The Raft

by Christopher Blankley

  Epilogue

  Maggie's feet were cold.

  Senator Hadian's loafers were, by no stretch of the imagination, winter footwear. But they were still the only shoes Maggie owned, and they were by now almost worn out in the sole.

  The last six months had seen Maggie spending far too much time onshore. Her life had become an almost endless parade of nondescript bureaucrats. Government types. Lackeys. Everyone and anyone trying to tell Maggie what to do.

  Who knew that running the Raft would turn out to be so... complicated? After all, Maggie had no official power, no one had ever elected her. She had no title and held no office. She was simply in possession of the phone that rang any time anyone on dryland wanted to reach the Raft. And ring the phone did, off the hook.

  Maggie stumbled through the door of the Salmon Bay Cafe with a gust of cold winter wind rushing through the door behind her. Hurriedly, she latched the door and shook the icy rain from her coat. She whisked it off and onto a hook beside the door. She quickly scanned the breadth of the dining room, scanning for her dinner date, and found the restaurant mostly empty. It was early. Too late for lunch and too early for dinner. Maggie found a table and sat down. A waitress brought coffee.

  Of course, mostly all of the hullabaloo was Maggie's own fault. She'd created an almost insurmountable mountain of work for herself. When the early negotiations with the Feds had broken down, with the government demanding all sorts of concessions from the Raft that Maggie knew the Rafters would never make, she'd fired back with her nuclear option: Raft statehood.

  Of course, it was a crazy idea, no one on either side of the table had really taken it seriously. But the idea that the Raft might become America's first meta-state had thrown a sizable wrench into the federal machine that had hoped to reintegrate the Raft into dryfoot society.

  After all, wasn't the nation built on the idea of no taxation without representation? And with no fixed address the Rafters had no electoral districts or congressmen to represent them. It was all a bluff, and Maggie never pretended that it was anything else – the Raft didn't realistically want or expect to become the country's fifty-third state – but the long parade of nondescript bureaucrats had the devil's own time trying to explain exactly why the Raft couldn't apply for statehood. Was a contiguous area of land required for statehood? Was land required at all? If the Raft could apply for statehood, did that then mean that, say, the Amish could apply for statehood based on philosophical unity despite their disparate physical reality?

  Nobody knew. Or rather, nobody knew why not. They blustered and laughed and wrote dismissing editorials, but Maggie's push for Raft statehood plodded on. The Raft had even had a Constitutional Convention of sorts, if a potluck and putt-putt golf aboard the Kalakala could be a Constitutional Convention.

  And the bluff served its purpose. A Government official wasting his time thinking up new strategies to derail statehood was a Government official not thinking up ways to collect taxes from the Raft. It served a secondary purpose, too: casting doubt on the validity of Senator Hadian's end-run Constitutional Amendment to protect marriage.

  Only a few weeks after Meerkat's murder, the Supreme Court had ruled in favor of the Senator's ratification convention. One had been hurriedly called in his home state of Washington, safely over in the more conservative eastern part of the state, and ratification of the 28th Amendment had easily passed. It just left the Senator needing one more state to reach the three-fourths required for the Amendment to become law. But if the United States had fifty-three states, the Senator would find himself in need of a fortieth state to back his Amendment. A Herculean political task beyond even the powers of Senator Hadian.

  Maggie sipped at her coffee and smiled. It was nothing solid, nothing permanent. But the delicious pleasure of one-upping the Senator was well worth the bureaucratic pain. While her petition for Raft statehood was before Congress, while those who trod the corridors of power searched their law books for exactly the right wording to well and truly crush Maggie's nonsense, the Senator's attempt to codify in law his own hate and prejudice would remain frustrated.

  Yes, Maggie sipped at her coffee and smiled. It was a delicious pleasure indeed.

  All the back and forth and meeting with officials had allowed Maggie to keep her diplomatic immunity intact, as either a Law enforcement officer for the Nation of Liberia or the potential first Governor of the State of Raft, it didn't really matter. The IRS was turning a blind eye to Maggie's comings and goings on dryland.

  So when Rachael had called earlier and asked if Maggie would like to have coffee at the Salmon Bay Cafe, she'd been able to accept. She'd lowered her dinghy off the stern of the Soft Cell and motored into the locks. Since saying goodbye six months ago at the height of the summer, Maggie and Rachael had only spoken on the phone. They'd both been so busy. Now winter was settling down over the Northwest and the winds were picking up out on the Puget Sound. It was a bumpy life aboard the Raft in the winter, an ever-moving platform under your feet. Maggie was more than happy to sneak away for an hour, to the warmth and stability of an onshore restaurant. Even if there was a mountain of work back on the Soft Cell that needed to get done.

  And it would be good to see Rachael again, Maggie thought.

  The front door of the café opened and Rachael's bundled, thin frame came in out of the rain. She disentangled her red hair from her scarf and crossed the restaurant floor, throwing her arms around Maggie as she stepped up to the table.

  “Maggie, you look wonderful,” she said, taking a chair at the table.

  “I suppose congratulations are in order,” Maggie said, dropping back into her seat.

  “Congratulations?” Rachael laughed. “You mean, the article? I don't think so. You don't get congratulated because you're nominated for a Pulitzer Prize.”

  “Still, I'm very proud,” Maggie beamed. The news had only become public last week. The article that Rachael had written about the Raft, the coverage of Maggie's investigation of Meerkat's murder, however incomplete, had become a sensation. It had run in three parts over three weeks in the Seattle Times, and Time magazine had republished it. The article - and Rachael - were up for a Pulitzer. There was talk of a movie deal.

  “I had a good story to write about someone I found very compelling,” Rachael said as the waitress arrived with coffee.

  “Well, you certainly brought some much needed positive attention to the Raft. And me,” Maggie said, taking a refill of coffee. “That article opened a lot of doors for me back east with this whole statehood issue. For that, I very much thank you.”

  “You're welcome.” Rachael took a sip of her coffee and found it scalding. She thought of something and smiled. “I saw Senator Hadian on the news last night, fuming about you and your Raft. I don't think he's entirely forgiven you for taking his loafers.”

  “Serves him right,” Maggie laughed. “For trying to steal my civil rights.”

  Rachael laughed too, stirring milk into her coffee.

  “Maggie, there's -”

  “I just realized -”

  They both attempted to speak at once.

  “Sorry, you go first,” Maggie said.

  “No, no, it's nothing. Please,” Rachael conceded.

  “Oh, it's silly. I feel silly now,” Maggie blushed.

  “What? What? Oh, now you have to tell me.”

  “Well, it was... well, running the dinghy over here, I remembered picking you up that morning at Alki. When you told me your daughter's name was Margaret. I remember I started crying. It's silly, I know, but I never asked: Why on earth did you name her that?”

  For a long second, Rachael seemed to weigh her response.

  “Well?” Maggie finally asked. “Don't you remember? It's curious if nothing else, naming your child after your old lover.”

  “Oh no, I remember,” Rachael shot back quickly, “I was trying to properly sugarcoat my reply...”

  “Oh, great,” Maggie rolled her eyes.

 
“No, no, it's not like that... listen, I'll tell you if you promise not to get mad.”

  “I wouldn't -”

  “About this and about the other thing I'm about to ask you.”

  “What? Well, okay...” But Maggie was unsure she could keep her promise.

  Rachael leaned back in her chair and took a deep breath. “When she was born, when she came out, Margaret, she tore me up good. She was late, almost a week, and the delivery was hard. Six hours. And after it was all over, I still had to go back the next day to the emergency room to stop the bleeding. It's okay, I was fine, it was just one of those things, but that stubborn little... well, you know. She just had to do things the hard way. If she could have come out sideways, I'm sure she'd have tried it. And to this day, she hasn't mellowed at all. Not a bit.”

  Maggie sardonically chuckled. “So you thought: who does that remind me of?”

  “Exactly. I couldn't get the comparison out of my head. When I suggested it to Peter, he was fine with it. It's his grandmother's name and I'm not sure he grasps the derivative. But I'm superstitious about things like that. I think that names are important, what we call things and people. Maybe it's working with words all day. So, if Margaret was going have that side of her personality, then I hoped, if I named her after you, perhaps she might get the other side of your personality, too. The side that lets you take that stubborn streak and make something out of it, lets you be the squeaky wheel that actually gets the grease. Of course, when I named her I never thought for a second I'd ever see you again. That I'd have to sit here and explain it to you. Otherwise, she'd have been 'Sally.'”

  Rachael was blushing, trying to find something else in the restaurant to look at other than Maggie. She took a sip of her coffee and fiddled with the cup.

  “Okay, I'm not angry about that,” Maggie said. “What was the other thing you're about to say that was going to upset me?”

  Rachael let out a deep sigh. “I don't know if I want to ask you, now.”

  “Oh, come on,” Maggie smirked.

  “No, I was entertaining the idea of us working together again, but after that little confession, I'm starting to think it might be weird.”

  “No, it's -” Maggie heard the second part and skipped the first. Then her brain played catch up. “What? Work together? How?”

  “Oh...” Rachael was still avoiding Maggie's gaze.

  “What? Now I am getting mad.”

  “It's Peter,” Rachael began, turning to look Maggie in the eye.

  “What's wrong?”

  “Nothing,” Rachael said quickly. “Nothing is wrong with Peter, no, he has...”

  “Has what?”

  “He has a case...”

  “A case?”

  “A murder. A week ago. It has everyone perplexed, it has Peter pulling out his hair. Well, after Meerkat, after the vault. I sort of told Peter everything...”

  “What?” Maggie's eyes grew very wide.

  “I had to tell someone the truth. After I wrote the exposé. Peter can be trusted, Maggie. He can keep a secret. He's my husband after all. Anyway, I told him how you pieced the whole thing together. It impressed him. Professionally.”

  “I don't understand,” Maggie shook her head.

  “I was thinking about a follow-up article. For the Times. Something to keep the story in people's mind. You know, with the first article in front of the Pulitzer judges, it can't hurt to have people talking about the story. So, if the Seattle Police brought the Barefoot Detective in on a case...”

  “The Barefoot Detective?” Maggie gulped at her coffee in surprise.

  “Yeah, I'm trying it on for size. What do you think?” Rachael asked, leaning forward and watching for Maggie's reaction.

  “I think you're crazy.” Maggie put her coffee cup down.

  “But -” Rachael tried quickly.

  “But leave me out of it.” Maggie climbed to her feet. “Dryfoot problems are no concern of mine,” she said, looking around for her coat. She remembered it was on a hook by the door and started for it.

  “Maggie,” Rachael said, reaching out for Maggie's arm. “It would keep you in the papers, you could use the press if you ever expect your statehood petition to go anywhere.”

  “I don't,” Maggie said, pulling away her arm.

  “Maggie,” Rachael called out, rising from her chair. “Please.”

  It was the earnestness in her voice that made Maggie pause.

  Was she really considering it? She couldn't. There was no way that her onshore immunity would cover something like that. She'd be risking ruin. If the IRS brought an audit up against Maggie now, she and the statehood petition would both die a fiery death.

  But the sincerity in Rachael's voice told Maggie there was more to the request than just an unsolvable murder case. And didn't Maggie owe Rachael so much? After all she'd done for Maggie and the Raft? If Rachael was asking for Maggie's help, how could she possibly turn her back on her?

  “I'll need a real pair of shoes,” Maggie said as she turned back to Rachael. “I can't walk around in the mud in these loafers.”

  “No, of course not,” Rachael said and gave Maggie a wide, genuine smile.

  What had she just agreed to? Maggie thought as she returned to table and picked up her coffee cup.