The fog seemed immobile until she looked up to the light mounted at the stairway. She saw the fog waltzing with itself, twirling and circling in irregular turns, ignoring the two notes that played to regular time.
The stiff sleeves of her blue jacket rubbed against her bare arms. It was too early in the year for the down liner that softened it. She crossed her arms and stood where he usually landed.
The ferry horn blasted off to her right and she followed the moving glow from the ferry lights as they dimmed into the fog. The wake from the ferry arrived at the dock and raised and lowered the wood planks before wasting itself on shore. She released sight of the ferry and looked into the vacuum behind it. There was a dim flash of light as though the fog had cracked open for a second; then it was gone. It might never have been there. She saw it again. A flash, darkness, another flash. It moved toward her. She walked to the very end of the dock and pulled out her flashlight. She flashed it twice, then twice again.
“Morning,” came his voice.
“Good morning to you,” she said. He was close by then.
There were lowlying lights on the dock that guided him in, and he changed direction at the last moment so that the kayak slid sideways into the wood. She caught the line he tossed.
“I wasn’t sure you would come,” she said, “with the fog and all.”
“The fog doesn’t bother me much.”
“Cute little light you have there.”
A rubber cord fastened a battery lantern to the top of the kayak. Sam reached out, turned it off, and released it from the strap.
“Could you see it?”
“Quite a way out,” she said.
“I always wondered if it did any good.”
Sam placed the paddle behind him so that it was like a bridge between the kayak and the dock. With the paddle for support, he lifted his butt out of the boat and onto the dock. He sat there a moment and looked up at her while his feet remained inside the kayak.
“Pull the bow in a little, will you?”
She had let the rope go slack, and the front of the kayak had drifted a few feet from the dock. She pulled it in.
He crawled onto the wood planks, grabbed a handle on the kayak, and pulled it carefully onto the dock. He rubbed his hand gently beneath the bow as though caressing its body.
“I hit a log out there,” he explained. “Didn’t do any harm though.”
“What would you do it if it had done some harm?”
“Paddle like hell. Not likely it would sink, though. See. The ports here in the front and back are sealed. They make air pockets that help it float.”
“I thought those holes were for extra people.”
“Might be a little cramped. Want to give it a spin? I have an extra paddle.”
“Not this morning. I’ll wait for a nice day with sunshine.”
“Might have to wait a while, then. I heard on the news last night we have a storm coming.”
“When?”
“Sometime tomorrow.”
“Great. Just in time for my days off.”
“Hey, that’s right. This is it for you, isn’t it?”
Sam turned to the kayak and began tying it down. She nodded her head although he was not looking at her. He still had two days to work.
“Anything happen last night?” he asked, still bent to his boat.
“No, but I spent quite a bit of time around the Donut Shop. There was nothing going on.”
He looked at her then.
“Mike went home at midnight, so I spent a little extra time there.”
“Good.”
“I paid attention to the back stairway like you said, but I didn’t see anybody hanging around there.”
“I didn’t want to bother you at home, but I thought you should know about it.”
“You didn’t bother me. I appreciated the call.”
“I might be taking this secrecy thing a little too far,” he said. “But somebody might accidentally say something and spill the beans.”
“I won’t spill the beans,” she said.
“I know.”
He clamped a padlock on a rusty chain that secured his boat to the dock and stood up beside her. She glanced down to the kayak, to the spot caressed by his hand, then out to the water where the storm was coming. In the fog there was nothing to see.
Chapter 27
The fog canceled the preview of morning on the Olympic peaks. Although traffic was increasing on the Viaduct, it seemed distant, slowed, and subdued. He did not want to leave. Everything he needed was here—the sound of Silve in the kitchen, the smell of the adobo sauce, light, warmth, solitude, pen, and paper.
He had been working on the poem of the breadman, but the poem was done. It was no longer a reason to stay. If Silve would come down, he would have a better reason. They could share the coffee, talk about the weather, and watch the car lights in the fog. But Silve had not come down all morning. The old man was behind in his work. And you, he asked himself—Sam the Policeman? Where are you with your work? The name did not flow as well as Nate the Breadman.
When Sam put his dollar beneath the cup on Silve’s shelf, the old man stepped away from his stove and wiped his hands on his apron.
“Leaving already?” Silve asked.
“It’s almost six,” Sam said.
“Is it?” Silve asked in surprise as he looked at the clock above the stairs where Sam stood.
“You’re working too hard,” Sam said. “Do you have some help coming today?”
“Yes. David will be here any minute now. You have met him.”
“David is coming back?”
“For a little while. Until the girl starts. He knows what to do.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
“Yes, so you don’t have to wash the dishes again.”
“I didn’t mind that.”
There was hope in the kitchen again. There was always hope in the kitchen. Sometimes down in the dining room, there was not as much hope. Sam pulled open the kitchen door and looked outside as though there might be something hopeful there, too. He saw the fog drifting down the ramp, waiting for the doors to open.
“I’ll see you later,” Sam said.
“Yes sir,” followed Silve’s familiar voice.
There were already trucks on Pike Place. He walked slowly on the cobblestones until he found Henry behind a flatbed truck at the south end of the Market. Henry was loading crates of vegetables onto a hand truck. His arms shook and sweat dropped from his nose each time he bent over.
“Looking good, Henry,” Sam said as he joined Henry at the back of the truck. One more crate would make a full load on the hand truck. Sam grabbed one end of the crate and helped Henry stack it in place. The driver, who was on the bed of the truck shoving back the vegetable crates, stopped working. He was unsure if the policeman was on a friendly stop or not, despite the smile on his face.
“You found yourself a good worker this morning,” Sam told the driver. “I hope you can keep up with him.”
Henry pushed the hand truck to a nearby produce stand. He was not yet certain of the tilt that gave the best leverage.
“It’s hard to watch these old guys work like that just to get enough for a bottle,” the driver said as he leaned against the wooden rack of his truck. “I guess it’s better than panhandling.”
“Henry’s not working for a bottle today. He’s working to pay the Lutherans.”
Sam’s explanation confused the driver, but he didn’t ask any questions. He jumped down from the back of the truck when Henry returned and loaded the last three crates himself. Then he pulled a roll of money out of his front pocket and unfolded several dollar bills for Henry.
“You won’t report us to the IRS, will you?” he asked Sam as he gave the money to Henry.
“Not my department.”
“If you’re here tomorrow, I can use you again,” he told Henry, and then the driver pushed the hand truck off with ease and wove his way into the main arcade.
The wages pleased Henry, as did the prospect of future employment. He put the money into his pocket, feigning nonchalance.
“Maybe you’re going to be too busy to watch the Donut Shop today?”
“I got time. Don’t worry about that. Maybe I can get me a few more trucks and then head over there.”
“No hurry. I’ll come by in the afternoon like yesterday after I get out of this monkey suit.”
“Kind of stands out, don’t it?”
“Kind of.”
“I been thinking,” Henry said. “I’m wondering if that Perry guy might be dealing dope?”
“I’m wondering that, too,” Sam said. He saw no reason to detour Henry’s train of thought.
“What do you figure makes those fellas push that stuff?”
“Money,” Sam said. “Easier than unloading trucks, I guess. But don’t get any ideas. This is honorable work.”
“Honorable work. That’s good. I like that. No sir, I ain’t pushing no dope. When you come by, I’ll be the fella with the soda pop.”
Henry’s bristled face broke up with a grin, the portrait of an amused citizen walking the straight and narrow. Sam grinned as well.
“I’ll come by. Same place, same time as yesterday.”
“I’ll be there,” Henry said.
Sam actually believed him. He began to walk away, but before he got very far he heard Henry calling after him. He turned to see the little man walking toward him with a piece of paper in his hand.
“This must have fell out of your pocket. It’s got this police stuff on it.”
Sam accepted the paper from Henry—the poem he had worked on that morning on the back of a log sheet. He felt his shirt pocket, but of course it was empty.
“Thanks. It must have fallen out when I picked up that crate.”
“I figured you might want it. Got some notes written on the back.”
Sam folded it and put it back into his shirt pocket. This time he was careful to button the pocket securely.
Chapter 28
Bill showed up late as he had done every day. This time Pierre came forward to the counter and glared as Bill walked to the back.
“When I say ten, I don’t want it half an hour late,” Pierre said.
Bill looked at the clock but said nothing. It was fifteen minutes after 10:00. Maria wondered why Pierre was upset. It had been slow all morning.
“I started but you finish the doughnuts. The girl can help. It’s time she learned.”
There were doughnuts frying in the oil when he walked out, and they would have overcooked if Maria had not gone to the back and turned them herself. Bill tied his dirty apron around him and then poured himself a cup of coffee. He stood at the front counter and looked out the window at Pike Street. He sipped slowly from the plastic cup and did not move from the counter until a customer walked in the door. Then he went to the back sink and leaned against it. Silently and indifferently he watched her lift the doughnuts out of the oil and place them on racks.
Why did she care about the doughnuts, she thought, as she hurried to the front counter? So what if they burned?
The customer was a man in strange clothes. He wore a green polo shirt and heavy wool pants. He had been in the day before, too. Twice she caught his eyes studying the back room where Bill had not moved from the sink. He bought two glazed doughnuts and a bottle of 7-Up. He was particular about having a bottle.
“Everything to go,” said the man in the strange clothes. “In a sack if you don’t mind.”
Why would she mind? She had not minded the day before, either.
By the time the customer left, Bill had gone to the doughnut fryer. Maybe he had felt the customer’s eyes. Maybe he was simply tired of standing beside the sink.
Maria bent down to the display counter and straightened the doughnuts inside. There were already enough to last most of the morning. Those Bill made would be old before anyone would buy them. Let them get old. She had four days left—three and a half. She had not told Pierre she was leaving, and she might not tell him. Maybe she would just leave a note, quit on Friday, as she had promised Sam Wright, and forget the money. Maybe she would not even leave a note.
She remembered the boy who had walked out the first day. He had not left any notes behind. She wished she could talk to him. The boy had been angry enough with Pierre that he would tell her things that she could tell Sam. Bill would know things, too, but he’d probably never tell her anything.
“Do you need some help?”
She was surprised how difficult it was to talk to him. They had hardly spoken since she started working. Bill looked at her suspiciously.
“Pierre said you should show me. I wouldn’t mind doing that,” she said. “It looks kind of fun.”
“It’s no fun,” he said. “You do this for a month and see how fun it is.”
He was still angry with Pierre. She wondered if he were angry enough.
“Have you worked here that long?”
“Longer than that. Why?”
“Just asking, that’s all. It seems like Pierre trusts you a lot, leaving you in charge and all.” Oh puke, she thought as she walked over to the stinking oil. I hope I don’t puke in his face.
“I know how to do this, I guess.” His voice lost some of its edge.
If she could think of one pleasant thing, he might soften even more.
“Pierre must be tired,” she said. “He’s really in a lousy mood today.”
“You think he gets tired making doughnuts?”
“I don’t know. What else would make him tired?”
Bill’s face hardened back into its familiar scowl.
“You ask him if you want to know.”
“I don’t want to know anything,” she said, scowling back. “You’re ruining the doughnuts again.”
She walked abruptly to the front of the store. She thought about walking farther than that. The Market was across the street. She could see it through the dirty windows and the fog that had hung there all morning. Silve’s restaurant was there. She could work over there as soon as she wanted. She didn’t need this job or this boy. She would never learn anything from him, or from the kids who waited for doughnuts, or from Pierre. He acted as if she were not even there. She had stayed to learn something, but she would never learn anything. Across the street it was different. Sam said it would be different.
Maria saw Pierre walking on the sidewalk on the other side of the street. He didn’t belong over there. She watched him pass the newspaper stand where Sam had waited for her and disappear into a flower shop on the opposite corner. Pierre would never buy flowers.
She walked quickly back to the counter, but no farther. Bill stopped the conversation he was having with himself as he picked out the doughnuts from the hot oil and tossed them into the garbage. She was past wanting to talk.
“I’m taking a break,” she said.
She didn’t wait for his approval. It would take him much too long to think of a response. She was out the front door before her words would even enter his brain.
She walked straight across First Avenue, although she stayed away from the flower store. She passed the newsstand and the nut shop and circled around the produce market at the end of the first row of stands. She stopped there a moment to get her bearings. Indistinctly she heard the voices of the fish men as they shouted orders and called out for business. A fish flew in the air as a worker in a white coat tossed it back over the counter to be wrapped. She didn’t turn to watch. She crossed the street so that she was on the same side as the flower shop.
Maria took a deep breath and continued east, back toward First Avenue. She wished that the fog would be so thick that she would become invisible. She stopped breathing as she came to the first window of the store. When she peeked inside, it was not what she expected. There were books, not flowers. She stepped back from the window and looked around. It was the right place. There were flowers in the front by the door but books at the back.
Pierre put the book back on the shelf and walked toward the door.
Maria looked behind her for a place to hide and walked quickly back to the next doorway. Pierre walked out of the store and stood on the corner. Other people waited with him for the light to change. When it did, he crossed diagonally toward the Donut Shop.
Watching Pierre and hoping he would not turn around, Maria walked boldly forward to the front door of the flower store. She walked into the store through the flowers to the books in back. The tall man, who had been with Pierre, was now at the counter waiting behind another person. He was buying a book. She felt excited to watch him. He didn’t know who she was. It was like playing hide-and-seek on the beach by herself when she was little and visited her grandparents’ village. This time she would find somebody.
She stopped at a book rack close to the counter and watched the tall man step forward when it was his turn to pay. She picked up the nearest book, a cookbook with a smiling lady on the cover. It was too expensive for her game. She looked for something cheap and found a magazine at the end of the rack. She took the magazine to the register and stood behind the man.
He paid no attention to her. She heard his voice and saw his face from different angles. She noticed the book he bought—something about war. There was an old cannon on the cover. The man was taller than her father. He had broad shoulders and wore a gray suit coat. His brown hair was combed over a bald spot on the back of his head. He might have been good-looking once.
He walked out the door with his book in a paper bag. She put her magazine on the counter and took money out of her pocket. She wanted to pay quickly and follow the man. She saw him walk north on First Avenue, away from the Donut Shop.
The young woman at the cash register made a mistake and had to start over. The register beeped at her when she tried to correct the mistake, and Maria was stuck at the counter with a beeping register. An older woman came over to help, touched a few keys for the younger clerk, and explained how it worked. Maria told the clerks she had changed her mind and didn’t want the magazine after all.
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