The River Queen

by Mary Morris

She wraps it carefully in tissue, secures it between two pieces of cardboard. As she wraps it, I think how I want to pick up the phone and ask him more. There are a million things I’ll never know and I feel a terrible regret. As I head back to the boat, I know that something is over for me in this journey. Tom and Jerry stand impatiently on the dock, waiting. Samantha Jean is doing her guard dog thing on the flybridge. I should hurry, but I do not quicken my pace.

  As I approach the boat, I see a small green step the boys have rigged up for me. “The boating equivalent of the red carpet,” Tom yuks. Back on board Tom and Jerry are ready to rock ’n’ roll. I go to put away my things as Jerry shows me a shelf he has built for me under the sink. “You can keep your books and things there,” he says. “Like your work.”

  I drop my backpack onto the bed. A single chocolate mint rests on my pillow. “Tom,” I say, going up to the helm, “did you put a chocolate mint on my pillow?”

  He blushes as much as Tom ever will. “You know,” he says, “special treatment. Like a hotel.”

  It’s time to push off, but we’re in a tricky spot. We have to back way up in order to exit the narrow channel that leads out of the marina. I hear Tom telling Jerry to “spin her hard. Give her all you’ve got.” Jerry is tense, nervous about backing into another boat. “You’ve got a good hundred feet,” Tom tells him, and then as he takes her back, “Okay, that’s enough. You’re good to go.”

  As we pull out of the narrow channel, Tom points to a tow anchored on the side. “Hey, we saw her yesterday. She didn’t make it. She didn’t lock through.”

  A barge loaded with freight passes us at full throttle and we get bumped in its wake. We’re back on the river, chugging along. Hannibal recedes. I’m moving on. I’m leaving all this behind.

  * * *

  At Lock and Dam 22 we have a seven-minute wait. “He sure knows his lock,” Jerry says. Tom’s come below and he’s hanging on to a ladder outside that is covered in cobwebs and bugs. “June bugs,” Tom says.

  I don’t bother to correct him, but under my breath say, “Mayflies.”

  “You know, two years ago, there were so many over at the Pettibone marina that the harbormaster had to get a snowplow to get rid of them.”

  “Yuk,” I say, pushing off the wall.

  Since we’ve got a little time to kill, Tom tells me he’s bought some things for Kim. “You know, cuz she helped so much. And cuz she saved Sammy’s life.”

  “That’s nice of you,” I tell him.

  “I got her a necklace. Wanta see it?”

  I tell him I do. He lets go of his line and we both head inside, where he reaches into a cubby above my head and pulls out a brown paper bag. The boat gives a little rock, taking on the exiting barge’s wake, and its contents spill onto the couch. I see the necklace, and a gold box, and a pair of silver handcuffs. Tom scoops up the handcuffs with his sheepish smile. “Joke,” he says.

  “Okay!” Jerry calls. “We’re locking through!”

  We float free and as soon as we come out Tom and I go above. The river’s open. It’s a clear evening and I’m piloting now. If all goes well, we should reach Two Rivers by dark. Tom’s sitting with Samantha Jean in his lap, keeping me company. “You know what I’ll always remember,” Tom says with a laugh. “That night when the barge brought us into Keokuk in the dark. That’s the kind of people you meet out here.”

  I nod, moving into the bend.

  “You know, this river is a big unknown. She’s a bitch and she can take you down if she wants to. Don’t quote me on that.”

  I’m steering and laughing. A flock of pelicans soars above. “But she’s big and she’s mean and she’s full of the unknown.”

  Ahead we’re coming up to a barge, heading north, and I get up from the captain’s chair. “You want to take her, Tom?”

  “No, you stick with her.”

  “Really?” I’m nervous. I’ve never passed another ship before. Thus far my driver’s education has consisted of a very wide stretch of empty river. “Are you sure?”

  He nods. “You take her.”

  I’m looking at the barge and its place in the river. I’m seeing which way the tow driver is heading. “I think starboard.”

  Tom shakes his head. “Port to port.”

  I don’t agree. From the way she’s coming, I think I want her to pass me on the starboard side, but Tom’s pretty adamant. I’m waiting for the tow to give a signal and I’m at the point where I need to decide when Jerry peeks his head through the little window below. He seems surprised to see me at the wheel, but he doesn’t skip a beat. “Take her on the starboard. On one whistle.”

  “Starboard?” I ask.

  “Yeah, their pilot just called.”

  I give Tom a little wink and he looks away. At Mile 287.1 I get my one whistle and pass the barge on the starboard side. We catch a little wake and I point her nose into the troughs.

  “That’s good,” Tom says. “Now take your river back.”

  HURRICANE

  33

  A PLACE with the odd name of Louisiana, Missouri, was once famous for its cigar factories and for the Stark Apple Nurseries, home of the Delicious apple. But we’re heading to the Illinois side—the Two Rivers Marina. I ask Jerry if he’ll call ahead. He’s reluctant to use his cell phone because of the cost (Jerry’s a thrifty guy), but now I am officially desperate to do my laundry. It’s been a long, hot day and I also wouldn’t mind a meal and a shower. “I’ll call,” I tell him. “Tell me what to say.”

  “Tell them we’re looking for a slip and our L.O.A. is forty-seven feet.”

  “Our L.O.A.?”

  “Length over all.”

  I use my cell phone and call Two Rivers. A woman answers the phone. “This is houseboat Friend Ship,” I tell her, “wondering if you have a slip available. Our L.O.A. is forty-seven feet.”

  “Yes, we can accommodate you. You come on ahead.”

  I am unbelievably proud of myself for handling this simple communication. I smile so much my face hurts and Jerry just shakes his head. As we sail into this lovely, full-blown marina in a quiet cove, I am in heaven. It actually looks like a real place. It’s tucked under the bridge for Interstate 54 and I am content to see trucks and cars and what passes for civilization buzz by.

  We moor and plan to head right up to the restaurant. We’re all starving but Jerry decides to hang back and make a few notes. As I’m walking up with Tom, I call Kate on the phone, but I get her voice mail. Before I can say anything, Tom grabs the phone away from me. “Whale Kisser,” he says, “come in. This is the River Queen. Do you read me?” Then he laughs.

  As we approach the restaurant, a bevy of teens comes pouring out. “Oh-oh,” Tom says, “local hangout.” But the restaurant is large and virtually empty. This is, after all, a weekday in the off-season. There are some teenagers playing video games near the bar, perhaps leftovers from the crew we saw leaving, and the bar itself has customers, but the restaurant has only one or two tables filled. A family with a baby is at one.

  Tom and I take a seat in the middle of the room and I notice a strange man walking around. He has greasy hair and a blank stare. He plunks himself down next to the family with the baby and lights up a cigarette.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” the perky blond waitress asks us.

  “I’ll have a diet Dew,” Tom replies, looking her up and down. I order a glass of chardonnay. My eyes are fixed on the creepy guy. Who’d sit down right next to a baby and light up? But Tom’s got his eyes on the leggy waitress. She’s just a girl, really, but Tom is fixated.

  Our drinks arrive and the waitress starts to tell us the specials when the creepy guy gets up and starts walking around again. Though there are dozens of tables to be had, he goes to the table right next to ours and sits down. Then he lights up.

  “I’ll have the sirloin tips with asparagus,” I tell her, my eyes on this man.

  “I’ll have the same,” Tom says. “But can I have mashed potatoes with mine?�
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  Tom notices me staring at the man. He turns back to the waitress. “Excuse me, but do you have a nonsmoking section?” I am surprised at how polite and formal he is with her.

  “Yes we do, Sir.”

  “We’d like to go over there.”

  When we move, the creepy guy moves away as well. Tom gives him an ominous stare. “That was nice of you,” I tell Tom.

  He shrugs. “Why should you be uncomfortable?” he replies.

  Jerry joins us quite a bit later and I’m already falling asleep. I’m grateful when our orders arrive. As our waitress walks off, Tom, who is looking a little the worse for wear, says, “She sure can move from port to starboard. And look at them buoys.”

  I’m shaking my head as Tom buries his face in his hand. “Oh, God, I’m sinking.”

  “You definitely are.”

  Jerry nods, concurring.

  I’m tired, and as soon as I’m finished eating, I get up. “I think I’ll go to bed,” I tell them. Tom rises as well. “Are you leaving Jerry alone?”

  “Nope, but I’m walking you back,” Tom says.

  “You don’t need to.”

  “I’m walking you back.”

  As we head out the door, I almost crash right into the creepy guy as he heads out the door as well. It is a clear night, filled with stars, and the path back to the marina is paved. We are silent as Tom walks me back. I’m standing on the deck, but he says, “I want you to go inside and lock the boat.”

  “It’s a nice night,” I tell him, “I’ll go in soon.”

  But Tom shakes his head. “I’m not leaving until you do.”

  So I go inside and lock the door. He stands, staring at me until I do. As he’s leaving, I hear him tell Samantha Jean, who is topside, “You keep an eye out for things, you hear, Girl? Now give Daddy a kiss on the nose.”

  Inside the cabin I call Larry first to say good night. Then once more I try to call Kate. On the first ring she picks up. It is so good to hear her voice. She doesn’t feel far away at all.

  “Who left that message earlier? ‘Whale Kisser’?”

  “Oh, that was Tom. He saw the picture of you with the beluga.”

  “Oh.” She laughs. “I thought it was some kind of pervert.”

  I thought how well things had worked out. What a nice little family I’d made. I met Larry at a writer’s conference in Richmond, Virginia, when Kate was fifteen months old. He was from Canada and we were both in the same dorm. I had become a bit of a recluse after Jeremy and I broke up, but when Larry and I sat down to lunch together one day, he told me he’d just taken the walking tour of Old Richmond. Taking a walking tour seemed like a wonderful thing to do. The next day we went to a museum. We started seeing each other, eating our meals together, and after a week I knew I had to tell him.

  We had gone to Miss Morton’s Tea Room, for fried chicken, and over dinner I said, “I just want to let you know that my mother, my nephew, and my baby daughter are arriving on Saturday.”

  I waited for him to flinch, ask for the bill. To find the way to slip out of the room. Instead he looked me square in the eye. “What time do we need to meet their flight?”

  On Saturday he drove me to the airport and, as my mother got off the plane, Kate dashed down the jetway through the terminal. She was heading to the revolving doors. “Larry,” I shouted, “get her.” He chased her all over that airport.

  Two years later Larry adopted Kate in surrogate court. The judge handed her a lollipop and explained to her what it meant to be adopted and did Kate agree. When Kate said yes, the judge asked her to raise her right hand. I can still see that little fist rising into the air.

  * * *

  I’m up at the crack of dawn. Stuffing laundry into a pillowcase, I schlep it up to the marina, but the laundry room is locked. I’m amazingly disappointed until I go into the women’s bathroom. To my delight there are three sinks, which are just what I need. I use one for whites, one for colors, and one to rinse. I am stunned at the pleasure I take after more than two weeks on board in scrubbing and soaping my personal things, in putting them into the rinse-cycle sink, then hanging them all around the bathroom stalls to drip dry as I take my shower. Despite an odd dream that someone has stolen our axe and plans to use it, I feel vigorous and strong. I let the hot water course over my body, down my back, my thighs. As my clothes drip dry, I soap my body, the top of my skull, scrub my toes.

  At about six I run into “Bob,” as his shirt reads, who works at the marina. He sees me carting my wet laundry, my sheets and towels, and tells me he’ll open the laundry room. “You can wash your linens,” he says, opening the door. He says he can’t leave it unlocked. “Just look for me when you’re done and I’ll open it up again.” I know Jerry wants to be off on an early start, but surely I can wash my sheets first. I put some of my things in the dryer and the bedding and towels into the machine.

  I’m enjoying the simple things again—the sirloin tips and beer from last night’s supper, Tom escorting me back to the boat, a moonlit night, two old men fishing in the shade under a bridge, an egret and a blue heron in a territorial struggle. But, as I make my way back to the boat, Jerry, who is sipping his coffee, looks at me askance. He wants to be leaving soon.

  Half an hour later I start searching for Bob, who needs to unlock the laundry room, but he is nowhere to be found. There is a man driving a lawn mower, but he can’t hear a thing. A fat white cat follows me everywhere I go. “Shoo, shoo,” I say to the cat. I keep going back and forth to the marina, but I can’t find Bob and Jerry is getting more and more annoyed.

  At eight a.m. the marina opens and I find someone to unlock the laundry room. I never do see Bob again. I gather my things, which are only half dry, and head back to the boat, which is once again waiting for me to sail.

  * * *

  I had always believed clothespins were for holding clothes, but I’ve learned that, on board ship, laundry is in fact the least of their concerns. Clothespins are used as clamps to keep things dry: Honey Nut Cheerios, Wonder Bread, Chips Ahoy, saltines, and opened bags of Dorito chips and potato chips. Whatever moisture will destroy. They are used as markers for maps and books and to keep miscellaneous receipts from blowing away.

  In the world of ideal inventions, where function perfectly fits the form (the bicycle, the crowbar, the flyswatter), the clothespin is that most underappreciated of gadgets. As I hold one in my hand on this sunny morning, I examine the way the two pieces of wood and a spring can do so much. But I am actually using them for my damp clothes. As I move through the cabin, collecting them, the boys pretend I’m not there. Not only has my laundry delayed our departure, but I’ve stolen the clothespins from the chips and saltines to use them for the arcane purpose of drying my clothes.

  Now my wet things dangle from the railing. This is clearly a violation, but neither Tom nor Jerry will say it in so many words. Of course, they aren’t exactly speaking to me either.

  “We’re late.” Jerry grunts, glaring at my red and blue spandex T-shirts, my shorts, flapping in the wind. My underwear I’ve hung discreetly in the shower stall, which has never been hooked up anyway. “Late start means late finish,” he quips.

  Tom glances at the laundry and shakes his head. He doesn’t say anything, but I can tell this is not proper ship etiquette. It is as offensive to him as cleaning green beans on the flybridge. This laundry thing is for rural backyards of Nebraska or Italian side streets, but not for a River Queen houseboat. Not for our dignified ship. Whatever. I am happy, with clean clothes. As we push off, the man mowing his lawn waves. We pass a cruiser and the couple on board waves. We drift by the two fishermen and they wave. We travel under a railroad bridge and the engineer not only waves but gives us a friendly toot.

  Though I still do not exactly understand this odd ritual, I am thrilled by these waves. It is as if the pope or a rock star is waving at me. Though Tom and Jerry are chagrined, I am filled with glee the way babies are, waving hello and “bye-bye” as my sheets and
pants and T-shirts, like so many sails, flap in the wind.

  34

  HURRICANE WEATHER is upon us. Just hours out of Two Rivers we find ourselves in a hot, sunny day with no place to go. That muggy, still kind. The doldrums. If we were a sailboat, we’d be becalmed. The sun beats down on the boat and it’s too hot for any of us to be outside. Tom and Jerry pilot from the inside helm. They have grown more relaxed with me, I can tell. They have their shirts off. They leave the toilet seat up.

  It’s that kind of sultry, sticky weather where you can’t do a thing and there is no respite outside from the sun. I’m sitting in the cabin with all the windows open. In the heat of the day I am at the kitchen table (the only table except for the one Jerry lets me use on the bow to write), with a plastic box in my lap.

  I have decided to familiarize myself with the Chrysler Marine Engine Service Manual. It occurs to me that, if my pilots should die simultaneously, say a lightning bolt to the flybridge while I am below, I would have no idea what to do. I couldn’t call for help. I wouldn’t know how to get out of the main channel or throw an anchor line. And I certainly couldn’t get an engine started if I had to.

  I need to inform myself. I peruse the table of contents. Lubrication, oil drainage. Controls group: propeller, kick-up interlock, tiller bar control. I check out the outdrive group: removal from pivot housing. Separation of upper and lower units. Anodes. There are looping diagrams. Pictures that explain the flow of fuel, where water meets gas.

  As I leaf through a breezy section on the installation and adjustment of motor parts, I realize I may as well be reading a neurosurgical handbook with the thought of removing a brain tumor from myself. Just the pivotal housing diagram is enough to send shudders through me. Even the 911-M28 marine traveler toilet manual, with its twenty-four different parts, some of which I saw my first day on the boat, and its four pages of installation instructions, is beyond me.

  Besides, Tom has a special relationship to his motors which I realize now, defeated in these doldrums, I will never have. He talks to them the way he talks to his dog. The way a man might whisper about his lover to a friend over a couple of beers. She’s lookin’ good. She likes my touch. If you give her a little more, you’ll get a little more. Come on, Girl. Do it for me.