The Leaving Year

by Pam McGaffin

  One of our school’s three black students, a girl named Imogen, is walking the other way, reminding me about Dr. King, but she’s past me before I can express my sympathy. I’m prepared to share my thoughts on Dr. King’s shooting with anyone who will listen, so I’m surprised to find that, outside of class, no one’s really talking about it. When I bring it up at lunch, Dena, Gerry, and Sophie agree that it’s terrible and sad, but they’re much more concerned about finals and graduation.

  After lunch, I head to the library. I know Sam will talk about it. Sure enough, he’s reading the paper. REV. KING IS SLAIN IN MEMPHIS, JOHNSON URGES CALM reads the headline across the front page. Underneath are photos of Dr. King and the Memphis hotel where he was shot. I say hello to Sam and sit down across from him. When our eyes meet, his are wet with tears.

  “Are you just now finding out?”

  “I heard someone say he was killed,” he says. “I had to see if it was true.” He folds the paper up and sets it down on the table between us. I wonder how he could have missed the news on TV then remember that his family doesn’t have one.

  “I’m sorry.” I try to recall some of the better comments made in Mrs. Holland’s class. “All he wanted was equality for the Negroes.”

  “Dr. King wanted equality for everybody, not just Negroes.”

  “I know, I was just …” I stop, not wanting to say something stupid. Then I remember Mrs. Holland’s homework assignment. I open my binder to my notes and show him the quote about ignorance and fear being the greatest enemies of peace. “I mean, why ignorance and fear? Why not anger and violence?”

  He lets out a long breath. “You need to experience it to understand. Have you ever had someone cross the street because they don’t want to pass by you?”

  “No.”

  “I have. Strangers make slanty eyes at me. I have been called chink and gook and Charlie, even spic, because they just don’t know. And you saw what happened at the tolo. People are scared of people who are different. You’re white. You can’t begin to understand.”

  I know what he’s saying, but the words sting. “I can’t help being white.” I say it so loudly that Mrs. McDaniel whips her head around and holds a finger to her lips. I lower my voice to a hiss. “Just like you can’t help being Filipino.”

  I pick up my books and stomp out before Sam can have the last word. Then I ignore him in English class, which isn’t hard because we spend the whole hour reading and working on our book reports.

  As soon as the bell rings, I’m out the door.

  “Ida. Stop. I need to talk to you.”

  I turn around.

  Sam runs up to me. “I’m sorry if I was rude. I’m mad, but not at you.” He sucks in his breath. “I’ve been thinking about your fear quote.”

  “You have?”

  “Yeah. You know how I said that people are afraid of those who are different?”

  I nod.

  “Well, most of the kids at this school seem a little afraid to get to know me. And, um, maybe I’ve been a little afraid to get to know them, too. They just see me as Filipino or whatever, and I just see them as white.” He looks down at the floor and shakes his head. “Ugh, I’m not explaining this.”

  “You’re doing fine.”

  He looks up and meets my eyes. “You came over to me. You weren’t afraid.”

  “You had all the Poe books.”

  He laughs. “And now we’re friends. Uh, we are friends, aren’t we?”

  “Yes,” I say nodding. “Yes, of course, we are.” I want to hug him right there in the hall, but I’m not quite that brave.

  MRS. Holland said we only had to think about the quote, but I’m feeling so inspired I write pages in my notebook, adding stuff and crossing out stuff until I get a paragraph that says exactly what I want:

  Fear remains the greatest enemy of peace because it prevents people from getting to know each other for who they really are. When we’re afraid, we don’t reach out, we don’t question, we don’t try to understand. We don’t make friends. It takes courage to really get to know people who we think of as different, but we must. Otherwise, the misunderstandings and lies will become our truth, and we will be forever divided.

  I read the paragraph to Mom, and she’s actually impressed.

  “You’re brilliant when you want to be,” she says.

  CHAPTER 17

  Passage

  A journey from one place to another by ship

  The month I”ve been dreading has arrived. June should be a happy time. School’s letting out. The world’s in bloom. The days are long and people are getting married, though no one I know. The harbor is quiet now that most of the fishing boats have left for the season. Main Street is dead too, but Mom’s excited about the cute summer clothes they’re getting in at Fine Lines.

  She buys me a green and turquoise dress, calling it an early birthday present. In three weeks, I’ll be sixteen. Now that Dad won’t be coming home for my traditional make-up birthday, I wonder if we will celebrate my real one.

  I wear my new dress to Dena’s high school graduation ceremony, which everyone in the family attends but Mom. I give a Dena-like cheer as my cousin gets her diploma. I also cheer on Sophie and Gerry, and even David Mackey.

  It will be my turn in only two years, but right now that seems impossibly far off. What I wouldn’t give to be going with them, any of them, anywhere but here. Sophie’s Smart Camp? Sign me up.

  But any hope I have of convincing Mom to let me do anything vanishes when Bobby Kennedy is assassinated. She comes into my room that night to tell me the news.

  “What’s this world coming to? First Dr. King. Now Bobby Kennedy. God, that poor family, and Ethel with all those kids.”

  I’m half asleep, so it takes me a while to absorb what just happened. “Who shot him?” I prop myself up with my pillows. “Why?”

  “They don’t know yet, or at least they’re not saying.” She clamps her hand down on my leg, covered in blankets. “Look, I want you close to home this summer, and no staying out ’til all hours. Eleven o’clock is plenty late.”

  “Eleven? That’s—”

  “Final,” she says. “There are just too many crazies in this world with guns.”

  “But other parents are letting their kids go places. I bet Dena’s still going to Alaska.”

  “Dena isn’t my concern.”

  I don’t bother to point out that I stand a much greater chance of dying from boredom than being shot. It’s pointless trying to reason with her when she gets like this. Her mind is double-locked and dead-bolted. Arguing with her would only make her mad—and add another padlock. But I’m just as stubborn. The harder her line, the more determined I am to cross it. If she were more flexible, I might be willing to spend my summer in Annisport, babysitting my younger cousins and watching reruns of Dark Shadows. But now I will do everything in my power to bust out of this prison.

  When Sam said that I wasn’t afraid, it was probably the nicest compliment I’d ever received. Maybe it’s even true. Dad used to say that still waters run deep. Quiet people can surprise you. Take Rosa Parks. If she can refuse to give up her seat on the bus and get arrested, I can look for a way out of here. I can go to Alaska. I can try to solve the riddle that is my dad.

  IT’S such an incredible coincidence, it has to be a sign from the fate gods. David Mackey, who I watched graduate, is walking toward the school as Sam and I are leaving.

  “Hi, Ida,” he says breezily, as if he never stood me up, but I don’t really care about that now.

  “What are you doing here? I thought you’d be halfway to Alaska by now.”

  “No.” He bounces a full backpack on his shoulder. “I have a bunch of books to return. Mrs. McDaniel sent us a bill for $53.”

  “Ouch.” I turn to Sam and ask him if he can leave David and me alone for a minute.

  “Sure.” He walks halfway through a courtyard bordered with cherry trees then turns, unsure if he should wait. Finally, he sits on a bench
next to the scattered remains of someone’s lunch.

  I’m conscious of Sam watching us as I ask David why he never showed up that day. Laying on a little guilt might make him more willing to do what I’m about to ask him.

  He tilts his head to the side, brow wrinkling.

  “We were supposed to meet again, in the library? To talk about my dad?”

  “We were?”

  “Yeah, I thought so.”

  “Jeez, I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay. I found out some stuff on my own.” I like being able to say that.

  His eyebrows pop. “You did?”

  “Yep.”

  “Well, that’s great.”

  “Yeah, I’m going up to Alaska to see this woman who knew Dad really well.” Okay, a bit of a stretch, but I’ve got an idea. I just need David’s help and the courage to carry it out.

  “The only problem is you have to be eighteen to travel without a guardian on an Alaska State Ferry, and my mom can’t go.”

  His blue eyes narrow on mine. “So you need some fake ID.”

  “Yeah. And I need it, um, kind of fast?”

  PART TWO

  CHAPTER 18

  True North

  The direction of the geographical North Pole

  I can’t believe I really did it. I’m on a ferry to Alaska, and no one knows—not my mother, who wouldn’t have let me go, and not Dena, who left for Alaska last week, or Sam, who left soon after. Okay, David knows. But he’s on his own boat to Alaska, so he’s not going to tell anyone. This morning, I left a note for Mom telling her I’d call her in a few days. I couldn’t be specific because I wasn’t sure how long it would take me to get to Ketchikan.

  All the money I had in savings bought me a one-way ticket, with enough left over to get back, plus $16.42 for expenses. Knowing I’ll have to stretch every cent, I’ve stuffed my backpack with sandwiches and oranges. In the flowered canvas suitcase I’ve had since I was six, I’ve packed a week’s worth of clothes and my warmest sweater, along with a few books, a pen and notepad, and the photo of me and Dad.

  Today, my birthday, I got up at 6:00 a.m., snuck out of the house, and took the Green Island Empire bus to Seattle. Then I hailed a yellow cab to the ferry dock, bought my ticket, and fell in with the foot passengers boarding this big blue boat flying the Alaska state flag—also blue, with eight yellow stars, the Big Dipper and Polaris, the North Star. I’ve asked myself what the hell I was doing about a hundred times. Now it’s too late to turn back. The ferry is slowly churning away from the dock, leaving the Seattle waterfront on a more-than-two-day voyage to Southeast Alaska.

  We will be taking the same general route my dad took, up the Inside Passage between Vancouver Island and British Columbia, past the Queen Charlotte Islands, through the Dixon Entrance, across the “A–B line” that divides Canada from the United States, and into the Alexander Archipelago, a group of more than a thousand islands that, I know from Dad, are actually the tops of submerged mountains.

  Dad’s last known location was near the Dixon Entrance. I wonder if I’ll feel something as we pass through it?

  The ferry picks up speed. I’m sweating but my hands are cold. Clasped in my lap, fingers interlaced like they’re praying, they seem to belong to someone else. The view outside is gray-blue-green. Water-sky-land.

  Trinity’s letter, which I’ve read and reread, is in my backpack. I never would have guessed that name behind the T. From church, I know about the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit that make up one God, but I didn’t know, until I looked it up in the World Book, that Trinity was also the name of the world’s first atomic bomb test. I hope that’s not a sign of how our meeting will go.

  I get out my pen and notepad and start writing down questions for her, including, “Is my dad really dead?” When I’m done, I check the clock on the ferry’s observation deck. It’s after five. Mom will be closing up the shop about now. In less than half an hour she’ll be home, unless she stops at Tradewell first. The thought of her coming home with a birthday cake makes me feel bad. The long hand of the ferry clock ticks off the minutes.

  Five. Ten. Fifteen … Thirty.

  Of course, nothing happens. The clock keeps on ticking. The ferry stays its course. But in a small house in Annisport, I’ve just triggered a mother quake. I’m okay, Mom. I chant this in my head over and over, trying to convince myself while I’m at it.

  Around eight o’clock, the public areas of the ferry empty of the moms and dads and kids and couples who’ve paid for sleeping cabins. Without their happy noises I’m suddenly aware of all the non-human sounds: the metallic clinks and clanks, the low drone of the engine, and the sleep-inducing background music that’s even worse than the crap on Mom’s favorite radio station. Sitting in this family-sized booth, staring at the window-turned-mirror at my pale reflection, it’s easy to imagine myself as someone else. A runaway. I guess that’s what I am.

  I stare into my own eyes until they start to creep me out and I have to turn away. Reaching for my suitcase, I get out my copy of Aleut Tales and Myths. I had to special-order it from the bookstore, which ate into my travel money, but I figured it was a small price to pay for a better understanding of Dad’s time in Alaska.

  I open it to the first story, titled “The Woman Who Became a Bear,” and start to read:

  On the banks of a river there lived a man and his wife and children. One day the man told his wife that he was sick and about to die. He asked her to leave his body on the ground, uncovered, next to his boat and bow and arrows. The next morning she found him dead. She left his body, as he’d requested. For three days, it stayed there as she and her children sat and wept. But on the fourth day, it vanished. Not one sign of the body or boat could be seen.

  I read the last two sentences again and remember the Coast Guard’s words after their failed search. A queasiness bubbles in my gut.

  Not many days after this, a little bird came to the house and sang, “Your husband lives. He is with another woman at the mouth of the river.” Hearing this sad news, the woman felt very bitter toward her husband, and she wept a great deal.

  I can see Mom crying over Dad. I can even see her traveling to the place where he’s living with a new wife. But I can’t see her killing the new wife by holding her face in boiling water. Nor can I see her turning herself into a bear and ripping Dad to pieces.

  It’s just a story, a fable with a lesson. You’re supposed to learn from it, not take it literally. Still, the similarities are spooky. A fisherman fakes his death so he can live with another woman. Is that why Mom said he might still be alive? Why she didn’t want a funeral? My brain goes through the old loops again. If he’s alive, then he went somewhere else. If he went somewhere else, then he left us. If he left us, then he must not love us.

  My stomach lurches. The sign to the ladies’ room buzzes in and out of focus as I rush toward it, ducking into a stall just in time to heave up the PB&J and orange I had for dinner. I throw up a couple more times, until nothing comes out. Then I wipe my mouth with toilet paper and flush. I leave the stall feeling better but shaky. Standing at the sink, I splash cold water on my face, pull the towel roll down to a fresh spot, and pat myself dry.

  I wish I’d thought to ask Mom about Dad’s stories. No doubt she heard some of them. Or did she? Maybe, like me, Mom only got the nice tales about Raven bringing light. Maybe Dad saved the not-so-nice ones for his pals at The Salty Dog. Why did Trinity give him that book with that story? Which I’ve just left in my booth, along with my suitcase, backpack, and all the money I have left.

  I rush out of the restroom, heart pounding, but my stuff is right where I left it. I glance at the clock. It’s only ten thirty, though it feels like the middle of the night. Without a cabin, I will be sleeping on this exposed, vinyl-covered bench, next to an aisle people use as a thoroughfare. Better get used to it.

  My suitcase serves as a pillow and my coat a blanket. I sleep fitfully with scattered dreams.

  THE gray light of
morning brings the ferry’s janitors, then families with young children, followed by families with older children. Finally the couples and groups of friends in their late teens and twenties emerge, carrying Styrofoam cups of coffee.

  The second day drags on much longer than the first, though the scenery is beautiful. I stare out the window at emerald green islands reflected in sun-dimpled waters. Fish jump here and there. Seagulls glide by. We pass a rock covered with sea lions. I walk around the deck to take in the sights on both sides, but feel stupid carrying my luggage around, so I head back to my booth, which I staked out with my coat.

  For breakfast, I eat another sandwich but no orange. The citric acid combined with my nerves probably had more to do with my stomach upset than the bear-woman story did. In the light of day, my reaction seems silly, so silly I pick up the book again and read more folktales, including a couple more about trust and betrayal that end with violent revenge, an eye for an eye. Have the Aleuts never heard of forgiveness? Sheesh! I prefer the stories without beheadings, drownings, poisonings, and death, the stories that playfully explain nature, like why frogs sing and why the stars don’t come out on cloudy nights. The Raven stories are okay, too, but even they’re meaner than they have to be. Apparently, our hero was not above pooping on people to make a point.

  “Must be a good book.” The voice is male, maybe twenties. I don’t look up to check. The big grimy backpack and the sharp smell of tobacco and sour milk tell me all I want to know. I feel his eyes wander over me. I continue to read without reading.