The Last Run

by Todd Lewan

  Durham smiled when he saw them. His eyes were red-rimmed and he needed a shave.

  “Welcome back, intrepid aviators,” he said.

  “Hello, Dave.”

  “You manage any sleep, sir?”

  “Not much.”

  “You’ll sleep good tonight.”

  “That would be different.”

  Durham explained how his crew had flown straight to the nearestshore, and then turned south and leapfrogged from one potential ditching site after another. They were never sure if they were going to make Sitka until they actually made the inside of the sound. When they landed at the air station, there was no more than twenty minutes of fuel in the 6029’s tanks. The fuel warning light had been flashing.

  Ted LeFeuvre left the situation report and the rest of the official paperwork to one of the watch hands. He signed what he had to and dated what he had to and then walked down to the locker room. He pulled off his flight suit and sat on a bench and looked at the lockers.

  Bill Adickes walked in and said hello. He had not been home yet either. He said that he and Dan Molthen had gone out on a second sortie, with a different flight mechanic and rescue swimmer, to look for the fallen skipper and the lost, fifth fisherman. He said they had not stayed on scene long. Each time they tried to approach the water they had gotten a bad case of the shakes. Finally, they could not make their arms and hands move the flight controls so that they could go down close to the sea. So they pulled up and flew back to the air station.

  “You see anybody in the water?”

  “No, Captain,” Adickes said. “We didn’t.”

  “You’re not going to believe who we pulled out of that mess,” Ted LeFeuvre said.

  “Who?”

  “Bob Doyle.”

  “No.”

  “Yeah.”

  Adickes sat down on the bench. A clouded look washed over his face. Before his look had merely been one of exhaustion; now it was confused. His lips pursed.

  “I just don’t believe that.”

  “Believe it.”

  “You’ve got to be shitting me.”

  “No. I’m not. It was Doyle.”

  Adickes stood there and shook his head. He was trying to work through it in his mind.

  “Did he-”

  “He held those fishermen together.”

  Adickes nodded.

  “If we hadn’t sent him packing,” Ted LeFeuvre said, “well… who knows?”

  “Weird,” Adickes said, “just too weird.” “Isn’t it?” said Ted LeFeuvre.

  When he walked in the house he did not turn on the light but put his duffel bag down on the floor and went to the den and looked at the pellet stove. It had gone out again. He went to the garage and dug out some pellets and returned to the den and restarted the stove.

  In the dark, with the grandfather clock ticking and the paintings hanging on the walls exactly as he had left them and the glow of the streetlamps lighting the edges of the curtained windows, Ted LeFeuvre blew on his hands and waited. He thought about eating something. A sandwich, maybe. No. He was tired. Too tired even to do that. He stood there for a while and then went up the stairs to his bedroom.

  He left the door open and turned on the lamp. The bed was still big and empty. Standing beside it, he undressed and put on his pajamas. Outside the heavy treaded tires of a Jeep or van rolling on the wet pavement went by and turned the corner. He lay down on the bed and pulled the covers over himself. The covers were cold. His nose was cold. That would change. The pellet stove was quite efficient. He reached over and turned off the lamp. Perhaps now he would be able to sleep.

  He woke just before eight o’clock the next morning without need of an alarm. The house sat still and quiet. Outside it was raining. There was a heavy mist over the mountain. He remembered it was Sunday. He was supposed to do the reading at the morning church service. He looked at the clock. He had plenty of time to get ready.

  He stood up and noticed the house was warm.

  He went downstairs, checked the pellet stove, got more pellets from the garage, then went back upstairs and showered, brushed his teeth and hair and began shaving. He glanced in the mirror, put a small dab of cream on each cheekbone, then his chin and throat, and started scraping it off. He did not feel at all tired. Fourteen hours he had slept. Marvelous.

  He raised his chin up, pulled it from side to side and went on scraping.

  When was the last time he had slept that long? He could not remember. It must have been a while back. He ducked his face down to the sink, rinsed with cold water and toweled it. He looked at his face again carefully now in the glass. It sure looked like his face. That was his face all right. No different. After what he had just been through, it should be different, though, right? But no, nothing was different. Same old face. Same old Ted. He was back. Nothing had really changed, had it? He was still Theodore Cameron LeFeuvre of Whittier, California, age forty-six, with all of his faculties and flaws, all of his convictions and imperfections. Right? Right. And now it was Sunday and he was going to church and everything that had happened in the previous forty-eight hours, though undeniably real and certainly documented, seemed somehow like a story someone else had told.

  He slipped on his beige sport coat, the one he always wore to church, a white, long-sleeved shirt, slacks, brown shoes, black, leather belt and striped tie and went downstairs. He locked the front door and stood on the porch.

  The planter was empty.

  Of course it is, he thought. It’s winter. You don’t put pansies outside in the winter. There is the greenhouse out back, though. Maybe he could plant something in the greenhouse. You haven’t used the greenhouse yet. You could use it. Even in the winter.

  With a lighter step, he walked over to the Cherokee, slid the key in the door lock. He climbed in, put the key in the ignition and looked in the rearview mirror.

  Nothing was irrevocable. Nothing was forever. That was a significant thing. Only God was forever. The other business was not so tragic. None of it was important. Now that was a thought. That was a fine thought.

  Still, it would be nice to have somebody to share this whole horrible thing with.

  He turned the engine over and backed out of the driveway.

  At the Trinity Baptist Church on Halibut Point Road, the congregation was seated and silent. They had just finished the hymn, and were waiting.

  A slight, not-so-tall man with a gaunt, drawn face stood at the podium. He adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses and opened a book.

  “If you would turn with me to Romans, chapter eleven,” he said intothe microphone, “I’ll be reading verses thirty-three through twelve-two. I’ll be reading from the New International Version.”

  The man paused.

  “That’s Romans, chapter eleven, verse thirty-three.”

  And he began to read:

  Oh, the depth of the riches of the wisdom and knowledge of God!

  How unsearchable his judgments,

  and his paths beyond tracing out!

  Who has known the mind of the Lord?

  Or who has been his counselor?

  Who has ever given to God,

  that God should repay him?

  For from him and through him and to him are all things.

  To him be the glory forever! Amen.

  The reader took a breath, and continued:

  Therefore, I urge you brothers, in view of God’s mercy, to

  offer your bodies as living sacrifices, holy and pleasing to

  God—this is your spiritual act of worship.

  Do not conform any longer to the pattern of this world, but

  be transformed by the renewing of your mind.

  Then you will be able to test and approve what God’s will

  is—his good, pleasing and perfect will.

  The man closed the book. There was not a murmur in the church.

  He sighed.

  “May God add the blessing to the reading of His word.”

  And then Ted Le
Feuvre walked over to his seat in the front row and got down on his knees and bowed his head. Those around him could only sit and wonder why, at that moment in the service, he was making such a display of reverence.

  FIFTY-ONE

  The next morning, Bob Doyle, Mike DeCapua and Gig Mork caught the first flight from Juneau to Sitka. DeCapua was antsy to get back. He did not sleep well in hotels, any place on land for that matter, and he had some accounts to settle up. Little John had advanced him a bag of weed for the fishing trip. The dope was going to cost him a hundred and twenty-five bucks, and he had not even smoked half of it. It had gone down with everything else on the ship.

  “What are you going to do now?” Bob Doyle asked him.

  “Try to get back on with the Min E,” DeCapua said. “Maybe Phil will cut me a break.”

  “Think he will?”

  “If I grovel enough, I guess,” DeCapua said. “Skippers like it when you grovel.”

  Bob Doyle nodded.

  “Besides, you were the one who pissed him off with that stupid fucking note.”

  “I guess.”

  Gig Mork’s mother met them at the airport. In the arrivals hall Bob Doyle looked around. He had wondered whether Tamara Westcott, the skipper’s fiancée, might come out. He had thought of several things to say to her. He was going to tell her how sorry he was, other things. But she did not come. Maybe it’s just as well, he thought. No need to make a scene in public.

  The car was in the lot. They climbed in and headed out along the connector road, past the runway and the Eagle’s Nest, and drove over the bridge. There was the gray of the channel, a small chop in the sound. It seemed like a very long ride. Nobody said anything as they rode.

  “Let’s get a beer at the P-Bar,” Mork said. “Let’s put our checks to work.”

  “Not today,” Bob Doyle said.

  “Come on,” Mork said. “A Bud Light would do you some good.”

  “You go on ahead, Gig.”

  “Sure?”

  “No,” Bob Doyle said.

  The car stopped out front of the Pioneer Bar and they got out. They closed the doors.

  “Well, that’s it,” Mork said.

  “See you around?”

  “Sure.”

  They shook hands and Bob Doyle looked across the street and saw DeCapua, already on his way down the ramp of the ANB Harbor. He never had been one for send-offs. Bob Doyle stood on the street watching DeCapua until he was out of sight, and then he turned and started up the street.

  The wind felt sharply cold and the clouds were pulling apart in the sky. He stopped and watched a brown paper bag roll and tumble and then get lifted into the air. Then he went on, feeling the wind lift his own hair, seeing it move the blades of grass in front of the Pioneer Home. He had lost his cap. He would get another. He saw someone he thought he knew, a mother, yelling at her child on the street corner. They’re just having a bad day, he thought. They’ll work things out. It did not matter. Nothing mattered. He kept on walking.

  Along the main street everything looked new and changed. He had never seen the shops before. He had never seen the Sitka Hotel, or the bookshop, or the pelt store, or the pizza place, or the Columbia, or the cathedral. It was all strange and it was all different. It was like those days of late spring when he would walk home from school in Bellows Falls along a dusty track in the cool, moist shade of the pines, the distant sound of the cascading water of Little Egypt slobbering on the rocks, the scent of pine bark in his nostrils. He walked on, and it was as though his feet were not touching the ground. Everything was new. There was nothing to plan and nothing to think about. He could do all of that some other time. He did not have a thought in his head and he liked it that way.

  It was like this walking past the Crescent Harbor. It was like this crossing Old Harbor Drive and it was like this passing Crescent Harbor and like this walking straight up the middle of Jeff Davis Street.

  There was a light on in the kitchen. Georgia opened the door and gave him a big bear hug.

  “Oh, God,” she said. “We heard what happened. Are you all right?”

  “Fine,” Bob Doyle said.

  “Oh, you,” she said. “Come in here, Bob. You probably want a shower, don’t you? You must be hungry. A sandwich. How about a nice big ham sandwich? The kind you like.”

  “Sure.”

  “With lots of lettuce and tomato. Right. Tonight you stay in Robert’s room. I’ve got clean sheets on the bed. Here, sit down. Sit down, yes, right here. You want a beer? Not yet? That’s okay. Come, now. Just one. Yes. That’s it. Let me get an opener for you. Now you tell us. Now you tell us everything.”

  Two weeks later, Bernice Honnold was in her living room on Lifesaver Drive running the vacuum cleaner when the doorbell rang. She turned the machine off and listened. The bell rang again. She went to the door.

  “Hello,” said a tall, lanky man with matted, red hair. He wore dirty jeans and a green cap. He had a nice, big smile. She had a feeling that she recognized him from somewhere. Behind him was another man, shorter, with a long black ponytail, a scar across his nose and blue eyes. He looked down whenever she looked his way.

  “Yes?”

  “Is Lee around?” the tall stranger said.

  “No,” she said. The man kept smiling. She smiled back. “Do you know him?”

  “Oh, yes,” he said. “I know him. I know him very well.” The man looked down and saw the head of a girl, poking out from behind her mother’s leg. “And who is this?”

  “This is Hillary.”

  “Oh, hi, Hillary,” said the man, and he crouched down to smile at her. “My name is Bob Doyle. And this here is Mike. Say, Hillary, did you know that your daddy is a hero, did you?”

  “Yes,” the girl said, and she giggled.

  The man smiled. “I’m sure you did, Hillary. I’m sure of that.” He cleared his throat, and then smiled again. “You know, you remind me a lot of somebody I know.” He stood up. “Mrs. Honnold,” he said, “when will Lee be home?”

  “Oh, a little later.” Bernice Honnold noticed the other man was holdinga large sack in both arms. She wondered what was in the sack. “Maybe around four. He’s standing duty today.”

  “Oh, that’s a shame,” said the man. “You see, we have something for him. And you, too.”

  “Oh?”

  “We caught some rockfish and black bass and some crab, too. It’s all fresh. All of it. We just caught it, you know. See, we’re fishermen. And Mike, here, well, he even wanted to fillet them for you.”

  “Oh, my.”

  “See,” said the man, “these are for you and your family. Would you mind if we left them in your kitchen?”

  “I… uh,” she stammered. “No, no, I suppose not. Of course not. Come in, please.”

  The quiet man with the long ponytail followed Bernice Honnold straight to the kitchen, pulled the fish out of the bag and laid them all out on the counter. He left the crabs in the sink. He began washing and cutting and separating out the bones.

  “Those are some fish,” she said.

  “Yeah,” the man said. “Mind if I smoke?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Thanks.” He rolled a cigarette and lit it.

  The other man, the tall one with the red hair, said, “You know, I used to live here in Coast Guard housing, too.”

  “Really?” Bernice Honnold said. Now she recognized the man. He looked different now. Older. Much older. “In which house?”

  “Across the street.”

  They chatted while the other man prepared the fish. He must be a cook, Bernice Honnold thought. But he doesn’t say much. Not everyone does. Just look at the size of those fish, though. Where am I going to keep it all?

  The taller man kept right on chatting.

  Had she ever been to Kodiak? No, she said, but her husband was thinking of asking for a transfer there. Well, he said, I’m thinking of going to Kodiak myself. My kids are going there with my ex-wife. She asked him how old his k
ids were, their names. He told her.

  “I don’t want to be too far from them, you know.”

  “Of course not.”

  When the second man finished separating the two rockfish and big, black bass, he wrapped the fish in cellophane, stacked it neatly in the freezer, soaped and washed his hands and arms and toweled off quickly.

  “This is really very nice of you,” Bernice Honnold said.

  The man just nodded.

  “Well,” the taller man said. “We’re going to have to get going. We’ve got other people we need to visit. But you’ll tell your husband we were here, won’t you, Mrs. Honnold?”

  “Oh, of course!”

  “You’ll tell Lee how grateful we are.” He shook her hand.

  “I will. I’ll tell him.”

  “You don’t know how grateful we are.”

  “I’ll tell him.”

  “You just can’t know.”

  “Are you sure you wouldn’t want to stay awhile and tell him yourselves? He won’t be but another hour or so.”

  “No,” the man said. “We really ought to go. But you’ll tell him for us, won’t you?”

  They were on the front stoop now. The second man, the quiet one, shook her hand.

  He said, “Tell your husband thanks a bunch. He did a helluva job.”

  “I’ll tell him.”

  “Great.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Honnold,” said the tall man. He shook her hand again, awkwardly. “Thank you again. Bye, Hillary! Bye, sweetheart! Bye!”

  She watched them cross the lawn and turn on the sidewalk. She stood there in the doorway watching them. Then she felt a chill and closed the door softly.