Thanks for your letter. I miss you too. I’m thinking about coming back for Christmas.
Love, T
Before she could scratch out this last thought, she folded the letter, slipped it into the envelope, and mailed it. It was how she felt right then.
72
SHE WALKED ALONG THE BEACH WITH KETA, watching as he sniffed the tide pools, inspected the rocks. They checked the library for messages again. The woman at the front desk handed her a slip of paper.
“The guy sounded a little crazy on the phone. He said you could reach him at this email address. Kingbruce at Alaskanet dot com.”
She hadn’t ever been on email, so she went to the library computer and followed instructions to open an account. Growing warm with anticipation, she sent a message.
This is Tara, you left a message at Port Anna Public Library. I’m looking for deckhand work.
A few seconds later the flag on her mailbox went up.
Hi Tara. Opening on a crab boat. Bering Sea. Can you cook? How many years on the water.
She answered:
Hi King Bruce. Yes, I can cook—I’m Italian. I have 2 years on the water.
This was a lie—two lies, even, and she knew it. But she had also been around long enough to understand this was how things got done.
Yeah let me know if you need me. Thanks, Tara.
She stared at the computer screen, willing the flag in her inbox to flip. When it did, her hands shook as she clicked open his message.
Could use another hand. pasing thru PA October 3 maybe earlier. check HO and meet us when we tye up. 3% share King Bruce f/v AK Reiver. Okay?
She looked out the library window. The Bering Sea! Up by Russia, on the big boats. Making the big money. Her heart grew loud in her ears as she hen-pecked the keys.
YES
Giddy, she hit the send button.
She closed out her session and stood, looking around the room. And there, sitting in an armchair by the magazine rack, was Betteryear.
“Tara,” he said, reaching for her hands, half standing. “It is so good to see you.”
She smelled his scent of grease and cooked greens, saw how his lips shook. He appeared older, but squeezed her hands firmly.
“I’d like to spend time with you,” he said. “Are you free tomorrow? There’s a special place I’d like to go, perfect for relaxing, especially after your hard work on the tender. Yes?”
“I can’t tomorrow,” she said. “I have things to do.”
“I see. Well, we can have dinner on Sunday. Does that sound good?”
She didn’t want to spend time with him. Then again, he had been so generous with his knowledge, his food. “Is it okay if I bring my dog?”
“Yes. Seven P.M. We’ll make beach asparagus.”
When she left she swung by the Frontier one last time to check the blackboard. Beneath her post someone had written in neat capital letters: 6 P.M. TOMORROW LEDA’S REVENGE.
That night, walking out the docks toward the Chief, Keta stopped in the middle of the walkway. He pointed his nose into the black sky and began to yip. She looked around, wondering what had set this off. His yips blended into a long howl. The sound made her shiver, the wildness and bravery of it. Her chest overflowed, and then she was leaning back, howling into the night. The two of them bayed together, until a fisherman came out of his wheelhouse and asked if they would please keep it down, he was trying to sleep.
73
SHORTLY BEFORE SIX P.M. the following day she tied Keta at the top of the ramp and went off to search for Leda’s Revenge. As she walked a rasping sound set off a dim memory. It made her think of Connor in his shop, but something else as well—her father, in khaki pants, on his hands and knees, refinishing the floors of their house on Wolf Street. An early memory—she must have been three or four. Her mother watching from the kitchen table, smoking a cigarette. Strange, now that she thought about it, that her father had never been allowed to smoke cigars in the house.
The rasp came from a newly painted troller, with the outline of a raven perched on the “G” of LEDA’S REVENGE, stenciled in black over the flybridge.
“Tara?” A man stepped forward and offered his hand, rough and swollen. “Zachary,” he said. His beard, flecked with thicker gray whiskers, was darker where a dust mask had covered it. Dust coated his eyelashes. “Can’t figure out for the life of me what makes more sense,” he said, looking over the deck. “The orbital sander or the jack plane. Guess the fish don’t care either way. C’mon aboard. What boat did you work for?”
“The Adriatic,” she said, stepping over the gunwales.
“Ever trolled?”
She shook her head.
“When people in town advertise themselves as having experience, that generally means trolling.”
She knew this. It hadn’t stopped her from putting up her note. Black grime outlined his nails.
“How long are you looking to work?”
“I’ve got a job crabbing in October.”
“On what boat?”
“The Alaskan Reiver.”
He gave a tight smile. “Usually guys with years of experience get those spots. I assume it’s for the two-week king crab opener?”
“That’s right. The skipper said it was an emergency.”
He pulled at his beard. “So we’re coming up on the middle of August now, which gives us about a month and a half. Usually work alone, but I could use a hand. My main priority is safety. We go out, fish tough, have a good time, come back a bit richer, and in one piece. That make sense to you?”
“That works.”
“Here’s my proposition then. You be up front with me, I’ll be up front with you. I can say off the bat that I don’t like that you haven’t fished before. And I also don’t like that you put you had experience when you don’t. So you take the marine safety class they’re offering this Friday, pass it with flying colors, and we’ll fish the salmon opener Monday, August sixteenth. If it works out we’ll do coho in September, maybe chum depending on the run. I’ll start you off with a ten percent deck share, and we’ll take it from there. Then you go north to the Bering in October and crab. Deal?”
She didn’t like him calling her out like that. On the other hand, this scheme meant she could pocket a few thousand trolling, and then the crab boat would put her over the top in October. From the way people spoke about crabbing, way over the top.
“Deal.”
“Only thing I’ll ask is that you buy yourself a survival suit after your course. Here.” He handed her a wad of bills. “Consider it an advance. In the interest of safety.”
“One quick question.”
“Shoot.”
“Can I bring a dog?”
Zachary looked into the air. It was something Fritz used to do—peer into space, part serious consideration, part you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.
“Does he get seasick?”
Tara watched him. “I’m not sure.”
He smiled. “Good. Bring the dog.”
74
TARA ARRIVED EARLY to the weekend marine safety class, held on Sawmill Creek Road, in a purple board-and-batten structure across from a trailer park. She set down her new survival suit on the table. A clean-cut, handsome curly-haired man poured her a cup of coffee.
“What boat are you on?” he asked.
“Leda’s Revenge.”
“Zachary Sachs. You’re in good hands there.”
Older men with pasty, weather-beaten faces, double-fronted Carhartts, and caps slick with oil residue took their seats around the classroom. The instructor split them into smaller groups. The men removed immersion suits from their orange rubber sacks and practiced slipping plastic bags over their feet before stepping into the neoprene heels. “Sixty seconds or less,” the instructor said. When he set off the clock, she shoved her fists into the mittens, zipped up, Velcroed the flap over the lips. Encapsulated in the suit, Tara felt like a school mascot.
They learned how to set o
ff flares, board a life raft, test an EPIRB, call in a mayday on the VHF, providing coordinates, boat name, and details of the problem.
“Details like, we’re fucking sinking, git your lazy coffee-drinking Coastie asses out here,” one of the trollers joked.
Outside the building, they gathered around a welded stainless-steel structure, open on both sides, built to simulate an engine room.
“Okay. I want you to imagine that this is not only your livelihood, but also your home. With all your possessions, your dreams, your hopes, all of it sinking from beneath you. Now I need a volunteer.” The instructor’s eyes roamed over the crowd, settling on Tara. “Feeling lucky?”
It was like stepping into the boxing ring, she thought as she climbed over the side, spreading her feet, finding her balance on the diamond sheet-metal floor.
“Bring it,” she said.
He handed up a plywood box. “These are your tools. If you fail to stop the leak, you drown, along with the rest of your crew. Ready?”
“Ready.”
He smiled, then turned the lever on a plastic ball valve. A leak sprang from the floor, soaking her jeans. She jumped back, shooting him a look.
“You said you were ready.”
“The box, box,” someone chanted.
She dumped the contents onto the deck, thinking of Newt, how he would know exactly which tool to grab. She seized a tire scrap and wrapped it around a wedge of two-by-four, hammering it into the gash. A geyser erupted from a pipe. She took the vise grip with a chain and ratcheted a boot over the rip. Water squirted against her leg, coming from the stuffing box, where the crankshaft exited. The only tool left was a wrench. She used it to torque down the bolts.
Breathing heavily, she looked around. Drips from the roof hit the bill of her cap.
“Congratulations,” the instructor said, smiling as her classmates began to clap. “You live.”
75
SUNDAY, August fifteenth, the night before the king salmon opener, she took an unlocked bike out to Salmonberry Cove.
In Betteryear’s cabin she stood at the burner, shuffling beach asparagus and cubes of chicken-of-the-woods with a hand-carved spatula. Out the window she caught a glimpse of Keta, roaming the beach, investigating tide pools. Betteryear didn’t want him inside, scaring the cat.
There was the whomp of the handle as Betteryear shut the door on the wood stove, followed by a click as he slid the catch home. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to be there; she still enjoyed the seclusion of the cove, the sound of pebbles receding with the waves. But there was so much afoot. She was excited to fish with Zachary, and to make good on her promise to Laney.
“You still have your rifle under the cot, don’t forget,” he said, coming into the kitchen. “It’s hunting season. We should get you a deer of your own.”
She concentrated on the orange chunks of mushroom, the twiglike stalks of beach asparagus turning bright green in the cast-iron pan. “One day. But my plan now is to make money and get the tug. I’ll crab up north on that job I told you about, then go back to Philly to see folks.”
He stood in front of her, interlacing his long soapy fingers.
“And after that?” he asked.
She looked around for plates. “I’m trying to be patient.”
“Move in here,” he blurted. “To the cabin.”
When she didn’t answer he moved closer. “Tara, listen to me. I’ve known you since you first came here. Trust me when I say this boat makes no sense.”
The cat, curled on the quilt at the end of her cot, yawned. She looked out the window for the dog.
“All I’m asking is that you think about it. I could build an addition. We could build an addition. I’d teach you to use hand tools. And we could make dinners. I wouldn’t charge rent. Just help with gathering, canning, keeping things clean and swept.”
She extinguished the burner, set the pan on a potholder, and took two plates from the shelf. His whining was beginning to grate on her.
He took the plates from her hands and gripped her shoulders. “Tara, let me help you. Please.” His lips were shiny with saliva. She saw they were trembling. “Please, Tara. I know what I’m doing. Trust me. This can be your home.”
The words jarred her. She imagined herself twenty years into the future, hair streaked with gray, bent over the stove cooking mushrooms. Keta buried at the tree line, Betteryear soon to follow.
She drew away, grabbed her coat from the hook, and pushed open the door into the rain. Betteryear followed. “Where are you going?” She took her bike from where it was leaning against the tree. Keta watched Betteryear. “What about dinner?”
She pushed down the pedal, rising high in the saddle.
“I need to get ready for fishing.”
“You don’t understand!” he shouted at her back. “You have nowhere to go!”
She pedaled up the trail, bouncing over roots. Keta followed at a trot. Betteryear shouted something else, his voice melting into the sound of the rain. Her lungs burned as she climbed.
Keta kept pace as she coasted past the church, looking up every couple of seconds at her, panting. On the curved stretch to Maksoutoff Bay, she began to sob in gasps. Past the trailer court, turning onto Kiksadi River Road. Keta lagged behind, and she stopped to wait.
The new asphalt shined beneath the recently installed street lamps. Grave plots blurred between the trees. Her thighs hurt. When Keta caught up, his tongue lolled out to one side. She biked slowly, tears and rain running down her face. She wanted to sit by the river, in the darkness, and just think with her dog.
When she dismounted at the trail, Keta began to whine. She quieted her breathing. The dog kept glancing up at her, making small yips.
To her right a shape rose from between the trees. A dull, vegetal smell, decaying earth, proteins breaking down, drifted through the air. The dog’s lips went up, and he stepped forward, growling. Kushtaka, she thought. Land otter spirit. Death-bringer. Her punishment for running away like she did. For not listening to Betteryear. For not seeing beyond her own grief. She repositioned her bike in front of her body, backing toward the road. The shape kept pace, ignoring the dog.
“What do you want!” she screamed. It stopped. Her breath came in hitches.
Bailey stepped into the light. “I thought you were done with the woods, girlfriend.” When he took another step toward her Tara raised her fists. “What, you think you’re going to box me now?”
Out of the dark Keta lunged at him. Tara screamed as Bailey brought down a beer bottle on the dog’s shoulders. She hit him on the side of the head, his skull hurting her fist. Keta yelped, then continued to bark as Bailey sauntered back into the woods, laughing.
Shaking, Tara crouched and felt the dog’s bones, wincing when he whimpered in her ear.
“You’re all right, love. We’re good.”
She walked, dog by her side, to the harbor. On Leda’s Revenge she found a can of beef soup for Keta, and pet his soft head as he ate the brown chunks in gulps. When she curled up on the bunk he sat on his haunches and faced the door.
76
EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, on a blowy Monday, Tara woke to the sound of Zachary unloading groceries.
“Ready to catch some fish?” he said.
A hearty, upbeat nature was exactly what she didn’t want to deal with now.
“Got some good reports at Fulton Island, and some at Dos Santos Bay, near the southern tip of Archangel. Salmon are like the rest of nature, I guess,” he said, arranging milk, butter, and eggs in the icebox. “Hard to predict.” He held up a package of bacon. “Don’t tell my wife.”
The dog stepped onto the docks, stretching, keeping a wary eye on Zachary.
“Whoa! You didn’t say you were bringing a wolf on board.”
“He’s chilled out. Doesn’t bark.”
“You look like you could use another five hours of sleep.”
“I’m fine.”
She ignored his raised eyebrows as she brought m
ore groceries into the galley. He climbed the ladder to the flybridge, then hoisted up the roof so the chute from the processor could drop into the hold. Their ice appointment was for five A.M. He gave her the job of inflating the buoy balls until they made a hard knocking sound against her knuckle.
“Cut her loose there, partner,” he shouted down. She undid the bow, stern, then the midship line, and stepped aboard.
“Forgetting something?”
“Shit,” she said. The dog watched her, standing on the end of the dock. With a pulse of the engine Zachary pushed them back.
“You might as well undo our shore power while we’re at it.”
“Shit,” she repeated. The boat swiveled, tilting the blue dock post where the yellow cord was attached. She hopped back onto the dock, threw the breaker, and swung the cord over the bow.
“C’mon, love. Hop hop!”
With a surprising nimbleness Keta leapt over the gunwales onto the deck, giving Tara a quick lick when she leaned down to kiss his cheek. Again Zachary backed out, then swung the boat around the breakwater of Crescent Harbor and cruised beneath the bridge. Cars passed above, the sound of tires over the joints echoing off the water. Tara leaned against the hold, watching the sun rise behind town, jealous of Keta snoring away on the galley bench. Seasons were made or broken by salmon openers, she knew. She needed to get on with it.
When they approached the pilings of the processor, Zachary threw the engine into reverse and a backwash kicked out from the stern. She waited with a line in one hand, then leaned against a piling, caked with barnacles and scallops and a few starfish, to make them fast.
“The tide’s pulling us,” Zachary said as she seized the rope and began to tie a clove hitch. “Just come right on back to the boat.” Unsure, she looked back at him.
The Alaskan Laundry Page 21