Friday's Harbor: A Novel

by Diane Hammond

  While her lack of finesse with people was well-established, her understanding of animals was effortless and keen. She’d never intended to become an animal communicator but she’d heard animals in her head for almost as long as she could remember—particularly captive animals, and especially captive marine mammals. Her earliest marine mammal memory was during a visit to a dank little aquarium in Seaside, Oregon. An old, blind harbor seal had sought her out to communicate that some of the animals were on the brink of death because of substandard living conditions, and she asked if she could do something about it. She was only six; there was, of course, nothing she could do. But the old cow, who called herself Auntie, had stayed with her off and on until her death six years later. It had been Auntie who had taught Libertine to quiet her own thoughts so she could hear the thoughts of others: not only whales, dolphins, porpoises, seals, sea lions, and walruses, but also more prosaic, terrestrial animals—cats, big and small, dogs, cows, and the occasional rodent (though if truth be told she’d never enjoyed the company of rats or mice very much: they focused almost entirely on their babies—babies, babies, babies; always too many and always too often).

  While Libertine drank a cup of tea she listened to the morning news on NPR—including a spot about a sick killer whale’s journey that day from a facility in Colombia to the Max L. Biedelman Zoo in Bladenham. As though on cue, the animal presence from the day before stirred in her consciousness. Though it was a long shot, Libertine thought with a sinking heart that this animal might be the one that had come to her last night. She pulled on jeans, the single clean shirt left in her closet, and her warmest sweater, a beautiful Fair Isle given to her several years ago by a grateful alpaca breeder for settling a rebellion in the herd that had been caused by the sire, who was a narcissist and a troublemaker.

  Exhausted but resolved, she threw an armload of dirty clothes into the suitcase she’d just unpacked the night before—surely there were Laundromats in Bladenham. Then, before she had time to think better of it, she fired up her Dodge Dart, a car of significant age and mechanical infirmity, and headed out to the accompaniment of an alarming new chatter in the engine.

  LATE THAT AFTERNOON, Truman found his prayer had been answered: the killer whale was still very much alive. Truman wasn’t able to see him, but he could hear Viernes exhale two or three times a minute. As they had in Bogotá, hundreds of people lined the streets of downtown Bladenham, watching the truck creep by. Viernes seemed to sense that the trip’s end was near and squirmed in his canvas cradle, sloshing water up and over the side and giving a mighty exhale that blew spray high above the box’s walls. A collective cheer went up and people waggled signs saying THANK GOD IT’S VIERNES and WE ♥ KILLER WHALES!

  As the truck made its final turn through the zoo gates Truman saw a half-dozen television trucks lined up along the curb, their satellite dishes raised and ready to broadcast. His head swam as momentary déjà vu took him back to Hannah’s final day, when the zoo grounds swarmed with reporters and cameramen, and transmissions were carried unedited and live like wartime news from the front. He recognized not only most of the reporters and camerapeople, but the engineers and technicians who made such live transmissions possible. As he waved from the truck with what he hoped was a modest greeting, Harriet Saul’s dismissive voice played over and over in his head: oh please.

  In Bogotá he and Gabriel had handled the crush of press together at Viernes’s small pool, and Truman had been relieved to find that Gabriel handled the media very capably. He’d told Truman in private that he didn’t have much use for reporters, especially television talent, but he’d given no hint of that this morning and, presumably, would give no hint of it now. As during most of the trip, he was sitting above Truman on one corner of the whale’s box, listening to Viernes breathe. Twice—before takeoff and again after landing—he’d dumped a half-dozen blocks of ice into the water, explaining to Truman that the icier the water, the more comfortable the whale: if the canvas sling chafed, he’d be less likely to feel it. And despite the fact that Viernes had been parboiling in Bogotá for years, he was a North Atlantic–caught whale, and there the water ran cold.

  WHILE GABRIEL AND Truman were moving the whale, Ivy Levy was driving south to Bladenham from Friday Harbor. The journey hadn’t had an auspicious start: she’d missed the 9:05 ferry because she’d had to stop at the vet’s office to pick up a fresh tube of steroidal cream for Julio Iglesias, whose nervous eczema was flaring up.

  Long car trips, in Ivy’s experience, were like sensitively wired bombs. One minute you were driving along admiring the scenery in perfect tranquility, and the next, bam, you were revisiting a bruising litany of failures and humiliations dating all the way back to grade school. Halfway to Bladenham she found herself juggling the unexploded mines that was her history of poorly chosen life companions, of whom Julio Iglesias was only the latest example. When she was just four she’d insisted the family take in a tough old feral tomcat named Socks Afire. He’d had one eye, six teeth, a stumpy tail, and body odor, but in her eyes he’d been perfect. In retrospect she had extracted him from what had probably been a blissful old age spent mousing and whoring, consigning him to living out his waning days in a gingham-lined laundry basket in the pantry. He’d died a year to the day after his incarceration, his spirit utterly broken by her acts of love.

  Despite the fact that none of her family members shared her wide-open if misguided heart, Socks Afire was followed by a long procession of strays and indigents that had included, besides the raccoon Truman remembered, dogs, cats, bunnies, and birds. Her mother referred to these animals serially as Your Latest Victim. Even her brother Matthew, who had been a loving boy before he grew up to be a lawyer, didn’t share her enthusiastic embrace of Nature’s down-and-out. Unfortunately, Ivy’s poor early-life choices in the animal kingdom had been later destined to repeat themselves among men, yielding an unbroken stream of sad sacks, sponges, creeps, and leeches. Matthew’s wife, the cool and elegant Lavinia—she of the delicate bones, tidy hips, flawless pearls, and Yankee pedigree—occasionally hinted that Ivy herself might be at fault, which at least partially explained why Ivy had, from the minute they’d first met fifty-some-odd years ago, thoroughly and secretly disliked her sister-in-law.

  But she was extraordinarily fond of her nephew Truman, in whom Ivy’s genetic legacy had bloomed three years ago when he’d first acquired Miles, and secondly saved Hannah. He was an even-tempered man with the capacity to love simply, openly, honestly, and deeply. His awful ex-wife, Rhonda, whom Ivy had loathed, had had a gift for wielding criticism like a scalpel. Ivy was much fonder of Truman’s girlfriend, Neva Wilson, who was practical, matter-of-fact, and clearly and fiercely loved both Truman and his son, Winslow.

  In order to interrupt the downward flow of thoughts Ivy switched on the car radio, set to the local public broadcasting station. To her astonishment she caught the last of a story about Viernes’s journey to Bladenham. She pushed her speed to just under eighty and sped south on the final stretch of highway like an avenging angel, reaching Bladenham forty-five minutes before Viernes did. When the whale and entourage finally pulled up to the facility, Ivy was waiting on the open pool top in a light drizzle, wearing a rain slicker, scarves, boots, hand- and foot-warmers, and holding a half-filled thermos of hot coffee and brandy. Julio Iglesias glowered from a Snugli strapped to her chest.

  THE PORPOISE POOL was built on the footprint of Hannah’s old elephant barn and yard, at the bottom of a gentle slope. Most of the forty-foot-deep pool was above ground, supported by a cement block casing. The public side had an underwater viewing gallery with four huge acrylic panes that looked into a deep-sea landscape of realistic rocky hills and valleys. On the opposite side were an equipment bay, food preparation area, locker room, huge shower and toilet, and an office with an oversized window looking into the pool.

  As soon as the truck stopped, Gabriel sprinted up the stairs to the pool top so he could guide the crane operator from overhead. T
ruman was right behind him. He came over to greet Ivy, who was struggling mightily to pull herself from the depths of an old Adirondack chair she’d brought with her from San Juan Island.

  “Can you help me get out of this damned thing?” she huffed at Truman. “Otherwise I’ll still be here come Christmas.” She took Truman’s steadying arm. “It’s humiliating, I’ll tell you that. In your mind you’re thirty-five, and then this.” Once on her feet, she freed Julio Iglesias from the Snugli and watched him pick his way along the pool top stiff-legged. “He’s proud,” Ivy said. “But he’s no spring chicken, either.”

  “Hardly any of us are,” said Truman.

  “So it went well?”

  “Very well.”

  “And he’s still breathing?”

  “Still breathing. He tolerated the trip better than Gabriel thought he would. He just went to sleep for most of it. Thank god.”

  “Whew,” said Ivy. “I’m as nervous as a cat.”

  “Here we go, folks!” Gabriel called out, and then a crane lifted Viernes high above the pool. He hung suspended forty feet above the street, illuminated by powerful TV lights and strobing flashes, dripping and calling out in a high, thin, eerie wail. And in the absolute quiet of the moment Truman felt a sudden, nearly overwhelming sadness: that there were orphans in the world, that there were those who deserved better than they got, that isolation could be so profound. This alien creature without hands or ears or facial muscles amplified a hundredfold the incredible hubris of enforced captivity. Maybe in their misguided kindness they had made an appalling mistake.

  And then the moment passed.

  Chapter 3

  BY THE TIME Libertine arrived in Bladenham—a town she’d never even heard of before that morning—the zoo was closed, but brilliant lights shot into the rainy sky from that direction. The streets that were closest were barricaded, so she pulled into a side street and parked, then dug around in the backseat until she came up with a jacket that had once been waterproof, and struck out on foot. By trial and error, she found herself in front of a barricade just a block away from the huge, bunkerlike facility and pool. There she joined a small crowd trying to catch a glimpse of the whale.

  At first Libertine found it hard to concentrate with so many people around, but when the crane lifted Viernes higher and higher, still in his sling, all sound ceased. As he dangled in the air, dripping, his high, keening call sliced through the air and her heart like a razor.

  And then, as he was swung over the pool and out of view, a great cheer went up from the people both inside and outside the fence, indicating that he’d made it safely into the water. When she looked around, nearly all the faces were wet with tears.

  AS SOON AS Viernes was safely installed, Truman trotted back to Havenside, once Max Biedelman’s mansion and now the zoo’s administrative center, riding the crest of a clamorous wave of reporters, videographers, beta cameras, boom microphones, and sound engineers from all the local and regional media outlets, plus Reuters, the Associated Press, Northwest Cable News, and CNN.

  Truman invited everyone into the ballroom, a vast space that had hitherto been used only for charitable events, the annual zoo volunteers’ banquet, and the occasional wedding. He’d had the foresight to have a podium and microphone set up ahead of time, and though Gabriel hadn’t arrived yet, Truman self-consciously moved to the front of the room and introduced himself. Knowing the last news deadline of the night was fast approaching, he gave what he hoped was a fast-paced but thorough review of the zoo’s facility, Viernes’s history, and the zoo’s hopes for a total rehabilitation that would give the whale an infinitely better, never mind longer, life. He was just about to take questions from the media when the crowd parted enough to allow Gabriel through, still wearing his wet suit.

  “Ah,” Truman said. “Here’s the man of the hour. Let me introduce Gabriel Jump, who’s pulled this rescue together in record time, and who will be in charge of Viernes’s rehabilitation. He’ll give you a status report on the whale’s condition first, and then he can answer your questions.”

  Over the course of the endless trip north, Truman had developed a deepening respect for Gabriel. Hour after numbingly cold hour he had radiated a profound, even shamanlike inner calm. Now, he briefed the gathering with an enviably easy informality and humor. As soon as he wrapped up his remarks the room burst into furious action: cell phones came out, laptops bloomed, TV crews and engineers scrambled to edit B-roll, and both Truman and Gabriel were assaulted by reporters eager for exclusive quotes and sound bites. But what they wanted most was access to the top of the pool so they could get close-ups of Viernes, which Gabriel had been adamant about denying for at least twelve hours, or until he felt Viernes was stable and settled in. Truman offered instead to open the underwater viewing gallery to the media. Though the pool’s depths were dark, the TV lights might lure him to the enormous windows, where the photographers and videographers would have a chance to see him up close.

  SATISFIED THAT THIS whale was the animal that had summoned her, Libertine checked into the town’s cheapest motel, the Slumber Inn Motor Lodge. The room was damp, cheaply paneled, and poorly lit, and from its uncomfortable straight chair she looked bleakly at the bank balance on her laptop. Even at twenty-eight dollars a night, she didn’t know how long she’d be able to stay. She fervently wished that the people who doubted her abilities—which was to say, nearly everyone—realized what it cost her to follow her calling. She had to forego health insurance, a working dishwasher, nice clothes, and lasting friendships, living—barely—on a miniscule amount of money from her mother’s life insurance policy and the rare stipend paid her by the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service or comparable state agencies when she was able to convince errant seals and sea lions to move on from public docks and fish ladders. She wore thrift-store clothes and offered up her hair, naturally a dull shade of brown shot with gray, to the students at a beauty college in Anacortes, which explained why she often had hair in innovative colors and styles. The students loved her because it was widely known that they could try out anything and she wouldn’t bitch or cry, not even when the processing went haywire—which, given the students’ lack of experience, it often did. Libby—they’d say, handing her from student to student like a favorite if well-worn doll—you’re the best.

  People tended to assume that Libertine had always been single, but it wasn’t true. When she was just eighteen she’d married Larry Adagio, her life’s love and an earnest plumber who had taken great pride in his work. Libertine thought if he’d known a heart attack would kill him at twenty-seven, he’d at least have taken comfort from the fact that it happened while he was on the job, in a client’s bathroom, at the base of a new quiet-flush toilet.

  In her dreams she and Larry were together again, and neither of them had aged a day. They were usually running errands, earnestly debating whether Mini Wheats would hold him until his midmorning break. He’d had the metabolism of a chipmunk; every workday she’d sent him off with a stack of sandwiches like playing cards: peanut butter and jelly, baloney and American cheese, liverwurst and Swiss, cutting little hearts into each top piece of bread with a doll-sized cookie cutter she’d found once at a garage sale. It was still one of her most precious possessions and she wore it sometimes on a chain like a necklace.

  He’d been the one and only man who’d found her beautiful. When he died she’d begged to have his corneas transplanted in place of hers so for the rest of her life she would always see the world through his eyes—he’d been an organ donor, it would have been be completely legal—but the doctors had refused and the corneas had ended up going to someone else. She’d thought she would die of grief, and the thought had brought her comfort, but instead her mother had come down to Salem, packed up their apartment, and brought her and their little dachshund, Nelson, back to Libertine’s childhood home, a tiny post-war house in Portland, Oregon. She’d stayed in bed for three weeks, until finally her mother had lost her temper and said, This poor dog
misses Larry, too, but you don’t see him moping. Get up and take him for a walk. She’d gotten up.

  She shut her laptop and rubbed her face and eyes. It dawned on her that she hadn’t eaten a real meal since yesterday. She remembered seeing a café as she came into town, so she packed up her computer, pulled on rubber boots and a rain poncho, and by backtracking found it five blocks away: the Oat Maiden.

  The minute she ducked inside she was enveloped in the aromas of childhood: pizza and chocolate chip cookies. The look of the place was playful—boldly painted tables with mismatched, whimsically painted chairs. It was empty except for a young couple huddled over a computer.

  A tall, thin man in his early forties with wild hair and a wistful overbite appeared with a menu. “It’s just starting to get dark out,” he said helpfully, “so, you know, you might want the celestial table.”

  Libertine followed him to a round table beneath the streaming plate-glass window and said, “Oh, it’s beautiful!” And it was: a midnight-colored sky was painted with extraordinarily detailed stars and an aurora borealis spanning the whole table. The man smiled shyly. “Did you paint this?”

  He nodded, nervously rolling the paper menu into a tube. “You don’t have to sit here if you don’t want to.” He gestured vaguely around the room.

  Impulsively, and because she had a quick premonition that she’d be here often, she said, “How about I sit here this time, and then every time I come in I’ll sit at a different table until I’ve been at all of them.”

  “Okay,” he said, and bolted back to the kitchen, apparently having scared himself with his forwardness.

  Libertine reviewed the menu, which consisted of thirty different pizza combinations and fifteen different types of chocolate chip cookies. Though she hoped the man who’d first helped her would come back—it was a rarity to meet someone even more socially awkward than she was—a young woman came to take her order instead.