by Pam McGaffin
“Stop!” My scream pierces through the chaos just as the music ends. Everyone stops talking and turns toward me. While Sam is distracted, his opponent clocks him under the jaw and he falls backwards.
The lights come on. “Get back,” growls a low voice. The crowd parts to make way for someone big.
“Break it up.” With one hand, the DJ grabs the blond boy by the neck of his jacket as you would a kitten by its scruff. He’s still flailing and kicking, leaking blood from his nose. It leaves bright red drops on the polished gymnasium floor. His skin is all blotchy red and he’s bleeding from his lip as well. His shirt is torn. Sam rolls over on his side, rubs his jaw with his hand. His knuckles are raw and bleeding. I hope his jaw is okay. I want to go over to him, but I remember what the other boy said about me being a bodyguard and I hold myself back. Sam slowly gets up on his knees. His hair, once neatly combed back, falls over his sweaty forehead as he reaches over to retrieve something small and pink off the floor—his rose boutonniere. It’s all crushed and hardly worth saving, but he slips it into his pocket.
“What’s going on here?” Mr. Balducci, the assistant principal, pushes his way through the crowd of kids.
“These two got into a scuffle,” the DJ says. He’s still got his grip on the other boy, even though he’s stopped thrashing.
One of the boy’s friends comes forward. “He jumped my friend!” The friend points at Sam.
“You guys started it!” I yell.
“Okay, you, you, you, and you—come with me,” Mr. Balducci says pointing at me last. “Oh, and Mr. DJ,” he says to the big man, “thank you. Now, can you put on something slow and soothing?”
I take Sam’s hand, sticky with blood, and squeeze it very gently to let him know I’m with him as the five of us leave the gym with Mr. Balducci. We’re halfway down the hall to his office when I hear over the speakers the first chords of Steppenwolf’s “Born to be Wild.”
Somehow I don’t think that’s the “slow and soothing” Mr. Balducci had in mind.
ON the drive home, we all offer to help Sam explain to his Mom what happened, but he says no, she’ll understand. His father was the one who taught him to fight.
“With him gone, I am the man of the house. He taught me how to fight with my whole body, arms and legs. Sticks, too. But I sometimes wish I didn’t learn because now I’m like a magnet. Everyone wants to prove he is better.”
“Have you ever tried just walking away?” Sophie asks.
“That’s the problem. I can’t.”
CHAPTER 15
Spring
A species of salmon, also called Chinook and King
Sam gets a two-week suspension from school. When Mom finds out, she’s appalled, but not for the right reasons. She doesn’t care that the other boy called him a bad name, or that Sam stood up for me. All that matters to her is that I was with a boy who was disciplined for fighting, and she wants me to “nip this relationship in the bud.”
Of course, I’m ignoring her.
Sam and I meet outside the fence by the football field after school. I give him his homework assignments so he doesn’t fall too far behind. Then, because the buses have all left, he walks me home. He doesn’t come in the house, though. Even with my mom working, he thinks it’s too risky.
I like walking with Sam, even though the crocuses are blooming and the trees are starting to bud. Spring is the leaving season. It’s never been easy for me; this year, though, I’m wondering how I will survive it. Right about now, Dad would be growing antsy. Even with the declining runs, he always enjoyed the preparations, being busy with a purpose. Making tables and coasters couldn’t compare. This year, I’ll see all the fishermen, including my uncles, getting ready for the season and know my father won’t be among them.
To make matters worse, I’ll be saying good-bye to the two people who could help me through the long summer ahead: Dena and Sam are both going to Alaska to process fish—Dena to Wrangell, which sounds like it should be in Wyoming, and Sam to Petersburg, which sounds like it should be in Russia. Sam will be working at Nagoon Seafoods, another weird name. His mom knows a foreman up there who has agreed to take him on even though he’s not eighteen yet.
“But there are canneries here,” I tell him as we take a shortcut through Causland Park.
“But the overtime is up north.”
I know without him having to explain that he’ll do much better in Alaska. Our canneries are closing, one by one. A few years ago one burned down and everyone figured it was done intentionally, to get the insurance money.
The old photographs that decorate the walls of the post office show the good old days, when huge warehouse floors were shin-deep with salmon and the waterfront was lined with processing plants. Today, Cannery Row reminds me of a comb with half its teeth missing. The fishing fleet still goes out every spring, but they’re not necessarily staying in Puget Sound. Most are continuing up the coast to Alaska.
“I’ll be back by the third week in August,” Sam says, as if this is a consolation. Late August is too late to have any summer together. I know it and he knows it.
“That’s when the fishing boats return,” I say. “I used to go down to the dock to wait for them and log the arrivals.”
He gives me a quizzical look.
“It was a way to mark the time until my dad came home.”
I kick at the gravel path with my scuffed-up loafers. The air smells of daffodils and cherry blossoms, adding to my despair. “I hate the time of year everybody loves the most. Spring and summer are just seasons to get through.”
“Well, I’ll be scooping fish guts for hours and thinking about you.”
He stops and pulls me into a hug, then awkwardly lets go. We haven’t graduated to kissing, and now I wonder if we ever will. He’ll be up there with older, prettier girls—girls like Dena, but without her loyalty.
She’s still pestering me to find a way to go with her. If only. I keep reminding her that I’m underage, with an over-protective mother who just lost a husband.
“Alaska may as well be on Mars,” I tell her. “But I’ll ask, just to make you happy.”
“YOU can’t be serious.” Mom stands at the stove opening a can of bean-with-bacon soup.
“But Dena says you can earn, like, two grand in one summer, and I thought, with money being tight, this would be a way to pay for college.” There, I’ve dropped the magic c-word.
She slaps the bottom of the soup can over the pot to release the suction. The soup plops out, can-shaped.
“You’re too young,” she says, finality in her voice. “I’m pretty sure they have child labor laws, even in Alaska.”
“But I’m almost sixteen. Sixteen-year-olds can work. All of my friends are getting summer jobs.” This is a bit of a stretch. I actually only know of three—Dena, Sam, and Gerry. Sophie’s going to some pre-college enrichment camp for smart kids.
Mom fills the empty can with milk and pours it over the blob of soup. “So get a summer job around here. You don’t have to go to Alaska.”
“But I want to go with Dena.” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I know I’m sunk. I have no reason to believe Mom’s opinions of my cousin have softened any since that Halloween party. And it’s not like Dena’s had opportunities to get in Mom’s good graces given what happened over Christmas. The relatives have pretty much left her alone. Maybe they’re waiting for an apology. They should know better. Mom may have told me she was sorry, but she would never admit that to the in-laws. She’s way too proud.
“When you’re eighteen, we’ll talk,” she says as the soup begins to bubble.
“But—”
“No.”
WITH nothing better to do, I go back to searching her room. Her nightstand yields nothing—a half-empty bottle of Ponds cold cream, one of those black eye-mask thingies ladies wear to sleep at night, and an advice book on grief that she never cracked open—I can tell by the unwrinkled spine. The nightstand on Dad’s side is empty.
/> Once again, I pull out the bottom drawer of her dresser. On top is the pile of letters from Aunt Corrine I set aside. I look at the return-address stickers.
Oh … my … God. How could I be so dense?
I shove the drawer closed, run out of Mom’s room and down two flights of stairs to Dad’s workshop. That envelope. I never checked to see if it had a return address.
It’s sitting right where I left it, on top of Dad’s worktable. I pick it up and turn it over. Sure enough, it was mailed from Alaska: P.O. Box 977 in Ketchikan, to be exact. I stare at the handwriting in black ink. No name or business, just the post office box in Ketchikan. Isn’t that where The Salty Dog is? I reach inside the envelope, expecting it to be empty, but this time my fingers touch a piece of paper. It’s a handwritten note in the same black ballpoint pen: My favorite photo of you and Miss Red. Love T.
I stare at the note, trying to make sense of it. Did Dad have his picture taken with a lady named Miss Red when he was in Alaska? The note makes it sound like there’s more than one photo of him and her, like she was a good friend. With the Miss in front of it, it sounds like something old-fashioned. I’m picturing Miss Kitty on Gunsmoke.
Could T stand for Two-Bit, the ex-prostitute who was friends with Dad? She signed the note Love. And Miss Red? That’s got to be a nickname, because it sure sounds cheeky. I don’t want to think what I’m thinking, but I can’t help suspecting that Dad was up to more than fishing in Alaska.
Of course, I could be wrong. T could stand for countless names, and Miss Red may not be what I think either. Heck, she could be a red dog that hangs out at The Salty Dog. She could be anyone or anything.
It takes me the better part of two hours, but I finally end up with a letter that doesn’t sound stupid. I copy the final version in my best handwriting onto a sheet of stationery:
Dear T,
My name is Ida Petrovich. My father, Stephen James Petrovich, was lost last summer. The Coast Guard thinks he drowned in a fishing accident. You may already know this because he was in Alaska and his disappearance was on the news.
While going through his things the other day, I found an envelope with a note from you in it. The note says, “My favorite photo of you and Miss Red! Love, T.” I’m sorry to say that I couldn’t find the photo.
Anyway, I’m writing you because I’m trying to find out more about my dad and the time he spent in Alaska. I’ve heard that he liked to go to a bar called The Salty Dog and share stories, including Native Alaskan legends from a book he carried around. Do you know the book? Any information you can provide would be greatly appreciated.
Sincerely,
Ida Petrovich
PS. Here’s a recent photo of me. Everyone says I look a lot like my father.
I fold the letter around one of the snapshots Sam’s mother took of us before the tolo. With my hair, dress, and makeup, I look to be in my twenties. I seal it all in an envelope and address the back, double-checking to make sure that I have it written down clearly and correctly. I also write my return address in block letters, now that I know how important that is. I lick not one but two stamps, thinking that it might need the extra postage because it’s going all the way to Alaska. For the same reason, I bypass the dark green mailbox in our neighborhood and walk the eight blocks to the post office on Main Street, where I take my place in line behind about a dozen people with packages.
When it’s finally my turn, the lady behind the counter waves me away. “Oh, honey, you didn’t need to wait in line. You can drop your letter in one of the boxes out front.”
I blush at my mistake. “Thank you. I’ll do that.”
Outside, I stand in front of the mailbox and say a prayer. It’s hard to let the envelope go, but I do. Watching it disappear into the slot, it feels a lot like I’m fishing and I’ve just cast my line.
CHAPTER 16
Leader
A length of wire or other material tied between the end of the line and the hook
With each passing day, I imagine my letter moving along on its journey, first traveling in the belly of a jet to Alaska, then by mail truck to the Ketchikan post office. I imagine that T or someone working for her comes daily to get the mail from Box 977 and takes it to a small corner office in a quaint house. The house will have lots of red velvet furnishings, since it used to be a bordello, but T’s office will be strictly business, with a sensible desk and telephone and typewriter, maybe a stained coffee cup with a saying on it like “World’s Best Boss.” I picture her as a no-nonsense businesswoman—in a pantsuit, since it’s still winter in Alaska and too chilly for skirts. She’ll have her hair pulled back from her handsome face with a long print scarf that matches her suit. She’ll be sipping her coffee and going through the mail, and my letter will stand out because it’s handwritten and from Washington State. She will be surprised. Of that I have no doubt.
Maybe she’s hiding Dad or knows where he is. I hope my letter will trigger her conscience and she’ll write back immediately, filling me in on everything—including who she is and how she came to know my father. But that’s wishful thinking.
A week goes by. Dena orders her cap and gown. Sam’s back in school. I hear over the intercom, “Will all eighteen-year-old Lumberjack men please report to the office to register for the draft,” and I realize that Sam will have to register next year if this stupid war doesn’t end. Given what the boys are facing, I’ve no right to complain, but I’m still depressed. The highlight of my day is checking the mail, and all we ever get is bills.
As March winds down, I start to lose hope.
Then, on April 1, it finally arrives, and it’s no April Fool’s joke. In my shaking hands is an envelope with the all-important “AK” scrawled in a hasty hand in the return address. I sit down at the kitchen table and tear it open, nearly ripping the enclosed letter in half.
Dear Ms. Petrovich,
Thank you for your letter. But I have to say it was a surprise. I didn’t know Steve had any children.
First let me say that we were deeply saddened to hear of his death. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you this, but he was one of a kind, and his loss has been keenly felt here.
You say you want to find out more about your dad and the time he spent in Alaska. Just how much do you know? If you can write back and tell me that, I can attempt to fill in some blanks.
Better yet, would you consider making a trip up here? To see Alaska is to believe it. Letters just can’t do it justice. Consider this an invitation to visit as my guest. We’re at Deermount Avenue and Totem Street in Ketchikan (big light green house).
Sincerely,
Trinity “T” Lukin
PS. I can tell you the book he carried around because I gave it to him. It’s Aleut Tales and Myths, collected by Roger J. Swanson.
It’s a letter that raises more questions than it answers. Her name is Trinity, not Two-Bit, and she didn’t even know about me, which means Dad never told her, which makes me think that maybe Trinity was more than a friend. You wouldn’t tell your girlfriend about the wife and kid you left behind. She does talk about Dad’s death as if it’s a given, but that could be a cover. She could still be living with him in secret. But then, why would she invite me up there? Unless she doesn’t want me to suspect anything. Or maybe, just maybe, Dad told her how much he misses me. Maybe Trinity is trying to get me up there to see him, but she couldn’t say that in a letter that others might read. I notice she didn’t invite Mom to come up.
Do I show the letter to Mom, see if she knows anything? I’m not sure what would be worse: her saying, “Oh, yeah, Trinity Lukin,” which would mean she knew and they both didn’t tell me, or Dad not telling either one of us. He was obviously doing something up there other than fishing, because his loss has been “keenly felt.” By whom? Is this why he was always so anxious to leave each spring?
I refold the letter and tuck it into the ripped envelope, meticulously matching the torn edges to each other so it appears whole again. Pressing it agai
nst my stomach, I walk across the kitchen, through the dining room, up the stairs, and into my room. I sit in front of my mirror and stare at my face, the face that looks like Dad’s. Trinity never mentioned the photo of Dad with Miss Red. And there’s still the question of Two-Bit. Do I write her another letter? I’d love to take her up on her offer to visit, but I can’t go by myself, and I can’t go with Mom. What if Dad were to answer the door? That would be awkward. Ugh! I need to figure something out, but first let me just stick my head outside and scream.
I’VE just started watching The Secret Storm when it’s interrupted by one of those annoying special news reports that cause you to miss half your program. Walter Cronkite is always serious, but this time he looks really serious. In a voice fighting to stay level, he says that Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., has been shot in Memphis, Tennessee.
The news is a jolt to my heart.
“Why would someone want to kill someone who was trying to do good?” I ask Mom when she gets home.
“Well, not everyone agreed he was doing good, but this is madness.” She hangs her coat in the closet, shuts the door, and sits down to watch the news, which has moved on to tell all about King’s life and his contributions to the Civil Rights Movement. “Sometimes I think the whole country has flipped its lid.”
IN school the next day, Mrs. Holland somberly tells us that she’s postponing the lesson she had planned on the atomic bomb. Instead we talk about prejudice and civil disobedience. The latter prompts the bozo in front of me to say that Dr. King “was kind of asking for it,” which really gets people going. As the debate rages, Mrs. Holland writes a quotation on the blackboard: “Misunderstanding arising from ignorance breeds fear, and fear remains the greatest enemy of peace.” The quote isn’t from Dr. King but from some guy named Lester B. Pearson. She tells us that our homework tonight is to think about what it means.
I turn the quote around in my head as I walk to the lunchroom. As often happens, my thoughts roll back to Dad. Ignorance means not knowing, and they still don’t really know that he drowned. Maybe his death was just a huge misunderstanding and now everyone, including Mom, is too afraid to talk about it. Maybe he’s … what? The same question always leads to the same conclusion: either he left us and started a new life, or he really did die. I hate both answers, but most of all, I hate that I may never know which is true.