“Ja, yes! For the future!”
Jones began to feel restless. Missed his own boat. Missed Adele, although it was a relief to go to his bunk tired and not be awakened by the woman shaking with tears in her sleep. The truth was, he began to admit, the routine of catching and splitting the big crabs might be heady, but less so after a while if you weren’t racking them one by one as personal money. Chow here was better than a can of cold beans, of course. Had lettuce and other fresh stuff now and then when they offloaded to a Stateside ship or somebody came back from leave with a crate. But pay was only promised after the crab got sold somewhere. Time to go home and face things. If he had to move the old lady out of Ketchikan to stop her crying, they could come to Kodiak and he could rig his boat to catch the big crabs direct. Certainly, after crabbing with Hoss and now on the Deep Sea, he knew how to catch them. Time to go.
Before he’d given up on her and followed his dad to Bristol Bay, he’d told Adele: “Go back to work in that bank. Why’d you quit anyhow?” Although he knew well enough it had been to prepare for the baby and that he’d often declared there was no need for ever a wife of Jones Henry to have a job when he’d made sure she had a house to take care of. This time it was different. To keep her occupied. Then, when she reported that the bank had hired another girl to take her place, he’d grumbled, “Well, go join the other hens at the Elks and play cards or something. No call to just sit here and wait for me to come in off the boat. All day. Every day.” Dumb of him.
“Hens?” she’d cried, and it started all over. “Oh you don’t understand,” and there she was crying again. “I do go out. I do, sometimes. But the girls I knew at the bank are all married now, and they all have—. And what if I wasn’t here when my husband came home? With dinner waiting. Like a good wife and . . . and mother?”
No answer for anything that set her off again. Sometimes after escaping, he’d pass Creek Street and think how a few bucks got you a quick lay without having to coax a woman and listening to her talk about things like God’s punishment. She hadn’t been like that before the baby. Or maybe he would never have proposed. Even so, he’d missed her when he’d gone to Bristol Bay and then to Kodiak and the Deep Sea. Missed the woman now.
By the time for the ship’s next routine fueling stop, Jones had seen all of other people’s catches that he needed. Had slept alone all that made any sense for a man with a wife.
“I, too, must go,” announced Swede. He held two messages from the radio room. “Company headquarters in Seattle wishes me to report. Then quickly back home to Ketchikan.” He hesitated, struggling with something close to a grin. “Mary is pregnant. From a night before I left for Bristol Bay. Not that . . .”
Jones saw Swede’s discomfort. His own problem didn’t mean that the world should stop. He slapped Swede’s shoulder. “We’re out of here. Both of us. Next fuel port. And . . . congratulations.”
Jones joined Swede. They stood at the rail with Native men from the processing line who had no duties for mooring. Hours before, with the volcanic shoreline barely a ridge under low clouds, the processing room had been thoroughly scrubbed so that it smelled more of ammonia than crab. Now, still well before noon, they were close enough to shore to see that the Aleutian mountains swooped upward like waves. A shaft of sun broke through gray clouds. It glowed on a finger of snow that ridged the highest peak, traveled down past rock to slopes of bright green vegetation, and faded.
Akutan village lay in a strip below the mountains. Some of the Aleut workers might have murmured and pointed from the rail, but there wasn’t much to see. High grass surrounded a spread of low-gabled buildings. A pole above one structure bore an American flag that flapped in the wind. There was a church, to judge by the cross atop its clapboard peak and the fenced crosses in the weeds around it. A few open boats bobbed along a pier of thick pilings. Not much else.
Men had started out to them in some of the boats. Vladimir, the spokesman, pointed. “That’s my older brother there. Boat with red paint on the bow? He’s chief. Coming out to get me. My wife and the other women probably inside cooking up a nice celebration.” The ship tied at the pier of an abandoned whaling station across the lagoon from the village. Mooring lines had barely thumped down before men in some of the small boats had crossed to within shouting distance. They talked with the Deep Sea workers in a language Jones made no attempt to follow, since it wasn’t English.
After calling back and forth to his brother, Vladimir declared, “Sure! That’s what I figured since we’ve been gone from home here a while. Big party and dance tonight. Everybody’s invited. The boats, they’ll come back after they’ve taken us home who live here, to get everybody else for the party. Six o’clock, okay? Don’t need to worry about dinner. Plenty of fish. And a pilot shot a moose over on the mainland and flew it in when he came, so plenty of meat.”
“Local party?” Jones muttered to Swede standing beside him. “And since when did moose season open so early? Just fly me home.”
But it turned out that no floatplane was scheduled to come or go that day, nor did any boat plan to make the trip across open sea to the larger island and airstrip at Dutch Harbor. A private single-passenger plane had dropped off some Japanese man earlier, someone in the village said by radio, but no one knew if it intended to return. Jones shrugged at the news, since nothing could be done about it, and Swede persuaded him to go ashore for the afternoon—something to do before the party that night. “For education,” as Swede put it. “Every new place is an education.”
“I already know all I need to about this place.” Jones had retorted. But by two o’clock, with nothing else to do, Jones wore dungarees cleaned in the ship’s washing machine and joined Swede and two of the Norwegian deck men waiting for the boat to shore. A ship’s lifeboat had been lowered for the occasion, since most of the town’s skiffs were smaller and slower, and it had already taken ashore one of the college types who knew the place from a previous visit. The sun had long ago disappeared. They made the crossing facing into a chilly wind that blew rain into their eyes. The upper mountains had turned as gray as the sky, although the green lower slopes closer to view showed misty dots of yellow and white wildflowers. By now, Jones had stopped fretting about Adele and what to do for her. They’d move to Kodiak. He’d catch king crabs. She’d settle in. He had even mellowed enough to shrug off the fact that Swede and the others began to joke in their own foreign lingo.
The village itself didn’t look any more appealing up close than from a distance. For every one-story clapboard house painted white or yellow, another had boards weathered nearly to black. There appeared to be no formal yards, although washed clothes hung on lines in the back of some houses. Weeds and flowers sprouted together beside a couple of muddy roads. Large dogs, none hostile, roamed freely.
“Over here, guys!” called the college man named Tom who had come on the earlier boat. He stood at the back of a house larger than most. It had a store in front and a rear entrance sheltered from the rain. Jones had found the man friendly on the bridge—guy in his late thirties with black hair always combed it seemed. Gone to school with Wakefield or the captain, talked seriously about things like opportunity before it was too late, but seemed willing enough to have a laugh on deck whenever he pitched in.
“Don’t worry, you’re invited,” Tom said. “But leave your shoes on the linoleum just inside.” To Swede, Tom muttered, “I told you earlier about the man who lives here. Pretty well runs the village. Some of us always call here first, and he expects us. Scottish. Settled in years ago, married here, runs the main store, has kids all ages—so don’t act surprised. Not the village chief, of course—he’s Aleut. But the guy who pretty much calls the shots. It’ll be his wife and a couple of daughters in the kitchen.”
Inside, it was warmer by at least thirty degrees. Tom led the way through the kitchen, where a woman and two girls, all with Native features, stopped for a moment to acknowledge them, before beginning again to bustle. The counter spaces we
re crowded with opened cans and food in various stages of preparation, and gray sun streamed through the rain-spattered windows. Tom introduced the woman. She paused to wipe her hands on her apron, shake each of theirs, and declare, “You fellahs go right on into the living room and make yourselves comfortable.”
The living room was as shuttered as the kitchen had been bright. It had a slight odor of kerosene, probably from a freestanding stove that radiated heat. Curtains, furniture, and rug all seemed to be of the same dark material. The girls from the kitchen followed, carrying folding chairs for the new guests. Sitting in the widest stuffed chair was the Scotsman himself. He rose easily although he was rather more fleshy than the others, shook hands with a firm grip as Tom introduced first Swede, the two Norwegians, then Jones, then settled back down, adjusting his sweater jacket. “Always welcome here, gentlemen. What’s yer pleasure, tea or coffee?” When they all spoke for coffee, he nodded toward the girls, who had stayed a moment longer to watch.
“We were talking about king crab,” Tom said. “Mr. McGregor remembers how, before the war, Japanese boats sometimes came all the way here to catch them. Of course they don’t anymore. Oh. Sorry. Didn’t introduce you over there.” He gestured toward a man in the darkest corner of the room, who had risen. “I didn’t catch your name, sir. From northern Japan, right?” The man stepped forward with a tentative bow, hesitated, then extended his hand. “Kiyoshi Tsurifune, sir. It is . . . interesting pleasure that we meet again.”
The two Norwegians shook the proffered hand. Swede observed politely, “Interesting to see you again so soon.”
Jones remained with hands firmly at his sides. “You trailing us?”
The Japanese half-bowed. “Mr. Jones, uh, Mr. Henry. My happiness that we meet many times. Sir.”
“Gotten to be more meetings than I can understand.” Jones scowled. “What business have you got, all the way out here?”
“We wished in Bristol Bay to explore purchase market for salmon, sir. And now also I am sent to report on large crabs.” Kiyoshi hesitated long enough to assemble the necessary words. “Sent to investigate . . . the sharing of great salmon and crab resource. Here in the great seas of America. Here where there is enough to feed everybody.”
Jones snorted. “Yeah, that’ll be the day.” But as he looked around at all the foreigners in the room, he felt uneasy. What kind of war had he thought his country had won?
“Actually,” said Tom, “from what I gather, Mister . . . uh . . . Surifurie here flew over this morning from Dutch Harbor because he heard our Deep Sea was coming in to fuel. Private plane’ll come back to fetch him when he radios. Wants to look us over. Suits me. After we leave here, I’ll take him back to the ship with me for a look-see.” He glanced at Swede and Jones. “Wham-bam tour, nothing uh, proprietary. No harm in seeing what the Japanese market might want.”
“Might want your balls and then some,” muttered Jones.
“Sit, sit, everybody,” said the Scotsman affably. “Make yourselves at home. You’ve met before, eh?” He called toward the kitchen. “Becky, lass, you hurry with the coffee now. And bring more tea for our Japanese friend.” He swept out his hands. “Sit, sit. There’re enough times around here when we’ve got to be standing.”
“I see a few houses fresh painted,” Tom remarked.
“Prosperity, sir. Thanks to the jobs some of our people have on your ship. Even the little church got painted. And some of the gold-colored stuff on the altar has been renewed inside, my wife tells me. Directed by Father Rostoff who goes from church to church down the island chain. Of course, I was raised Protestant and that’s all Russian Orthodox, but no matter to me except people should be content and behave themselves, eh?”
“Part of Deep Sea’s charter, to hire locals.” Tom glanced toward the window. “And a nice part of the world to be in, when the sun shines. Never seen such wildflowers.”
“Well, sir, now’s not a bad time around here, you understand. The days are still a wee bit long. Mosquitoes gone mostly. Snow not come yet.”
Jones chose a chair as far from the Japanese as possible. Both men sat straight, even though the others settled in. Jones’s narrow-eyed glance once caught the man regarding him likewise from across the room, before both looked away. Dressed better than me, he thought. Maybe important. Face all blank like those people do, except for that shitty little smile that gives no idea what he’s thinking. But he’s up to something, just like in Naknek a month back. What kind of war . . . anyhow?
The girl named Becky brought in a tray with coffee in cups that all matched except for one. Beside the cups was a can of PET Milk with a hole punched on either side of the top. Mr. McGregor leaned over to clear the table in front of him for the tray. He picked up a white inch-high figure and turned it in his hand. “Pretty little thing. From Mr. . . . our Japanese friend here.” To the girl. “Take this, lass. Put it somewhere, eh?”
While he was speaking, a Native man entered and waited respectfully until the Scotsman was finished before asking about what he called “that ribbon stuff for tonight.”
“Indeed, indeed.” The Scotsman pulled a ring of keys from his side, detached one, and handed it over. “Storage locker in the loft. Bring the key back right away. Then decorate things right, my boy. I’ll come by later to inspect.”
“Yes, sir.” The man left, slipping back into his boots at the kitchen door. “And now, gentlemen. Can I help you with anything? After weeks of daily routine—months it seems—we have not only your ship here with some of our own people. From my radio, I learned that late today the Coast Guard ship Sweetbrier will dock over there beside you for water-whatever. We have a busy day, you see.”
“Long as we’re talking,” ventured Jones. “I wouldn’t mind to wet my whistle at a bar before this dance, if you can point me there.”
“By ’tam,” laughed one of the Norwegians. “Dis man’s new here.”
Even the Scotsman joined in a laugh as he declared, “New here indeed, I see! If yer bad injured, laddie, you’ll come to me and I’ll open my medicine chest a bit. But that’s all, and I’m sorry for you then. Liquor with these people and they fall apart. So not a drop of it’s the rule in my village here. Enforced by myself since I came. Since I saw what harm come of it. Even myself, and I sometimes miss it, I must admit. Better luck to ya over in Dutch Harbor at that place they call ‘Elbow Room.’ Where otherwise good men go sloppin’ in the streets picking fights, eh?”
There was a silence—what more could a hard-working man say after that? Tom ventured, “This is sure good coffee!”
“We save it for special occasions, sir. Like this day. Other days we drink tea.” The Scotsman again settled comfortably against the crocheted doily covering the velveteen of his chair. “Now. You fellows all better have your dancin’ shoes ready for tonight. You’ll be needing ’em!”
From the Scotsman’s house, Tom led them through the rain along a dirt road to the door of the village chief’s house. Included in the group now was the Jap, who trailed far enough behind that Jones had no trouble keeping his distance. The chief’s house was small, but fresh-painted. This time the man himself was waiting to receive them. He wore a checked shirt, newer-looking than the one he’d worn on the welcoming boat, and nodded to them with grave dignity. Also at the door was his younger brother Vladimir. Now, instead of the rubber apron and boots he wore when at work aboard the Deep Sea, he was dressed in a coat and tie, although he stood in socks, like his brother, and he had shaved. “You fellows come in, now. It’s cold out there.” Only Jones needed a reminder to leave his brogans on the linoleum inside the door. Smells of fish blended with those of kerosene stoves. As at the Scotsman’s house, but with less space, they were led through a kitchen where women bustled (but without introduction) and into a living room. Chairs had already been placed around. The chief motioned for them to sit. He himself settled into an armchair covered with blue cloth and adjusted a loose tasseled-edge of the cloth that that covered frayed stuffing. His
brother Vladimir sat on a chair beside him. Behind them on the white-painted wall was mounted an icon of the Virgin alongside a framed certificate embossed with an American flag. A shelf underneath held a small vase, a china dog, and other knick-knacks. Unframed pictures on another wall depicted a thorn-crowned bleeding Christ and some family snapshots.
The Jap produced a small, wrapped box from his pocket and handed it to the chief with a slight bow. “For good friendship, sir.”
Tom grinned at him. “Hey, how many of these you bring?”
“These only, sir. Netsuke they are called.”
“Ahh.” The chief examined the box, carefully removed the wrapping and folded it—for reusing, as Jones figured—then lifted open the top. “Ah!” He lifted out a tiny carved figure like the one given to the Scotsman, although the pose appeared to be different. He held it for his brother to see but did not hand it over.
Tom bent to look at it also. “Different little carving. Japanese shogun maybe. Looks like ivory. Even got an etched pattern on the guy’s robes. Nice.”
The chief spoke, and Vladimir translated, “My brother, he says thank you. He’ll put it up on the shelf there with his other good stuff. But first he’s going to keep it a while right beside him.”
The chief called out something in Aleut. Immediately, a Native woman came in with a large tray that she set on a table. She wore a blue dress that looked new, printed with red and yellow flowers. He showed her the carved figure. She exclaimed, glanced at the Japanese, then left quickly. Two dishes on the tray contained chunks of fish with meat both reddish and gray. Some of the chunks had pieces of skin attached. The chief nodded to his guests and said something. “Eat. Please,” translated Vladimir. “My brother says the salmon pieces with skin taste best. Of course, plenty more tonight.”
Tom, who had apparently visited before, led the way once more by taking a piece in his fingers, popping it in his mouth, and declaring, “Tell the chief this is a good smoke batch, Vlad. Here, guys, dig in.” He handed a plate to Swede, who followed suit in good humor, passed it on, and licked his fingers clean. At least these people know how to smoke a fish, Jones conceded after chewing a piece.
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