When the storm passed by they found another inlet on a different island where they could drop anchor. Brother stood at the chart desk and fiddled with the knobs on the depth finder. He was adjusting the sensitivity of the sonar; if you turned the sensitivity up too much schools of fish would light up red on the black screen, rendering it useless, but if the sensitivity was too low they couldn’t tell where the bottom really was. The screen blipped and flashed red dots and lines as Brother called out fathoms through the open door. They fought over who got to use the depth finder, like they fought over everything, but this time he won. Girl sat just outside the companionway, able to look down at the top of Brother’s brown hair and smudgy glasses. Her job was to relay the numbers to Father as he slowly guided the boat into the cove. Father had first gone over the charts with them, pointing out submerged rocks and calculating the depth of the ocean floor based on tides. They always needed at least two fathoms or they would risk grounding. The Ghost glided past the tall gray rocks at the mouth of the harbor.
“Do you hear that?” Father asked.
“What?”
“Listen to the water on the rocks. It sounds like there’s a hole in it, or a cave back there.”
“I don’t hear anything.”
“We’ll take the dinghy over later. I’ll show you.”
Father slowed the engine to an idle, and Brother and Girl scrambled around the boom to the foredeck to release the anchor. The metal, V-shaped anchor hung under the bowsprit, and they loved to watch it sink, the gray steel chain rushing through the water. Brother got to the foredeck first, so he pulled the lever this time, and Girl lay on her stomach with her head over the rail, watching. When the chain stopped its downward rush Brother called back, “Set!” and Father pushed the throttle forward, reversing the engine until the anchor snagged deep in the murky bottom. He cut the motor and they ran below, packing up their tin pot with the blackened bottom and tight-fitting lid that Father always placed right in the coals of their campfire, a box of Rice-A-Roni, plates, and flatware. The wooden-topped galley counter had a flush-set flat ring, and Girl flipped it open with one finger and pulled off the entire top to reveal the darkly wet, refrigerated hold below. The smell wafted up, invading her nose with pungent odor of closed-up Styrofoam, seawater, and old milk. Girl pulled her shirt over her nose as she rummaged around for the chicken. Brother flipped up the companionway ladder, unlatched the hidden door to the large dry storage bay, and pulled out the rectangular grill top Father used to cook over the campfire. It didn’t take that long to assemble everything they needed to bring ashore, and soon Girl was pulling the yellow line to bring forward the dinghy they towed behind the Ghost. It was a twelve-foot wooden boat that Brother, Father, and Girl had made by hand the summer before in the garage of Father’s condo, without a single power tool. Brother and Girl each had a skiff; Brother’s was green and Girl’s was painted lavender, and both boats had matching deep-blue trim to match the lettering on the Ghost. Father lowered himself in first and secured the oars in their locks, and then they handed him down the bags one by one. Brother and Girl leapt in beside him, and Girl cast off the bowline.
Father was a fast and powerful oarsman. Brother and Girl sat side by side in the rear of the boat facing Father, who braced his feet on the children’s as he rowed backward. They cut quickly through the waves. Landing was the tricky part, and the surf was high today from the storm the night before. Girl always got nervous, but knew better than to say anything. Father hated nervousness almost as much as when they used the word can’t. They could say fuck, but they couldn’t say can’t. Father always said, “If you two stop squabbling and just listen you can do it,” but sometimes they cried because Father thought they were a lot more capable than they felt they were.
“Okay, this is going to be a little tricky. Brother and Girl, get in the bow and have the line ready. It’ll take both of you to pull the dinghy up onshore,” Father said.
They carefully maneuvered around Father, careful not to rock the flat-bottomed boat. “Ready?” he called, but as they prepared to leap off, the boat suddenly tipped to the side, seawater crashing in over them. Brother and Girl jumped out quickly; the surf was just barely over the top of Girl’s black rubber rain boots that she wore sockless with her jeans rolled up. The force of the waves swamped the dinghy and Father rolled out into the shallow water. Brother and Girl grabbed the boat before the tide could carry it away as Father stood up in the water—it wasn’t deep—but his clothes were soaked.
Brother and Girl rounded up driftwood while Father figured out which parts of their dinner were salvageable. The rocky beach was sandless, and the gray and brown pebbles hurt even through her boots. Girl found bleached wood branches the size of her forearm and gathered as many as she could carry. The grain of sea-worn driftwood was moiré taffeta beneath her fingers and she knew it would burn with a pale yellow flame. Father lay prone and motionless on the beach, his face inches from the burning tinder, his mustache and beard powdered with ashes. Girl started to run, chanting please don’t be dead, please don’t be dead over and over in her head. As Girl approached, he sat back on his haunches and fed driftwood into the fire, each piece gradually larger than the last. He had been coaxing flame from the tiny sparks with his breath. His patience meant he only ever needed one match from the Ziploc bag he kept in the breast pocket of his red-and-black flannel shirt, a skill he was inordinately proud of. Girl didn’t let herself think about what would happen to her and Brother out here all alone if something happened to Father. Girl dropped her firewood next to him, and they were given permission to go play.
Brother and Girl scurried above the high-tide mark, exploring the island. They found a small grove of tiny evergreen trees, each only a foot high. Nearby was a stream widening to a small pool before it emptied into the ocean. They followed the stream inland, spawning salmon thick enough in the river to walk across. The fish were fighting their way upstream, missing scales and bits of flesh. The water here was so shallow that their slimy silver backs were out of the river, their top fins wriggling as they fought futilely to return to the place of their birth. The stream, salmon, and submerged rocks were all shining wet mercurial gray and indistinguishable from each other. It looked like the channel was boiling.
They ran back to the campfire, racing each other on their dirty-kneed, scrawny legs. Brother won. The extra year and extra few inches of leg he had on Girl always gave him the advantage. Girl dropped onto the driftwood log, breathing hard. Father was tending the fire in his bright red-and-blue-striped bikini underwear, his pants hanging off a branch to dry by the fire. His underwear never had a fly in front, like Brother’s, and he always split the seam up the seat, leaving a gaping hole in line with his crack. He said it was because his farts were too big, but even Girl could see the fabric was straining to contain him—his pubic hair pouffed out the top.
“Father, there’s a pool deep enough to swim in!” Girl said, before Brother could get a word in edgewise. “Maybe tomorrow I can bring shampoo down and wash my hair.”
“And all these little trees. Like only this high.” Brother bent over and held his hand about a foot off the ground. “Tons of ’em, like a nursery. Do you think someone planted them?”
“You’ll have to show me the trees after dinner. Do you want to hear a limerick?” Father said to Brother, ignoring Girl completely. Brother stood up, his cutoff shorts high above his knees, and poked the fire with a stick. Girl was afraid of fire and never felt the urge to stir the flames. Father had the pot nestled in the coals with the lid on tight. He put the grill over the flames and laid the chicken on it to cook. He worked squatting on his haunches, each movement done with a conservation of energy. Watching him do anything—cook, sail, build boats, sew up wounds—was like watching a symphony played by a one-man band. He made everything look effortless. They never had stepmothers or friends accompany them on the boat, and it was the place where the tension left Father’s face and his voice lost that impatient growl
that was always simmering in the conversations of parents. Father loved jokes and limericks, and here there was no wife or girlfriend to groan about his perverted sense of humor.
“Nymphomaniacal Jill,” Father began.
“What’s nymphomaniacal mean?” Brother interrupted.
“A person who loves sex and can never get enough of it.”
“Okay, go on,” Brother said. Girl wondered if Father was a nymphomaniac, and how that was different from a pervert, her mom and sister’s word for him. Girl wondered if it was inherited, but she didn’t want to think about it too hard or ask questions.
“Nymphomaniacal Jill, tried dynamite for a thrill. They found her vagina in North Carolina and bits of her tits in Brazil!” They all howled with laughter. Girl knew Father wasn’t supposed to tell the children dirty jokes, and it gave her a squirmy feeling, like she had a heap of worms in her stomach, when he said vagina. Girl didn’t like to think of a woman so horny—Brother’s favorite word—that she’d have sex with a hard stick of dynamite, and the limerick put a nasty image in her head that Girl couldn’t get rid of. She wasn’t menstruating yet, but Girl knew the words “bits of tits” described her body pretty well. Girl wondered about the nympho part of it—was Father nymphomaniacal? He was certainly obsessed with sex. Was Girl? To hell with that, Girl thought.
When Girl was eight she had asked Father what a blowjob was, in order to understand why everyone was laughing at a joke about African cannibal women. “It’s when a man sucks another man’s penis,” he answered matter-of-factly, and Girl had blushed red with shame for asking the question. Later, Girl would wonder why he made oral sex only a gay thing, as the joke was about women giving blowjobs, not men.
“Daa-ud!” Girl complained now, dragging out the single syllable into two.
“Daa-ud!” he mocked her. “Here’s another one. There once was a man from Nantucket, whose cock was so long he could suck it. He said with a grin as he wiped off his chin, if my ear was a cunt I would fuck it!” Girl repeated the limericks silently in her head so she could remember them to tell her friends back in New York. Dirty jokes were the currency of childhood, as long as Mother and Stepmother didn’t overhear them.
Before they left the beach Father and Brother stood next to each other, peeing on the fire to extinguish it. Girl crouched in the bushes to relieve herself, wiping with a big leaf, which didn’t work very well, but Father hadn’t brought toilet paper for her. Girl didn’t get her pants down quite all the way though, and peed a little on the back of the waistband. Girl watched their goose-pimply bottoms with envy. Girl wished she could pee on the fire or write her name with urine in the snow. No matter how hard she tried, Girl could never be entirely on equal footing with Brother and Father. Girl threw her used leaf into the bushes and pulled her pants up, trying to ignore the cold wet spot where she had missed her aim. There was no way to wash her jeans on the boat, and they were the only ones Girl had, so there was no use complaining.
On the trip back to the Ghost, Father detoured to explore the promontory at the entrance to the cove. Dad’s hands reverse-pedaled the oars to keep the waves from smashing the boat against the sharp granite. Sure enough, the water had carved a tunnel through the outcrop, and they had to yell to hear each other over the roar and hiss of the sea smashing against and through the cave. They drifted a distance from the Ghost, so Father had to row a while to get the children alongside. He said that it was easier to work up a rhythm rowing if you sang, and they had a variety of songs he had taught them. That day he started in with her favorite.
“Be prepared. That’s the Boy Scout marching song.” Brother and Girl joined him as his oars dipped into the water to the beat. “Be prepared, as through life you march along. Don’t solicit for your sister, that’s not nice. Unless you get a good percentage of her price …”1
The next day they pulled into Cordova’s harbor, called Orca Inlet. Brother and Girl pushed the white rubber bumpers over the sides of the boat in preparation for docking.
“I don’t know if there will be someone there to throw a line to,” Father said. “You two better be prepared to jump.” Girl felt wiggly, and her heart beat faster. Jumping off made her nervous and excited at the same time. Girl liked how everyone looked at Brother and Girl when they did it—she was aware of how small they were compared to the Ghost, and was proud of their competence. Brother always worried about missing the dock and landing in the water, but Girl worried about not being strong enough to stop the boat, and what would happen if the Ghost smashed into the dock. Girl couldn’t stand the idea of letting Father down like that, and besides, he would be furious. Father’s anger had no trace of love below the surface.
“Okay, get ready,” Father called. Brother and Girl climbed over the fence-like stays on the side of the boat and stood tightrope-style on the inch-wide strip of wood mounted below the gunwale, a line in one hand, a stay in the other so they didn’t fall off. Girl liked the feeling of boldness, the water rushing by only a foot or so below her feet. Father slowed the engine as he got closer to the pier and Brother and Girl jumped. Father threw the boat in reverse and they pulled their lines as hard as they could. The boat stopped, and Girl tied off the white rope on a metal cleat anchored to the dock and then wound the excess line neatly around the bottom. Brother was doing the same on the other side. After Dad locked the companionway door to the cabin he joined the children on the dock and they walked to the hospital.
Cordova was a really small town at the southeastern end of Prince William Sound. It was filled with little square houses and had only two main streets and no stoplights. Brother and Girl had to move quickly to keep up with Dad’s long strides. He was still wearing his black captain’s cap and wool coat, but he had on a button-up shirt and tie underneath. At the hospital Brother went to play around on the physical therapy machines, but Girl had to work with Dad. Girl sat at a little table, called all his appointments for the day, confirmed that they were still coming, and reminded them of the time. Dad waited for no one. Most of the thousand residents of Cordova were fishermen, either on their own boats or on the giant floating canneries that went out for weeks at a time, harvesting salmon and packing it in tins for shipment. The patients Father saw were always brought in by women who were quiet and wore no makeup. Girl would record the children’s height and weight on the chart, using the clanking medical scale where you had to move the weights along the slide at the top. Girl worried she wasn’t doing it right. Once the patient and their mother went into the office with Father the door closed, and she didn’t know what their complaints were. Dad was a double specialist—pediatrics and gastroenterology, a word Girl was proud of being able to pronounce. He was the only doctor in Alaska specializing in the digestive system of children, but it was unclear if the kids in Cordova were here for a regular checkup or something more complicated, because he saw both kinds of patients. The clinic was boring, but only lasted a few hours. Father, Brother, and Girl would then eat in the cafeteria when he was done, and afterward the children had to wait around for him to dictate all his notes before they could go back to the boat.
The hospital’s staff cafeteria always had Jell-O with whipped cream on top, which Girl liked, and some sort of meat, which Girl didn’t. Everyone here knew Dad, though, and people would come up to their table and chat with him, so he didn’t notice how little Girl ate. Afterward they went to the closet-like dictation room where Dad dialed a phone and talked into it. Girl wasn’t sure if he was talking to a person or a recording machine, because he never let her listen in. All Girl knew was that she had to wait forever. Forty-five minutes to a child is an eternity, so Girl put her ear to the door to work on her spy skills.
“The man lay on top of her, period, she said he smelled like sour milk, period. It hurt a lot she said, comma, but she didn’t cry, period.” Girl wasn’t supposed to be listening in on her father when he dictated notes, but there was nothing else to do, and Brother was off somewhere doing something Girl was sure was more fun
than what she was doing. They were all squished together when they were on the boat, and he needed time alone without his smelly sister. Girl knew which patient her father was talking about in the dictation room. Girl met her earlier in the day when she came in, and she seemed sweet, with reddish hair and freckles. “Note to file, colon, this is the second occurrence of stranger molestation this patient has experienced, period.” Girl walked away. Girl knew the redheaded child wouldn’t want her to hear this—it didn’t seem fair to be listening to something that private, even though Girl didn’t remember her name and would likely never see her again.
Girl found Brother fiddling with an EKG machine. “Dad’s almost done,” Girl said. They ran up the wheelchair ramp and jumped off the top a few times, then went back to the dictation room. Their father turned to the children with sparkling eyes, like he hadn’t a care in the world, and they started walking back to the harbor. They’d sleep on the boat that night and take off first thing tomorrow morning. Girl couldn’t stop thinking about what she overheard and how awful it would be to have a grown man force her body to open beneath him. It must have hurt. Girl didn’t know how her father could distance himself from his work and smile and laugh when Girl couldn’t escape the overheard words circling inside her head. Attachment disorder, she would later learn, was a valuable condition for a doctor to have.
1. Lyrics to Tom Lehrer’s “Be Prepared” from the album Songs by Tom Lehrer (1953).
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