on the chalkboard down at the Frontier. Sounds like you’re checking off the bases, working at the hatchery, on the tender. Troller next in line.”

  He surprised her by cooking moose quesadillas, hot to the touch but cheesy and dripping with fat. Afterward she heated water on the stove, then went out to do the dishes. A few stars shined b
eyond the halo of the moon, which had paled as it rose over the trees. With the pot she ladled seawater. Poured it into a tub until the temperature was right, and began to scrub.

  The current pulled at the boat, swinging it around toward the beach. A wind started in from the north, cutting through her sweatshirt. Moose fat gummed up the sponge, but she didn’t mind.

  Back in Philly she knew her father would be pulling out the sports section of the Philadelphia Inquirer, reading it with his espresso. The Eagles would be having their first game in about a month. She adjusted her hat, splotched with oil and dried fish blood, and thought of being huddled by his side on that cold day at Veterans Stadium.

  After switching off the deck light, she took a last look at Sergius Narrows. The channel marker blinked red, on and off, keeping the boats safe through the night.

  70

  MORNING SURF DASHED WHITE against the rocks at the back of Salisbury Sound. Petree had been right about the weather; the sun shined, but it was colder, and windy. And there, through a break in the islands, was the ferry terminal.

  Petree kept his tattooed hand loose on the helm. “Imagine that. Two years ago you and me was up on the top deck, chatting it up.”

  All of it—Fritz, his gun, muffin, the dying salmon—seemed from another life. Before she could tie a bowline, or bleed a fish. How close she had been to getting back on that ferry.

  Boats heaved to in front of the processor. Skippers stood on deck smoking cigarettes, watching the docks, waiting to unload, monitoring the VHF to check their place in line. Petree took over, elbowing the Invictus up to the crowded work float at Eliason Harbor. White sparks fell into the ocean as welders worked on back decks. She tossed her bibs and duffel onto the planks.

  “You end up buying that old tug, you let me know,” he said. “I don’t mind playing around with those direct-reversibles. Might be fun, a change from these tetchy Jimmys.”

  “Right on.”

  She wanted to go directly to the tug, but stopped off at the processor along the way.

  A young woman behind the fake-wood paneled counter said that Jackie had called ahead. For a moment Tara became nervous, wondering if she was about to be arrested for disorderly conduct or assault. Instead the woman handed her an envelope. Inside were bills.

  “Five thousand three hundred and two dollars and eighty cents,” the woman said. “Jackie said to record your time as ending today, which is weird, because they still haven’t tied up.”

  “Is Newton Scarpe in town?” Tara asked, slipping the envelope into her halibut jacket, ignoring the girl’s confused expression.

  “Little guy with the eye patch? I think he’s out trolling on the Spanker.”

  This was good news. The Spanker was a highliner, run by the owner of a float house in Camp Allison Bay, the skipper one of those rare people in town that folks called “fishy”—he had a nose for where salmon schooled.

  “Some guy also left this for you.”

  The girl handed her another envelope with Tara Marconi scrawled on the front. Inside she found a note from Fran.

  August 2, 1999

  Greetings, Tara,

  Just a quick missive to let you know we are having to let Keta go. Would you be interested in taking him? Otherwise we will need to give him to the pound. Love and good blessings.

  Your friend, Fran

  She checked the calendar behind the counter. August sixth.

  From the office she ran along Main Street, past the church, toward the water. When she knocked, Fran answered. Before she could say anything the dog shoved his snout between Tara’s thighs, whining softly. “It’s all right, it’s all right,” Tara said into his ear. “I’m not going anywhere.” Fran looked down at Tara, as if questioning whether this was true.

  “I’ll take him.”

  “You sure? He needs his medicine, which isn’t cheap, although I’ve got almost a full bottle here.”

  The dog pressed harder against her. “I’m sure.”

  “Well then, he’s yours. Let me grab his food and leash.”

  When Fran left, the dog gave a quick lick of the cheek, followed by a little dance, hopping on his back feet and panting.

  “We’ll be good,” she told him. “I don’t know how, but we’ll be good.”

  When Fran returned, Tara started to ask if she could stay the night. But the woman gave a quick wave and shut the door.

  “So much for hippie love,” Tara said, looking at the dog. Without waiting, Keta bounded across the gravel parking lot. She followed, leashing him, but he strained in the direction of the docks. He didn’t stop pulling until they stood in front of the Chief. Laney appeared at the galley door.

  “Goddamn. You found a wolf.”

  “Can we stay?” Tara blurted out.

  Laney smiled, then performed a quick curtsy, her feet clad in worn rabbit slippers. “It would be my pleasure. C’mon aboard.”

  That night the three of them sat in front of the fire, cedar popping in the wood stove. Laney sipped her wine while Tara told her about the Adriatic.

  “You did the right thing,” Laney said.

  “You mean getting off that boat?”

  “I mean hitting her in the face.”

  Tara drank half her glass. “I want this boat.”

  “Why?” Laney asked, her tone challenging. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I want you to have it. But why?”

  She thought but couldn’t say. It was as if she was just floating, and the hooks of her logic were rolled up, out of the water. “It’s not like I’m boat shopping,” Tara said slowly. “I don’t know. I can’t stop thinking about her.”

  “You’re stubborn,” Laney said. “And angry. I could tell from that first Thanksgiving. You think getting the boat will solve your problems. Trust me, I tried that.”

  The woman watched her. The ears on her bunny slippers flapped as she crossed her legs. “You get me twenty-five thousand dollars, and we’re good. Okay?”

  Tara swallowed. “Yes.”

  That night before sleep she took the dog for a walk along the docks. Pumps gurgled, dumping warm water from the bilges. Lines creaked against the bull rails.

  At the bulletin board on the work float she put up a sign. Deckhand for Hire: Hard-working, can cook. Two years’ experience. She paused, looking down at Keta.

  “How will they reach me, monkey?”

  Leave note on board, or for Tara Marconi at the library, she wrote.

  Not tired, she walked down the street to the Frontier Bar, took Petree’s advice, and wrote the same on the chalkboard.

  They slept that night in one of the quarter berths off the salon, Keta snoring softly beside her. It was nice to feel the sway, slightly out of sync with the rise and fall of the dog’s chest. She tracked in her mind the different parts of the engine beneath her, the connecting rods joining the cylinder heads to the crankshaft. How when you spun open a valve, air released from the tanks to the cylinders, starting combustion. One day, she swore to herself, she would hear that sound. The engine would fire, and the boat would move beneath her.

  The next morning she took Keta on a walk to the Frontier Bar and library. No responses to either of her advertisements. She returned to the tug.

  “Give me something to do,” she told Laney. “Anything. Just keep me busy.”

  The woman bent and pushed aside the stern hatch of the Chief. “I know you’ve been reading about the Fairbanks-Morse. Why don’t you go visit with it for a while. And, if you want to keep moving, organize the cargo hold.”

  In the engine room, with the caged bulbs shedding light on the cylinders, each one the size of a garbage can, she took off a plate, then peered into the casing. A brass piece of machinery attached to the crankshaft, which was the diameter of a small tree. Try as she might, she couldn’t imagine it spinning.

  She set to work filling carts with empty bottles of degreaser, sections of hose, a broken Zodiac foot inflater, and various other useless items, which she left in the harbor dumpster.
At the end of the day, as Tara was spraying down the deck, Laney came up from the cargo hold, then put a glass of white wine in her hand.

  “Damn,” Laney said. “You don’t let the grass grow, do you?”

  She bent down and pulled a weed from a deck seam. “Not if I can help it.”

  71

  HER THIRD DAY ON LAND she walked up to the post office. Keta seemed chipper, peeing on every patch of moss. Her heart sank when she saw the empty box. For some reason she had been sure she’d find a letter from Connor there.

  If Newt were here they’d split a pack of Rainiers, head out to the breakwater, and make easy sense of the world. She considered asking Trunk for her old job back, but couldn’t let go of how satisfying it had been to be out there with Petree on the Invictus.

  She needed to make at least four thousand dollars in the next three months. On top of that, it felt wrong to be walking around like this while the rest of the fishing fleet was on the water. And yet there was nothing left to do except wait.

  At the bookstore she bought a pad and settled into her booth at the Muskeg.

  12 August 1999

  Dear Connor,

  I think this is the first time I’ve ever mailed a letter to Kansas. Hopefully it will catch you before you return to NYC.

  I can’t believe you got the lead in a play! And of course I remember Nikki Scarfo. He was down at the social club a few times. My father flipped out when they shot him.

  She took a sip of coffee and reread. Her words sounded detached, unconcerned. Happy.

  I got a dog. A big wolfish guy named Keta, a malamute-shepherd mix. He calms me. Although I’m agitated now, because I don’t have work, even if I’m learning about the tug’s engine. I think I told you—I need to move it a hundred yards, that’s the deal (or it will be if I save enough money to buy it). I’ve been doing my best to get a head start reading up on the mechanics.