The Leaving Year

by Pam McGaffin

  “Wow.” Dena slowly forks another piece of pie and ice cream and studies it as if she’s never seen the two together before. “So … if Uncle Steve wasn’t using the condoms himself, why was she upset?”

  “I’m not sure. During her, um, spell, she said she’d made a mess of things.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Turkey to go?”

  I nod as the waitress sets down a box with Mom’s sandwich. “Anyway,” I continue, “here’s Mom laid out on the floor after basically accusing Dad of screwing around, and Trinity’s really nice about it. She helps Mom up, gets us water, and … Oh, yeah, we’re invited to go to this potlatch tomorrow. I think you could come too.”

  “What kind of a potluck?”

  “Potlatch. It’s a ceremony for a Native elder who died.”

  “Gee, that sounds like fun,” Dena deadpans.

  “No, it’s actually supposed to be kind of a party, to celebrate a life.”

  “I guess. Not like I have other plans.”

  RAVEN must be really important, because he comes up time and again during the potlatch, and that doesn’t even count the speeches in Tlingit, which I have to admit are pretty boring. It’s Raven this and Raven that, like he created the world or something. Oh, wait, he did. Then he brought water and light, caused all the different animals to form, and created humans out of leaves. Not bad for a scoundrel.

  The tall guy playing the part of Raven is a good dancer. One moment, he’s skulking about, shoulders hunched, head slowly turning to take in the kids in the front row. The next, he’s stretched out to full height with his floor-length robe open like wings as if to grab them. They all shriek and lean back into their parents’ knees.

  I imagine Geraldine Weaver enjoying the ceremony as she prepares to cross into the spirit world. She has to be both happy and sad. Trinity said she died a year ago. That’s a long time to float around with no place to go.

  But then, survivors float around, too. When you suddenly lose someone you love, all that love doesn’t know where to go so it drifts around, homeless. It may even change shape, turning to fear and anger, before settling into that hole that never goes away.

  Much as I’d like to believe Dad’s still alive, my heart tells me he’s not. My heart tells me he’s nowhere and everywhere. He was on Nagoon to save Sam and me from drowning. I’m convinced of that. What were the chances of Jody and her pirate friends showing up with the boat at just the right moment? For that matter, what were the chances of Mom and me coming to this potlatch?

  Thanks Dad. Now that your work is done, are you waiting to be released to the spirit world? I may never know what happened to you, but I do know this: Like Raven spying something shiny, you couldn’t resist a good story. You collected and traded them. Stories were your treasure. Maybe you’re waiting for ours.

  CHAPTER 29

  Salty Dog

  Slang phrase with several meanings, including an experienced sailor

  David was right. This place really is a pub that wants to be a museum. I half expect to see him here, all tanned and gorgeous, hanging out with his fishing buddies. But the dining room is practically empty, making an odd contrast with the surrounding busyness. The walls and ceiling are so packed with stuff you don’t notice any one thing, except the hammerhead shark. That jumps out at you. If I were the owner, I’d be worried about an earthquake shaking it all down.

  Not that the customers would notice, judging from the three guys slumped over the bar on a Monday morning. They leer at us, but Mom doesn’t seem to care. I don’t know what it was about that potlatch yesterday, but it certainly put her in a good mood. The way she said good-bye to Trinity, all teary-eyed, you’d think they were best friends.

  “Do they have ID?”

  I follow the voice to a great mound of a man in a Hawaiian shirt behind the bar. Has he been there all this time? I was trying so hard not to make eye contact with the men at the bar, I must have missed the man behind it.

  “They don’t, but I do.” Mom says. “I’m Christine Petrovich. You may have heard of my husband, Steve?”

  The man drops his head. “Heard of him?” His fleeting sadness turns to cheer. “Hell, I named a burger after him.”

  He puts down a glass, wipes his hands on a towel, and comes around the end of the bar through a set of waist-high swinging doors. “I’m Dwight, the owner. I’m not usually here in the morning, but my cook called in hung over.” He shakes our hands. His is round and damp, like dough.

  Greetings done, his arm falls limply at his side. He reminds me of a bear, ball-shaped and too heavy to be standing on two feet. “Steve was a good guy, and the best storyteller I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing. Believe me, things haven’t been the same.”

  Mom thanks him and introduces us. Then she pushes me forward. “Go ahead, tell him why you’re here.”

  “Yeah, um, I want to know more about my dad, the time he spent up here fishing.”

  “Well, I can’t speak to the fishing, but he always sat in the same chair.”

  As I leave to follow Dwight into the dining room, I lock eyes with one of the men at the bar. He’s turned completely around on his stool to watch us, and now that we’re moving out of his sightline, he gives me an exaggerated frown, like a sad clown.

  “That one in the corner,” Dwight says, pointing.

  There it is, the chair under the dusty moose head with the Christmas lights threaded through its antlers. I walk over to it and touch the wood, carved with people’s initials and oiled black by their hands. My fingers search for telltale evidence he was here, but there’s nothing so obvious as an “S.P.” Not that my dad would be so juvenile as to carve his initials.

  “Go ahead,” Dwight says to me. “Have a seat.”

  I do. Mom and Dena take the chairs on the opposite sides of the table. It’s probably my imagination, but the air around us seems to crackle with Dad’s presence.

  “You know,” Dwight says, “some folks have suggested I install a name plate there in Steve’s honor. Put it right on his chair or the table. What do you think?”

  “I guess that would be okay,” I say.

  “Kind of what I thought.” Dwight shrugs. “You folks hungry? Can I bring you anything?” He addresses my mother. “Drink?”

  She brings her hand to her heart. “Heavens, it’s too early! Do you have tea?”

  “Sure do. And I’ll bring over some menus. We serve breakfast all day.”

  Dwight comes back with menus and Mom’s tea and tells us lunch is on the house. Mom protests, but not very strenuously. This unplanned trip has to be setting us back. I figure if lunch is free, I may as well get something I want. I flip to the list of burgers, and there’s The Tale Spinner: A burger every bit as good and juicy as one of Steve Petrovich’s stories. A quarter-pound all-beef patty smothered in fried sweet onions and bell peppers. I point the menu item out to Dena and Mom. Dena reads it out loud.

  “I don’t remember Dad liking bell peppers,” I say.

  “You crave fruits and vegetables when you’re on a fishing boat,” Dena reminds me. “They don’t keep.”

  I remember one of Dad’s impromptu history lessons. “The sailors on the old clipper ships would get scurvy because they ate no fruits or vegetables. Their gums would bleed and they’d break out in sores.”

  “Thanks, Ida. That really makes me want to eat.” Dena closes her menu.

  Mom sips her tea. “You girls.”

  Dena and I both order the Tale Spinner. “Good choice,” Dwight says. Mom apologizes for ordering a plain cheeseburger. I tilt Dad’s chair back against the wall to occupy the same space he did when he told his stories. Mom pushes on my armrest to get me back down on four legs. But before she does, I notice that the man at the bar has moved to a table in the dining room so he can continue to watch us.

  “Don’t look now,” I whisper, “but there’s a man at the front of the dining room staring at us.”

  Dena immedi
ately turns around. I kick her under the table.

  “Ouch!”

  “Great,” I whisper-shout. “Now he knows we know he’s watching us.”

  “What man?” Mom says.

  “A man from the bar has been staring at us since we came in. He actually moved from the bar so he could watch us.”

  “The bald guy with the moustache?” Dena asks.

  I nod.

  Dwight comes with our burgers. They’re massive, like he is, with a pile of fries that could be a meal of their own. He asks if he can get us anything else, and when we tell him no, he says, “Bon appetit.” The French surprises me, but if Alaska has taught me anything, it’s not to judge a book by its cover.

  The Tale Spinner is as good as advertised. I like the sweetness and tang of the peppers with the meat, and the dairy-free sauce is amazing.

  We eat kind of fast. I think we’re all anxious to escape the watching man. Just as we’re finishing up, Dwight returns and pulls over a chair from another table. Dena and Mom move over to give him room and he plops down with a grunt. His commanding physical presence is a comfort. If he can’t protect us from that weird guy, no one can.

  “So, young lady,” he says, resting his arms heavily on the table. “What can I tell you about your dad that you don’t already know?”

  “What were his stories about?”

  I think it’s a dumb question until Dwight starts in.

  “Well, of course, there were the usual one-that-got-away stories fishermen love to tell. But your dad told them so well he’d have us all on the edge of our seats. I think they were 10 percent fact and 90 percent fiction, but we didn’t care. He also liked to share the Native folktales. At least, he said they were Native folktales—mostly Tlingit, I think. What made them so special was the way your dad would act out all the characters, like a one-man play. Pretty soon, he’d have half the bar gathered around him, glued to the sound of his voice. You’d think we were a bunch of kids in story circle, except these stories—”

  “Weren’t for kids?”

  Dwight chuckles. “No. But there was always a message or lesson in them.”

  “Like?” I prompt.

  “Oh, let’s see …” He drums his fingers on the table. “Okay, like, Don’t be greedy. Respect animals and nature. That kind of thing. Eye for an eye.”

  “Don’t run off on your wife.”

  Dena and Mom both turn to me in surprise.

  “So you’ve heard these,” Dwight says.

  “I read the same book of myths he carried around,” I say. “And Dad told me some of the Raven tales.”

  Then I remember the one question I didn’t get the chance to ask Trinity. “Did Dad ever mention an Aleut prostitute who went by the nickname Two-Bit?”

  “Ida!” Mom recoils.

  But Dwight doesn’t even blink. “Sounds like one of your dad’s fish stories.”

  “But there really was a prostitute named Two-Bit!” I protest. “She worked on Creek Street. Her own people nicknamed her, but she adopted the name herself to show them she wasn’t ashamed.”

  Dwight gives me a blank look, Dena’s eyes widen, and Mom just shakes her head.

  “Honest to God, Dad talked about her a lot when he was here with the other fishermen. He and Two-Bit were friends.”

  “Never heard of her,” Dwight says, “but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t exist. Prostitution on Creek Street stopped in the mid-’50s. The only sporting woman I’ve heard of by name is Dolly Arthur, because they turned her house into a museum. She’s still alive, by the way. As for Two-Bit, you need to know that your Dad was known to, uh, exaggerate.”

  “You never even heard him talk about her?”

  “No. But, again, that doesn’t mean anything. He may have talked about her. While I would have loved to just sit and listen to your Dad’s stories, I have a bar to run.”

  “Speaking of which, we should let you get back to it.” Mom crumples up the napkin from her lap and sets it on her plate with her half-eaten burger. “Are you sure I can’t pay for lunch?”

  “Positive.”

  “Well, you’ve been more than generous. Thank you, Dwight.”

  “Thank you for visiting.” He starts to walk away, then stops and snaps his fingers. “Before you go, some of Steve’s friends have asked me where they can send memorials. They were sorry to miss the funeral.”

  “We didn’t have one.” Mom purses her lips together. “I tell you what, if they’d like to support something Steve believed in, tell them they can donate to the Center for Native Alaskan Youth here in town. They do good work there.”

  “Yes, I’m familiar with them,” Dwight says. “And I’ll pass that along. It was so nice meeting all of you. Good luck with your research, young lady.”

  I tell him thank you. As we file out of the dining room, I glance back at the watching man. He starts to rise out of his chair. I quickly turn away. Another round of good-byes and we’re out the door and down the street. Just when I think we’re in the clear, I hear footsteps running behind us.

  “Hey! Hey, you there!”

  Mom tells us to keep walking.

  “Steve’s wife,” the man says.

  Mom stops. Dena and I hesitate before turning around. Up close, the man from the restaurant is younger than I thought, maybe in his thirties. He smells of cigarettes and alcohol and his eyes are watery, but his stare is fixed.

  “Sorry,” he says catching his breath. “I heard you talkin’ about Steve? I knows a guy who fished with him.”

  “I think you’re mistaken,” Mom tells him. “My husband fished alone.”

  “Steve Petrovich, the one lost west of Dixon?”

  WE go back to The Salty Dog with Hank jabbering the whole way. He tells us he’s been working on fishing boats since he was fourteen. “I wanna get my own boat, but the money …” He shrugs. “Fishing ain’t what it used to be. Years of over-fishing, then that quake four years ago. I tell ya, Alaska’s future is in black gold—oil—but I’d rather battle thirty-foot waves than work out in the frozen middle o’ nowhere.”

  Mom picks a table near the door.

  “Back so soon?” Dwight waddles over, wiping his hands on his towel. He casts a sideways glance at Hank.

  Mom explains. “He says he knows someone who fished with Steve.”

  “Wouldn’t be surprised.”

  Hank orders a cup of coffee. He seems to take Dwight’s comment as testimony to his good character because he puffs up his chest and goes into great detail about the biggest fish he ever landed, a four-hundred-pound halibut, and how he lost the tip of his right pinky finger gutting that halibut. I’m thinking he’ll never get around to talking about what we want him to talk about, so I finally ask him how he knew my dad. He takes a roundabout path to the answer. Turns out he only knew of Dad.

  “There’s good captains and there’s some real assholes, pardon my French. I’ve worked with both. Fishermen talk. You get a rep, some of it fair, some not. But I ain’t never heard anything bad ’bout Steve, which is saying somethin’, cuz there’s no escape on a thirty-eight-foot troller. You see the good and the bad.” Hank gets his coffee. His hand shakes pouring the cream.

  “Like what kind of bad?” I want to know.

  “Well, it’s hard work and you’re getting no sleep, so you see people for how they really is. Selfish, mean, horny. Sorry, ma’am.” He bows to Mom. She jerks her head away as if hit with a bad smell.

  I lean forward. “Did you ever hear about a Native prostitute named Two-Bit?”

  Mom glares at me.

  “I want to know if there really was such a person.”

  Hank looks from Mom to me and back again. “I can’t recall the name …”

  “Did you ever go to the Creek Street bawdy houses?” I persist.

  Hank actually blushes behind his alcohol-reddened skin. “Well—”

  “You don’t have to answer that!” Mom whips around to face me. “Ida, stop with this question.”

  I s
it back, fold my arms across my chest, and give her my best pout. Dena tries to stifle a laugh and lets out a squeak.

  “You know,” Hank says. “My friend talked about this one thing Steve did. It wasn’t bad or anything, but it kinda got on his nerves. He’d hum. Same song. Over and over. My friend heard that tune so much, he’d start hummin’ it, and he didn’t even know the damn song.”

  “‘I’m Beginning to See the Light.’” Mom’s eyes fill up with tears. “That’s the name of the song. Excuse me.” She gets up and runs sniffling to the ladies’ room.

  She’s in there forever, leaving me and Dena alone with Hank, who’s actually kind of nice. Without Mom, we’re free to ply him with so many nosy questions that he finally breaks down and orders himself a real drink. Thus fortified, he does his best to answer, but he says he has no way of knowing a) If Dad was alone when he disappeared, or b) What might have happened.

  “Dixon can be bad news wit’ a storm comin’ from the southwest or even a good northwesterly,” he says. “If not a storm, could’ve been any number a’ things: fire, engine trouble, rogue wave, hittin’ a snag, fallin’ asleep—”

  “Falling asleep?”

  “Sure. If you’re not anchored, ya gotta stay awake for all the things I jus’ mentioned. That’s why it’s good to have someone to trade off with.”

  I hope Dad was alone when he went down. I’d hate to think there’s another family out there grieving over the mysterious disappearance of a loved one. It makes me wonder if Hank’s buddy is alive and accounted for. “Your friend, did he fish with Dad last summer?”

  “Not sure, but I’ll ask around, see if I can find who went out with him.”

  I write my address down on a napkin and ask him to drop me a line if he hears anything. He puts the folded napkin in his breast pocket.

  Mom finally returns as Hank’s downing the last of his drink. Her eyes are red and puffy, but she zeroes right in on his empty glass and hustles us out of there with a hasty goodbye to Dwight and a scowl at Hank.