The Leaving Year

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by Pam McGaffin


  Sam’s there to catch me. His hand stays protectively pressed against the small of my back as we head for the nearest door. This is the Sam I know, not the moody, distant boy I saw when I first got here. He could just be taking pity on me, but I like it.

  We get outside, and Sam withdraws his hand. The air is fresh and light. Then I remember that it’s four in the afternoon. I’ve only worked five hours.

  “God, if this was a short day, I don’t know how I’m going to make it through a long one.”

  “No kidding,” Sam says. “I will be turning fish in my sleep.”

  “I can’t feel my fingers.”

  “Here.” He stops me. He removes his gloves and then mine. Taking my right hand in both of his, he starts to rub. It takes a while for the warmth to creep back into my hands, but Sam keeps at it until our temperatures match.

  “Hey.” Jody runs up to us, dressed like summer in cutoffs and a T-shirt, skin shiny with sweat, cigarette wafting from her fingers. “Sorry to interrupt.”

  “You’re not,” I say, though I’m pretty sure my blush betrays me. “Sam was just warming my hands.”

  “Uh-huh.” She smirks. “You could try working in the cookhouse. Man, it’s hot in there.”

  “Too bad we can’t switch back and forth,” I say. “Slime for a while, cook for a while, slime for a while …”

  “Like going from sweat lodge to snow and back,” Jody says. “Could even be therapeutic.” A mosquito the size of a horsefly lands on her arm. She slaps it and wipes the remains on her cutoffs. “You guys headed to the mess? I’m starving.”

  “Actually, I need to go back to my bunkhouse.” Sam kicks the ground with the toe of his boot.

  I don’t want him to leave. “Come eat with us. You can shower later.”

  “I can’t. I mean we have our own kitchen.” He looks beyond us toward the mess hall then down at his jacket, sprinkled in fish scales.

  “Why?” I ask. “Is Filipino food better?”

  His snicker has an edge to it. “We eat a lot of rice and soup.”

  “I think I’d rather have a hamburger,” I say.

  “So would I.”

  “Then come with us.” I grab his arm.

  “You don’t understand. We can’t go to your mess. It’s for whites.”

  “I guess they overlooked me,” Jody says with a snort.

  Confused, I release my grip on Sam’s arm. This sounds like what they’re fighting in the South, but I didn’t expect it up here. “You mean it’s … What’s that word? Segregated? And people accept it?”

  “It’s just how the canneries were set up, probably starting with the Chinese,” Sam says.

  “But it’s screwed.” Jody expels a mouthful of smoke.

  Sam leans in, waving us closer. “Don’t tell anyone, but there’s talk of something big, a court case. We’re gathering evidence.”

  “Can we help?” Jody asks.

  “Yeah,” I say, “we can be your spies.”

  Sam shakes his head. “Thanks, but you’re not even supposed to know about it. The manongs—elders—don’t want us making trouble.”

  “If no one makes trouble, nothing will change,” I say.

  “I know.” Sam’s jaw clenches. “Go get your dinner. I’ll see you later.” He turns around before we can object and walks away.

  Jody and I slink into our mess, too hungry to fight the unfairness of it all. I try not to enjoy my cheeseburger, French fries, cookies, and chocolate milk too awfully much, but I’m so relieved to be done for the day that I can’t resist making a toast to surviving.

  Jody just stares at me and my raised milk carton like I’m the weirdest person she’s ever seen.

  “You’re supposed to hold up yours, too,” I explain.

  She looks confused, but imitates my move. I touch my carton to hers and say, “Cheers.”

  “What a weird custom.”

  “You’re supposed to do it with wine or champagne,” I tell her.

  “That’ll be the day.”

  I laugh, even though I’m not sure if she’s being funny. I’m learning that, with Jody, it’s sometimes hard to tell.

  NO one throws a party to celebrate our first day of canning. Everyone’s too tired. Jill, the small blonde from Spokane, does us all the huge favor of throwing away the beer-can ashtrays, so the common room smells less like a tavern. After some groaning about sore muscles, we all hit our bunks early even though the sun’s still up.

  “Is Sam your boyfriend?” Jody asks.

  I hesitate, because I don’t really have an answer. “I don’t know.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t know?”

  “We haven’t, uh … You know.”

  “Had sex?”

  “Jeez, Jody!” I’m glad we’re both in our bunks with the light off so she can’t see me turn red. “I was going to say that we haven’t talked about going steady.”

  Her pillow muffles her laugher.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Going steady. You are such an innocent!”

  “Well, we haven’t,” I whine, blushing deeper.

  “It’s okay. To be innocent, I mean. Wish I still was.”

  Jody likes a boy named Connor who drives a forklift in the warehouse. We both agree that driving a forklift has to be about the coolest cannery job, short of foreman.

  “He’s even Native,” she says, “though I’m not sure if he’s Tlingit. Could be Haida or Aleut. Whatever he is, he’s choice.”

  I milk her for details. Turns out, their one and only interaction consisted of a smile (hers) followed by a nod (his).

  “I think you should try words next time,” I tease.

  We talk and giggle until we drop off.

  CHAPTER 22

  By-Catch

  The unwanted marine creatures caught during commercial fishing

  We can’t work because there’s no fish, and we can’t go outside because it’s coming down in buckets.

  “Pretty typical,” Jody says. “Three days without rain here is a drought.”

  So we join Jill and Marlene in playing penny-ante poker on the tippy table, until Jody can’t take it anymore and props up the short leg with an old issue of 16 magazine. Pandora is sitting on the floor doing some weird exercise she calls yoga and complaining about Jody’s smoke, so Jody goes out on the porch to finish her cigarette. Meanwhile, Valerie is sprawled on the couch reading a book called Black Like Me, even though she’s not black.

  “That’s kind of the point,” she says. “The author darkened his skin to look black. Then he traveled through the South and wrote about all the prejudice. White people would give him this hate stare.”

  I remember Sam telling me I would never know what it was like to be feared or hated based solely on how I look. “Can I borrow that book when you’re done?”

  “Sure,” Valerie says. “But I need it back. It’s a library book.”

  “Okay, never mind.”

  Maybe it’s not shyness holding Sam back. Maybe he can’t consider going steady with me because I’m white. Isn’t that prejudice in reverse? I know he likes me. But does he like me enough to actually call me his girlfriend? I wish I could see him, but the rain is determined to ruin any chance of that. It hammers our roof like an overlong drum solo, and I’m getting mighty tired of it.

  When we’ve had enough of poker, Jody gets out her twine and beads and shows me how to make a friendship bracelet. Macramé is like braiding, but more intricate. She knows all these fancy knots, so the bracelet she makes me is much cooler than the one I make her. But she praises my effort and adds it to the collection on her wrist. I never wear jewelry, so I can’t stop fiddling with this novelty on my arm, pulling it, shaking it, turning the beads between my fingers.

  I don’t notice that the rain has stopped until Jody looks up at the ceiling and sucks in her breath.

  “Want to take a walk?” she asks me.

  “God, yes.”

  We throw on our jackets. Jody lights a
cigarette, and we head out under a bruised sky that shines milky white where the sun is straining to break through. If the sun comes out, that means Sam wants me to be his girlfriend. Oh, it’s trying so hard. Come on, sun.

  The puddles reflect the clouds. We thread our way through them, heading for the cannery exit. The complex is on a thin lip of land between forest and water, so there really aren’t many places to walk without getting wet or dripped on.

  Of course, Jody has other ideas. As we come to a giant puddle, she gives me a shove, making me step in it. My left sneaker soaks through, but I get back at her with a muddy kick. Before long, we’re both jumping in the puddle and giggling hysterically. Jody drops her cigarette in the mud. “Damn.” Her face is covered in brown spots like she has some dreaded pox, and I know I must look just as bad.

  “We could drop in and see what the Filipinos are cooking up,” she says.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “I’m not talking about eating, silly.”

  I have no idea what she’s getting at.

  “The protest, lawsuit, whatever you want to call it?”

  “Oh, yeah.” I swipe at some of the mud on my face; I’m pretty sure I’ve just made it worse. “But Sam said we weren’t supposed to know about that.” My pulse speeds up just saying his name.

  “Come on, I’ve never seen the Filipino bunkhouse.”

  “It’s right over there.” Next to the cannery itself, the sprawling building is the biggest one here. It’s also the most run-down, which is saying something, because all the buildings are run-down.

  “I mean the inside,” Jody says.

  “But we’re covered in mud. We’ll track it in.”

  Jody rolls her eyes. “This is Alaska. Besides, Sam won’t mind.”

  As she says it, the sky cracks open and a wondrous silver sun shines through, drenching us in happy. Sam does want me as a girlfriend! I must be grinning like an idiot, because Jody just looks at me and cracks up.

  Then she dashes up to the door of the Filipino bunkhouse and knocks before I can stop her.

  No one answers.

  I grab her sleeve. “Come on, let’s go clean up. We can come back later,” I plead, but my heart is doing a tap dance in my throat, waiting for that door to open.

  She knocks again. No answer. My pulse slows, sinks back into my chest. As we turn to leave, an older man opens the door. He takes in our muddy pants and jackets and our spotted faces.

  “We’ve, uh, been out walking,” Jody says, holding a snicker behind pursed lips. “Is Sam here?”

  “Sam?” he asks with a heavy accent.

  “Sam Tap … o … soak,” I say.

  Way, way too eager.

  The man goes off to check, closing the door and leaving me with my galloping heart. So much time passes, I wonder if he decided to ignore us. Now that I’m not jumping madly in mud puddles or exalting the Sun God, my warmth is fading fast.

  Finally, finally, Sam opens the door. His hair sticks out at odd angles like he just got up, and he’s wearing a big flannel shirt over long-underwear bottoms. He’s also barefoot. An electric thrill shoots through me. I’ve never seen his feet before.

  “What are you doing here?” Not a warm welcome, but not a cold one, either.

  “It was Ida-Sue’s idea.” Jody looks at me.

  “Was not!” I yelp.

  “Could we, uh, borrow a towel or something?” Jody starts taking off her muddy jacket.

  Sam watches her take off her shoes. “Uh, sure, I’ll give you mine.”

  I’ve been at the cannery long enough to know that this is a generous offer. It’s probably Sam’s only towel. He’ll have to wash it after we’re through, and clean towels, not to mention clothes, are a luxury around here. Still, I follow Jody’s lead, piling my jacket and shoes on the porch before going inside to wipe myself down with the towel that has touched Sam’s body.

  God, get a hold of yourself, girl.

  “We’re watching the old men play mahjong,” he says when we emerge from their communal bathroom, still damp but more presentable. “It’s a Chinese game, kind of like American rummy.”

  We walk into a room at the end of a hall that’s foggy with cigarette smoke. A single hanging light bulb casts dramatic shadows on the men sitting at small, square table. With magician-like moves, they assemble green and white plastic blocks into rows, the meaning of which is lost on me. The blocks have patterns on them, look like hard candy, and make a pleasing percussion when they click together. I’m so mesmerized, I don’t realize I’m blocking someone’s view until I get a tap on the shoulder.

  “Oh, sorry.” I step out of the man’s way, only to stand in front of someone else. Then I notice the room is lined with spectators slumped in folding chairs. Jody and I are the only girls in a gathering of young Filipino men watching older Filipino men gamble. She bites her lip. I shrug and shake my head. Then I hear my name, my real name. Sam waves us over. A couple of guys switch seats so Jody and I can sit next to him. Jody makes sure I’m sitting next to Sam.

  He leans over to whisper, as if his normal voice, already so soft, would disturb the concentration of the men in the middle of the room. “That’s my uncle.” He points out a small, bespectacled man at the table. “The manongs play every night, sometimes ’til one or two in the morning. If my uncle wins, I’ll get to share the pot.”

  “So you gamble on the gamblers,” Jody says.

  “Yep.”

  That would explain why Sam’s eyes are so bloodshot. He isn’t getting any sleep.

  “Mahjong!” yells a man in a green hat. A chorus of aahs and oohs greet this news. Sam’s uncle says something I don’t understand, but the meaning is clear enough. He lost.

  “Damn!” Sam slaps his thigh. “The winner had a secret kong.”

  “A what?”

  “A kong is four of the same suit.” Sam goes on to explain what you need to win in mahjong, something about pongs and chows, three-of-a-kinds and straights, but I can’t focus on what he’s saying because he’s leaning so close, his breath is warming my neck.

  Jody looks supremely bored, sucking on a cigarette and playing with her bracelets. When the winnings are doled out, so is the booze. I can’t see what they’re passing around, but it’s clear and hard. Rum? Vodka? Lighter fluid? Has no one in Alaska heard of cups? I watch the bottle go from person to person. Some use one hand to tip it up to their mouth. Some use two. The more fussy drinkers use their sleeves or shirttails to wipe off the lip before taking a swig. Jody has stopped playing with her bracelets. She sits up in her chair, eyes on the bottle like she plans to attack it. When it finally comes to her, I realize I’ve got it all wrong. She doesn’t attack. She bolts, out of her chair and through the door we came in. Even the mahjong players notice.

  The man who tried to hand her the bottle looks surprised and a little hurt, as if he’s responsible for her reaction. Then he shrugs and passes the bottle over to me.

  “Is she okay?” Sam asks.

  “I don’t know.”

  It’s rum. I hold the bottle, wondering what to do. Should I run after Jody? Or take a drink? The thought of swapping spit with so many people kind of grosses me out, and I really don’t want to get sick again. Sam’s waiting for me to drink or pass. I drink. The liquor burns going down, making me cough like the rookie I am. A couple of the guys snicker, and, though they mean no offense, I give them the stink-eye. I’m not mad at them, though. I’m mad at myself—for having no willpower, for staying with Sam, for being the worst friend ever. I should have followed Jody out. I could still leave, go find her, ask if she’s okay, but I can’t move. I’m waiting for the weight of Sam’s arm on my shoulders.

  Like at the Halloween party, a pleasant numbness takes over. I like this part, but not the getting sick. I’ll stop before that happens. Meanwhile, I’m enjoying the relaxation. I could take a nap on Sam’s chest. Then he’d have to put his arm around me. Fortunately, I don’t have to be so forward, because it eventually happens. Sam�
��s arm moves from the back of my chair onto my shoulders. I chart his progress as his hold gets tighter and tighter still, until his fingers reach under my sleeve and softly caress my upper arm. I never knew an arm caress could give me the chills. Soon, I’m slouched in my chair, leaning back into him. His body is so solid and warm I could live there.

  He takes me back to his bunk, but it’s anything but romantic. His cot is one of thirty lined up on either side of a long barracks room, just like I’ve seen in war movies. We’re not alone, either. About half a dozen guys are stretched out reading or sleeping. Pig-like snores come from the man two beds over. The room is so cold and drafty that I start to sober up against my will. Sam shows me the cracks in the walls where they’ve stuck cardboard to block the wind from whistling through.

  I shiver. He sits across from me on the bed and takes my hands. With his skin flushed from the rum, the white scar in his eyebrow is more noticeable.

  “I’m glad we got some time alone.”

  I glance over at the snoring man.

  “Okay, almost alone,” he says. “Why are you here, Ida? It’s not to work, is it?”

  I try to think through the gauze in my head. “Not really.”

  Sam already knows about my dad, but he doesn’t know what brought me north. So I force my brain to focus, telling him about the note that led to Trinity and my plans to visit her.

  “But before I go to see her,” I say, “I wanted to talk to you.”

  “Me? Why?”

  “Because I thought you’d understand. You still have a dad, but he’s gone, a lot. He has this other life in Vietnam. You’re always worrying, always wondering. Well, what if your dad supposedly died but they never found him? Sorry, I hope that doesn’t happen, but what if it did, and you found out you maybe didn’t know him like you thought you did?”

  I pause, and Sam motions for me to go on.

  “See, after my father was presumed drowned by the Coast Guard, my mom acted really weird about it, like more angry than sad. She even threw out all his stuff. Right there in front of me. Then I heard her tell my grandma that she’s not sure he’s even dead, like maybe he ran off on purpose, and now this thing with Trinity.” I stop, willing myself not to choke on the words I’m about to say. “I love my dad, love him more than anything. But maybe—maybe he was just a jerk. A jerk to my mother. A jerk to me.”

 

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