The Leaving Year

by Pam McGaffin

  I swallow.

  “So.” Sam tilts his head. “You came all the way up here to find out if your dad was with another lady?”

  “No. I mean yes, but it’s more than that. I want the truth.” I pull my posture up straight, like Mom has always told me to.

  But Sam’s not buying it. I brace for the question I see forming behind his bloodshot eyes.

  “Okay,” he says, “so what if you find out your dad was a jerk?”

  “Then at least I’ll know. It’s better than not knowing.” A draft comes through the wall and I clench my teeth.

  “Is it? Will it change anything?”

  It won’t change the fact that my dad is gone. My mom and I will still be alone and possibly more bitter than ever, knowing that he was, at best, sharing his love, or, at worst, taking it elsewhere. The truth could really hurt, but not knowing hurts too. Maybe I need the truth so I can put it to rest, like my mom says. Accepting my father for who he was, accepting what I can’t change. Accepting is change.

  “Yes,” I say. “Yes, I think it will.”

  He leans forward. “Ida, I know what you are saying. But even if your dad did something bad, he was still your dad. He still loved you. I mean, you can’t fake that.”

  “I suppose.” My lame response tells me I’m tired. I love being with Sam, in spite of his testing questions, but if we aren’t going to make out, I want to go back to my bunk, crawl into my sleeping bag, and let dreams do with my problems what they will.

  “Hey, it’s late.” I let go of his hands. “I should let you get to sleep.” I grimace. “Heard a rumor of fish tomorrow.”

  “Good … I think.” Sam frowns. “I still don’t know why you wanted to work at a cannery.”

  “Blame my mom. All my life she’s been telling how awful it is, like it’s the worst job on the planet, and you know what?”

  “What?”

  “She was right.”

  Sam‘s perfect lips curl up into a smirk.

  It’s after ten o’clock. As he walks me back to my bunkhouse, everything, even the mosquitoes buzzing around us, gives off the golden glow of a sun that hardly sets. Raven stealing the sun. I giggle at the thought of Dad flapping his arms like wings.

  “What?” Sam asks.

  “Just remembering something.”

  When we get to the door of the women’s bunkhouse, we both stop.

  “Well …” He stands there awkwardly.

  “Deep subject,” I say, repeating a joke I heard at school.

  He swoops in so fast our teeth click together. I grab him by the shoulders before he can swoop out again, and, finally, I get the kiss I’ve been waiting for. His lips taste rummy and his clothes smell of fish, but all I want to do is take him in.

  I float into my room, lips and teeth reverberating with the smash of Sam’s mouth. I want to jump up and down, but that would wake Jody, who’s curled in her sleeping bag.

  Oh yeah. I’ve been a horrible friend. I saw her run out of that room like someone who was about to puke, and I didn’t even care enough to run after her. As quietly as I can, I take off my pants, mud-caked and stiff at the bottoms, and set them on top of my dirty clothes pile in the corner. Then I open my sleeping bag and bump my head. I hear the crackle of the plastic mattress on Jody’s bunk, but she doesn’t wake up.

  CHAPTER 23

  Oil Skins

  Rain-proof, bib-style pants

  When you share a small space on a remote island, it becomes painfully obvious when your friend is trying to avoid you. Ever since that afternoon at the Filipino bunkhouse, Jody has been giving me the cold shoulder. She doesn’t come over to eat with me, preferring her can-cooking friends. She doesn’t hang out in our room or in the common area. I don’t know where she goes, but the only time I’ve seen her the past couple of days has been during work breaks, smoking with the other smokers, or at night, when she’s asleep—or pretending to be.

  During one of our breaks, we actually made eye contact. She was standing outside the can-making wing talking to another girl. She saw me, flicked her ashes on the ground, then slowly and deliberately turned around. Stung, I just stood there, waiting for her to glance back at me. She didn’t. I walked on, deciding that if she’s going to be a bitch, I can be a bitch right back. I don’t need her. I’ve got Sam, and a growing number of friends at the Filipino bunkhouse.

  To them, I’m Sam’s daring puti girlfriend, Susan. It’s pronounced pootee, which sounds kind of dirty, but it just means “white” in Tagalog. I earned the “daring” label after I started stealing food from the white mess for them. Fruit is a favorite. They can’t get enough of it. Problem is, I’m only one person with so many pockets. I can’t make repeated trips to the mess. The cook, Roz, is a stern woman who could be George Washington’s sister. I feel her eyes burning through my back when I leave with an extra apple or two or three. She doesn’t care if you take your food out, but she doesn’t like it if you take more than your share. This makes stealing more challenging, as well as exciting. It’s become a kind of game. How much food can I hide in my pockets and under my coat without her becoming suspicious? I once managed to squirrel away four extra sandwiches, six cookies, and three milks while she was in back taking a smoke break.

  The guys at Sam’s bunkhouse loved that one. They crowded around me, their eyes following my every move as I unloaded my booty on the table in their kitchen. I thought they might fight over who got what, but order prevailed when a tall guy in glasses came in with a big knife and some Dixie cups to portion out the food and milk. It was all gone in about three seconds. They then bombarded me with special food requests for next time, and the tall guy—who, I learned, is a law student named Rafael—had to step in again. He told them that while I was obviously very good at what I did, I was neither a waitress nor a modern-day Robin Hood. The thought of myself in a short green tunic and leotard made me blush, but I felt myself stand a little taller and suck in my stomach.

  I have less to suck in, too. I can tell. Mom would approve of my losing weight, but she wouldn’t approve of how I’m doing it, and she’d be horrified to know that I’m stealing food, even if it is to right a wrong. I think Dad would be pleased, though. He had a thing for underdogs, not to mention risk and adventure. I’m beginning to understand why he loved coming up here so much. Trinity was right. You do need to see and experience Alaska to believe it.

  Being the center of attention at the Filipino bunkhouse takes some getting used to. I kind of like it, but I’d be just as happy basking in Sam’s private glow. I don’t need the admiration of his friends too. I’ve noticed that Sam doesn’t correct them when they refer to me as his girlfriend, but he hasn’t used that word himself. He doesn’t really have to. He’s made it pretty clear that he thinks of me as more than a friend. We spend all our free time together, walking on the beach, drinking in the gambling room, and kissing until we’re gasping. I know the salty taste of his lips and the Ivory soap and fish smell of his skin. I know each and every callus on his hands and the ropy strength of his arms. I get a tingle that rips right through me every time I even think of those things. Mom would call it infatuation. I call it love, although we haven’t used that word either.

  Alaska has been our test. We’ve seen each other at our absolute worst. Tired and cranky with bloodshot eyes, rat’s nest hair, and filthy clothes. He’s even held my hair back while I’ve puked my guts out. Turns out I’m a cheap drunk, but he’s not much better. One night, while walking me back to my bunk, he slipped and fell into one of the car-sized potholes. We both laughed so hard, we doubled over, and Sam fell down again.

  I usually get back to the room after Jody has gone to bed. I try not to wake her, not that she’d say anything if I did. Sam says I should talk to her. He thinks she’s waiting for me to make the first move. But I have my doubts. She seems content to avoid me, taking her cue from her other dry-job friends. They aren’t separated like the Filipinos are, but they always claim the same tables in the mess hall, and the
wet-job people claim theirs. It’s just like high school, but without the unifying force of Dena. I wonder how she’s doing in Wrangell? She’s probably found some way to make her oilskins look stylish. God, I miss her.

  Of course, she would approve of my food capers. Heck, she’d be right there with Rafael, leading the charge. I’m not quite that involved, but Rafael and his friends certainly trust me enough to talk about their plans in front of me. I’ve heard all about the lawsuit and their efforts to gather evidence from canneries throughout Alaska. He and this other guy, Carlos, take notes as I go through the meals and food choices offered in the “white” mess, and they’ve asked me to describe in detail our bunkhouse and other “accommodations.”

  TONIGHT, we’re sitting in the gambling room watching another game of mahjong after a ten-hour shift when I remember to tell Rafael about our cafeteria’s storage room. I describe the floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with boxes of dried and canned goods, like beans, tomatoes, peaches, pears, and, my favorite, fruit cocktail.

  “How do you know this?” he asks. “Did you work in the mess?”

  “No,” I say. “Roz, the cook, leaves the door open so anyone can see what’s in there. I guess it’s easier for her going in and out so much.”

  Rafael’s eyes flash in the dim light. “Does she leave it open when she takes her smoke breaks?”

  “Probably.”

  “Can you check on that and report back?”

  “Sure.”

  Rafael slaps me on the shoulder. “Guys,” he says, leaning back in his chair, “I’m thinking of a little raid—or maybe a big raid, depending on what Susan here finds out.”

  It doesn’t take a sleuth to track Roz’s habits. If one of us wants something that’s run out in the buffet line, we know to go in back of the building, where she’ll be sitting on an old milk jug, puffing away. She’ll get up, usually with a grunt, and waddle back into the kitchen or storeroom for whatever it is we need. And she never bothers to shut the door if she’s going out for a quick cigarette.

  I’ve timed her breaks. They’re anywhere from five minutes to fifteen. And the best time to steal from the mess is just before it closes in the evening, at nine o’clock. By then most everyone has hit the sack to rest up for the next long workday, and Roz is hanging out in back because there’s no one to attend to in front.

  “IT’S not stealing,” Carlos corrects me. We’re sitting in the woods behind the Filipino bunkhouse, laying the groundwork for our raid, which I guess isn’t really a “raid,” since, as Carlos says next, “We have a right to this food.”

  I couldn’t agree more. What I do have a problem with is their choice of Sam and me for the actual “not stealing” part. If we’re caught, they reason, we won’t get into that much trouble because Sam’s young and I’m white.

  “But you’re not going to get caught,” Carlos says. “Roz’s attention will be on us, not you guys.”

  “But how will we know when to go in?” Sam asks.

  Carlos grins. “Oh, you’ll know.”

  FINALLY, what Rafael calls the white man’s “night of reckoning” arrives. Sam and I hide between the metal smith shop and laundry shed waiting for Carlos’s group to light the first M-80. We wait so long that Sam and I start to wonder if the plan has been called off.

  Finally, we see Carlos creeping soundlessly around the side of the building.

  One. Two. Three. BOOM! It sounds like the dock exploding.

  About a minute later comes another BOOM—this one farther away, but still incredibly loud.

  “Okay, let’s go.” Sam nudges my elbow and we run through the front door to the mess, which is, fortunately, empty. I lead the way to the storeroom behind the buffet counter and through the kitchen.

  “LOOK at all this stuff!” Sam’s eyes bug out. I have to remind him to stop gawking and start grabbing.

  Emboldened by another loud concussion, we each take a big box of quart-sized canned fruit and hobble as fast as we can out of there, handing off to Rafael’s group, which is strung like a bucket brigade through the trees, leading to the back door of the Filipino mess. Sam and I make two more trips before we hear the fourth M-80, our signal to get the hell out of there.

  As we run back to the bunkhouse, I’m afraid of running into Roz or a cannery foreman, or really anyone, but we reach the cover of trees without anyone seeing us. By the time we reach safe haven, my legs and arms are shaking—those boxes weigh a ton—but I’ve never had so much energy. So I jump. Up and down. Up and down. Sam lets out a hoot and joins in. We are a pair of human pogo sticks, electric with joy.

  “I feel like Raven!” I yell. “He’s always tricking people and stealing their food!”

  “Raven?” Sam stops jumping, so I do too.

  I pause to catch my breath. “A Native mythological hero. He created the world, among other things.”

  “Oh, okay. We have Amihan, a bird who flew between the sea and the sky and rescued the first humans from a bamboo plant.”

  “Same sort of deal, except Raven’s kind of a jerk.”

  Sam laughs. “Well, depending on the story, Amihan either started the fight between the sea and sky gods or stopped it.”

  A thrashing sound makes us both turn around just as Carlos and one of his cronies charge through the trees and almost run us over. Flushed and out of breath, they grab Sam and me in a group hug, and the four of us dance around in a circle.

  “Roz tried to chase us down, but we were too fast.” Carlos bends down with his hands on his knees. Seeing the boxes of canned peaches and fruit cocktail on the ground, he walks over and tears open the plastic covering. “Whooo-eee! Who has a can opener?”

  News of the pantry theft spreads through the plant. A lot of people heard the explosions, but no one can pin the blame on us. No one, that is, except Jody. I’m getting into my bunk, expecting the usual wall of silence from her half of the room, when she rolls over, surprising me.

  “Hey, Ida-Sue … or should I call you Can Ballou? You ever see that movie, Cat Ballou, with Jane Fonda and Lee Marvin?”

  “Funniest Western ever,” I respond, relieved to hear her voice again. “That scene where he’s showing his sharpshooting and misses the barn? God!”

  “Or when he sings ‘Happy Birthday’ at the wake?” she snorts. “Even I had to laugh at that.”

  “Yeah, that was funny, but what about the drunken horse? I thought my dad was going to split a gut.”

  In the shadows, Jody’s face is just a dim half-moon, but I can tell she’s grinning. “So that was you, you and Sam, stealing that fruit,” she says. “Maybe I should call you Bonnie and Clyde.”

  “You can call us whatever you want. I’m just glad you’re talking to me again.”

  “Yeah, I’ve been thinking about that.” She gets out of her sleeping bag and sits up on the edge of her cot.

  “So what have you decided?”

  “That we should talk.”

  I sit up on my cot, careful not to bump my head, and turn towards her. “Okay.”

  “I don’t want to ruin your fun, Ida-Sue, but the truth is I can’t be around you if you’re going to drink. See, for me, drinking isn’t funny.” She grins. “Well, unless it’s Lee Marvin.”

  “Is that why you left the Filipino bunkhouse in such a hurry?”

  She’s silent for so long, I fear I’ve just reminded her why she should stay mad at me.

  “I won’t be in the same room with a bottle.”

  Her revelation has so much gravity behind it, I’m afraid to ask why. So I pick a safer question. “How can you stand to work here?”

  “It’s hard. Soon as I can, I’m getting out of Alaska. I just need to save some money. That’s why I’m here, to work. I swear some people just come to party. Last summer, I had a roommate who got drunk every day. I finally had to ask Murf to move me. She’s the only other person here who knows.”

  “That you hate drinking?”

  “Correction. I love drinking. That’s the problem. Alco
holism runs in the family. It runs in a lot of Indian families, but mine’s been destroyed by it. Both my parents, my grandfather, and my uncle Frank are …”

  She pauses, like it’s hard for her to force the word out, so I jump in. “Alcoholics?”

  She shakes her head. “Dead. My mom and dad in a car accident. My grandfather froze to death. He passed out in the snow. Uncle Frank took the direct route. Alcohol poisoning.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Once I start drinking, I can’t stop. I keep going until I black out. I’ve lost whole days of my life. I once woke up in a strange place with a man I didn’t know. That’s when I knew I’d end up dead too.” Jody lets out a ragged breath. “So now I don’t take any chances. People start drinking, I’m gone.”

  “Wow.” This time someone else’s tragedy is the conversation stopper, and I’m reminded what it’s like to be on the other side, the lost-for-words, afraid-to-say-the-wrong-thing side. “Wow, I’m sorry.”

  “You don’t need to apologize. You didn’t know. You and Sam are away from home for the first time. You probably want to bust loose a little. But if you plan on getting blitzed every chance you get, one of us is going to have to—”

  “No … I mean, we can stay roommates. I didn’t come here to party. I didn’t even really come here to earn money, although I could use it.”

  Jody looks at me like I’ve just sprouted a second nose.

  “As long as we’re being honest with each other, I may as well tell you the truth. Promise not to tell anyone?”

  “So long as you haven’t killed anyone, okay, cross my heart, hope to die, and all that,” she says, leaning in.

  “I haven’t killed anyone, but I may have broken the law.”

  Jody raises her eyebrows.

  “I suppose you could say I ran away from home.” I swallow hard before I spill it. “I’m only sixteen. Ida isn’t a nickname, it’s my real name. Sue is just the name on my fake ID.”