The Alaskan Laundry

by Brendan Jones

  The next day the crew worked in a dry fury. Tara kept waiting to hear King Bruce on the radio, comparing notes, plugging his fishing partners for intel on their quarry. But aside from the occasional twitter from Minnow, there was only silence from up top.

  Their eighth night on the water. As they ran between pots she found Jethro in the galley, standing over a frying pan of sputtering sausages. He wore a doleful expression that matched his beard, which had grown in soft and sparse.

  A pot of rice steamed, covering the cabinet face with drops of moisture. Cooking shifts on the boat had disintegrated—people made food at all hours, sometimes sharing, sometimes not.

  She tore apart two hamburger buns and set them on a baking sheet, cracked a yolk into a bowl of burger meat, sifted in bread crumbs, then turned the knob on the oven.

  Jethro smiled. He ripped off a section of paper towel, laid it over a plate, and forked out the sausages.

  “So where’d your dad get those tats?” she asked.

  “Jail.”

  “Ah.”

  “You want one of these?” he asked, holding up an oily sausage.

  “Sure. You want a burger?”

  “Sure.”

  “What about the red and green flames on his head?”

  “Jail too. Victorville, California. ’Cept the dumbass mixed up the colors, so now he’s got green for port and red for starboard.”

  “And ‘Trust no bitch’?”

  “That came right after he caught my mom in bed with a charter fisherman.”

  “And that’s how he ended up in jail.”

  “You got it.”

  Hale came in off the deck, water dripping from his bibs. The hydraulics on the crane had been having issues. “Yoke up, lovebirds. This stretch’s supposed to be crawling with bugs—other boats have been killing it out here.”

  In just a few seconds the galley was a-flurry with the sound of zippers and the snap of buttons, clicks as yellow life vests were fastened. Tara scarfed down the sausage, set the burger meat in the refrigerator, and turned off the oven.

  “She’s blowing a gale out there. Buckle up,” Hale warned. “If we don’t get anything on this pull, we’re fucked.”

  Rain appeared like tracers in the glare of the metal halide bulbs. On the horizon she could see a few lights, like stars, blinking in and out of view, as other boats pulled pots. Jethro climbed atop the stack. Balanced between the steel bars he affixed bridles, making sure each was ready to fish. Rudy took his position with the grappling hook, and Coon-Ass let out a whoop as he tossed it, snagging the line suspended between the two buoys. Tara stood by with bait as Hale fit the polyester crab line into the winch. It popped and crackled as it fed through the block.

  The whole crew was silent, leaning over the cap rail to see if the pot had any color in it. If it did, it suggested that the rest of their line would be good. And if it didn’t, all that work setting the pots was wasted.

  The whine of the hydraulic power block, the shudder of the boat as the pot knocked against the gunwales, slamming into the rack. Inside were just a few small, confused crabs. On the next pot the bait jar was askew, the door tied shut in a sloppy knot, line tangled. A few undersized crabs mopped the air with their spiny legs.

  “Well, boys, looks like we’ve been robbed,” King Bruce said over the deck speakers.

  A pall came over the crew, lifted only by Rudy’s half-English, serious-sounding vows of old-world vengeance. “Tara, get food going,” King Bruce said over the speaker.

  She was in the cabin chopping onions, dabbing her eyes with a paper towel, when she smelled King Bruce’s sweaty chestnut scent behind her. A few red hairs fell into the onions as he stroked his goatee. She didn’t look up.

  “Seein’ now it was a mistake takin’ you on.” She stirred the onions. “Just not right havin’ a girl on a crabber. Bad luck. I got a son who can’t seem to focus on shit since you come aboard. Yer probably in love with him, too. Look at you now, you’re all worked up.”

  She looked at him. “Bruce, I’m chopping onions.”

  “That’d be King Bruce to you,” he said softly. He looked down at her chest and her heart quickened. “Just watch yourself.”

  As she stood there in front of the sink she imagined going up those stairs, into King Bruce’s semen- and sweat-scented bunk, and suffocating him with a pillow. Standing aloft in the rain on the bridge beneath the sodium crab lights, proclaiming to Hale and the rest of the boat that from now on, she was captain.

  Outside the boys kept working, resetting the pots. In the early morning Hale told her to get two hours of sleep. Clad in long underwear and fleece pants, a synthetic turtleneck zipped to her chin, she stared up at the steel-beamed ceiling. She could hear King Bruce snore just above her in ragged, phlegmy snuffles. She thought of Connor, his smell and his voice and his calmness, how he said he was hopeful. The words were a blanket she pulled over her head to shut out the world.

  With only five days left in the opening, the boat seemed to be running less like a well-oiled machine than a spaceship about to disintegrate—the shouting and cursing, the wheeze of hydraulics and the shudder of the bulwarks as Hale slammed another pot into the launcher. The rasp of crab line against the blocking, the pot crashing down seconds later, a few crabs thrown against the webbing. King Bruce began coming down from the castle, lurching around, pointing and spitting, streaks of tobacco in his goatee. A matte of orange stubble had grown over his flames.

  He ordered her to deep clean the galley. As she got on her hands and knees, breathing in the chemical scent of the cleaners, the squall of nausea returned. She went out on deck. An opaque, bluish dawn bloomed over the soft sea. A yellow crab line uncoiled as Rudy threw a buoy. The boys hardly paid attention as she heaved over the side, vomit slapping the surface.

  That night before bed, their eleventh on the water, she stared back at herself in the mirror. Her eyes were sunken, and the edges of her lips downturned. The tip of the toothbrush poked between them like a thermometer. She checked her curls for gray hairs.

  Back in her bunk she turned off the light and squeezed her eyes shut.

  “Aqetak. Aqetak. Aqetak. Aqetak. Aqetak.”

  85

  WITH THREE DAYS LEFT, they switched fishing spots. It was a blowy day, whitecaps on the tips of the waves. The string had been soaking for twelve hours—this was their final shot.

  “One string can make the difference,” Jethro said. “One good haul.”

  Even King Bruce came down on deck as their first pot came up from the depths. Silence all around. And then a bloom between the bars, crab claws bulging against the nylon.

  “Yippee ki yay, motherfucker!” Hale yelped. Crabs convulsed as the cage slammed into the launcher. The boys whooped and slapped hands and grabbed their crotches. A crunch of shells as Coon-Ass released the trapdoor and dumped a writhing pile onto the sorting table.

  “We’re in ’em, boys!” King Bruce yipped over the loudspeaker. “We can still plug it. Work, you motherfuckers!”

  Tara did her best to keep her balance in the heaving boat as she reached into a tangle of red backs and white undersides. Pointed legs clinked and clattered against the sides of the chute, the male crabs landing with a far-off slap into the salt water below. Rudy held out an orange-gloved hand and yelled, “Bait!” She sent over a jar of chopped-up herring.

  “Send her back down, then,” King Bruce said over the deck speakers. “Don’t wanna be running in this shit. Cod instead of herring. You wanna be walking off this boat with ten thousand or twenty, boys? Let’s find another gear.”

  Coon-Ass hurled a twenty-five-fathom shot of line on top of the pot, baited with codfish.

  “Clear! Twenty, Cap!”

  “Handful more pots like that and we’ll be golden,” King Bruce announced.

  They brought up another pot, this one even more packed. The hold was halfway to full, Bruce announced. The euphoria of catching—large and legal crab pulled from the depths, all spiked legs an
d that glorious white underbelly—made the seasickness, Hale’s ribbing, all of it, shrink away.

  They set down their last trap on the string, and King Bruce swung back to start picking pots along the rocks. Coon-Ass and Jethro coiled shots of line and organized gear. One of the larger eight-by pots stood in her way, by the castle. She looked around for Hale, to ask him to fire up the crane, but he was busy with a pair of pliers, on top of a stack, working on the hinges of a trapdoor.

  She’d seen the boys push these bigger pots, usually ganging up on them. Hale could do one by himself—like Jethro said, he had some sort of superstrength, which she had felt when he saved her from going overboard. But never Jethro or Coon-Ass. Or King Bruce, for that matter. Despite his puffed knuckles, she hadn’t really seen him do shit over the trip, other than touching a couple stanchions with his grinder.

  Curious, she wrapped her gloved hands on the horizontal support bar running across the pot and leaned her weight against the metal, trying to get a sense of the heft. Her pulse quickened. She waited for a shout, one of the guys laughing at the absurd idea of her pushing this box of steel across the deck. But they were all either inside or occupied.

  She readjusted her position and bent forward again, letting the cold bar rest against the back of her neck, nestling her shoulders against the pot. She thought of Gypo in his corner. Jab, Tara, stick and move. “C’mon, motherfucker,” she whispered. She felt the roll of the sea beneath her, hinged at the legs, then pumped her thighs, timed her push with the waves, threw her hips forward, straightened her back, and heaved. Blood rushed to her head.

  When she opened her eyes she looked up to see three men on the foredeck, looking down at her, disbelief on their faces. She had moved the pot to the bow.

  Hale spit over the side, shaking his head. “Sweet lord above. They ruined a hell of a man when they cut the balls off you.”

  86

  ON THE SECOND-TO-LAST DAY they idled into a secluded bay, anchored up alongside a few other boats. King Bruce announced that they could sleep in until sunup while the pots soaked. They had found a honey hole, crawling with crabs, and he intended to get the most out of it.

  In the early morning Tara took her coffee outside. A silver tincture lay over the bay. Rectangular buildings of the cannery were situated on the eastern shore beside a runway. A few single-prop planes were lined up at one end. On the other side of the bay, along the mud flats, she watched a bear scrounge among tidal grasses. Her muscles felt tired and quiet. It was comforting to know, as she stood in this mysterious outpost, that the pots were making money.

  When she went back into the house Jethro said they were calling for a storm out of the southwest, which would blow them off Dutch Harbor. King Bruce wanted another couple thousand pounds before heading in, to top off the hold. But after almost two weeks the crew was ready for home.

  “All right, we’ll pick ’em up then blow this Popsicle stand,” Bruce said over the speakers.

  A cheer went up on deck as he pulled the hook and pointed them east.

  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.

  87

  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.”

  88

  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.”