The Big Both Ways

by John Straley

  “This is a tough break for Nels and me,” Clyde said. “We were just beginning to be able to stand having you around.”

  Clyde supported her by her good arm as they walked to the dock. Ellie hobbled down the ramp and smiled weakly up at Clyde. “Am I going to fly in the Vega?” she asked.

  “I believe you are,” Clyde said softly. “Listen, tell them to take you up to Ketchikan. Give ’em my name at the border. It’s clean. ’Course it’s not my real name but it’s clean all the same. Tell them you’re my daughter. Use my last name. You know what I’m saying.”

  “Thanks, Clyde.” Ellie eased herself down onto a dock bench and leaned against the rail. “I’m not on the run,” she said.

  “Like fun, you ain’t,” Clyde said. “Just give ’em my name. Then get yourself down to Creek Street and ask for Yvette. She’ll take care of you.”

  “I thank you for that, Clyde,” Ellie said as she wobbled back and forth on the bench.

  “Then you get yourself up to Juneau. The Party’s looking for you, I bet.”

  Ellie looked down at the bundle of gauze around her hand. The blood was beginning to seep through the outer layers.

  “You Red son of a bitch,” she said, and her voice sounded thick with shock. Then she leaned over the rail and wretched.

  Slip came running down the dock.

  “You won’t believe it,” Ellie said as he came near her. “I get to fly on the airplane.”

  “Lucky break,” Slip said. Then he looked over at the blood seeping through the gauze. “I better come with you,” he said without thinking.

  “You stay with Annabelle and the dory. I can’t take care of her. I’ll get a setup in Ketchikan, and I’ll send word.”

  “I suppose so,” was all Slip said by way of an argument.

  Soon the buzz of the Lockheed Vega wheedled its way above the sound of the wind in the trees. Then the big red plane passed overhead, tipping its wings in the direction of the dock. As it did, Annabelle came running down the ramp. She was holding something in her hands.

  “I got your fingers for you, Ellie” she said. Her glasses were fixed well up on her nose and her expression was stern. “Maybe you should take them along to the hospital?”

  “That’s nice of you, honey,” Ellie said, and her voice was sadder than the girl had ever remembered. “I’ll take ’em with me. Can use them for something, I guess.”

  “Yes. I didn’t want to leave them on the floor,” Annabelle said, her voice quavering with both exhiaration and fear. The plane came in low over the waterfall and put down on the bay. Green water hissed and turned white around the big aluminum floats.

  “That’s right, young lady. Those fingers would have just sat there waiting for the next cleanup man.” Clyde patted Ellie on the shoulder and walked up the ramp toward his own life in the machine shop.

  “You go on up to Juneau. They got some work for you up there,” Clyde yelled over his shoulder.

  The plane came in close to the dock and cut the engine. Willie jumped out the door behind the cockpit and stepped down onto a float. He unhooked a long paddle from a sleeve on the float and took a few strokes with it to help the plane reach the dock.

  “So, we going north or south?” he called out.

  “North,” Ellie said to him.

  “That’s fine with me. I won’t even charge you for the ride, Blondie.”

  “Every cloud has its silver fucking lining,” Ellie said just under her breath, and she threw her severed fingers into the water so the girl couldn’t see.

  Ellie turned to Annabelle. “It’ll be a week or so, I bet. You stay here with Slip and Buddy and I’ll either send for you or come get you myself. Okay?”

  “Okay,” Annabelle said, then added quickly, “a week.”

  “A week, sweetie. No more.”

  Slip helped Ellie up into the plane.

  “Don’t be puking in the plane. Okay, beautiful? Use the paper bag I got here,” Willie said, and he started to strap her into one of the passenger seats. But Ellie pushed her way up from the seat and climbed up into the copilot’s seat, leaving a faint spatter of blood on the floor.

  “All right then,” Willie said, and he tilted his cap back and followed her to the cockpit.

  The prop spun and the engine clattered. The wind from the plane pushed Annabelle’s braids back over her shoulders. She held the side of her head to hold on to her glasses. The plane moved out into the bay, the wings tipping slightly back and forth as it floated over the small waves rolling in from the inlet. Then the engine blared so that it rang off the side of the mountains, and the floatplane skidded over the water and lifted into the air. It banked toward the inlet, then rose above the level of the ridgeline and disappeared to the north.

  Slip and Annabelle stood there looking after the Vega. The storm of the plane leaving was replaced by the everyday shoosh of the waterfall and clatter of the plant.

  “Well, I got to get back to work. You going to be okay until dinner?” Slip asked without looking directly at the little girl.

  “I’ll be fine,” she said, and she walked slowly up the ramp, passing the superintendent coming down.

  He looked in the direction of where the plane had disappeared and asked, “She get out of here okay?”

  “Yes,” Slip said. He took his work gloves out of his back pocket, slapped them against the side of his leg, and made a motion to walk up the ramp and to work.

  The superintendent kept looking in the direction where the plane had disappeared. “We lost half a day’s work in the shop because of this.”

  “She got hurt pretty bad.” Slip slapped his gloves against his legs again.

  “Then there’s all the whispering and gossip that goes on when an accident like this happens. It slows everything down.”

  “I suppose so,” Slip said. Now he was staring down at his feet. He was half-expecting what the superintendent was going to say next.

  “You can draw your wages. I’ll be expecting you and the girl to be out of here by tomorrow night.” The superintendent started to walk away without waiting for a reply.

  “Now, hold on,” Slip called out to the man’s back. “Why in blazes are you firing me? I didn’t have a thing to do with that accident.”

  “I knew you were a couple of Reds when I laid eyes on you. No woman like that works in a machine shop unless she’s up to something. Well, you can leave together. Draw your wages and I’ll have somebody help you put your boat back in the water. You can get some grub for the little girl, but I want you out of camp.”

  “I ain’t no Red, mister,” Slip called to the man’s back as he walked away. “I’m just trying to get by.”

  “Get by somewhere else,” the superintendent called out over his shoulder, then disappeared into his office.

  SIXTEEN

  When the Admiral Rodman came toward the dock in Craig, George Hanson was standing on the deck drinking a cup of coffee. Craig was a small fishing village on the outside coast of Prince of Wales Island. The ship had made a stop the night before at a large cannery and would put in at Craig to deliver cargo and pick up a few passengers. This was an unusual route for the steamship line, but there was a delivery of livestock for Sitka in the hold, and the captain had decided to come up the outside coast and then go to Ketchikan on the return trip down the inside.

  George had spent the morning watching birds. He had never watched birds before in his life but this particular morning he had watched birds and finished reading a novel. He even talked with a young couple on their way to Alaska for the first time about the healthful benefits of rain for the skin. None of these things really held any interest for him but somehow on the ship they were pleasurable diversions.

  George watched the small boats paralleling the Rodman’s course toward Craig and he waved from the deck. They had crossed Dixon Entrance the day before and he had been up to walk the deck in the easy swells that rolled in from the Pacific Ocean. He wore light cotton pants and a pair of old tennis sh
oes he had last used when he and Benny had gone surf casting on the coast at La Push. When he put the shoes on he remembered the day with happiness and he even rolled the cuffs of his pants up to walk on deck.

  As the village came into sight, George heard the engines on the steamship slow and felt a new vibration in the deck. A moment later there was a shrill grinding clatter coming from belowdecks and a bell sounded in a compartment somewhere under his feet. Then the ship slowed even more and an alarm bell sounded on the deck where he stood.

  A ship’s steward came walking briskly along and asked all of the passengers to please report to their lifeboat stations. He said repeatedly not to go back to their rooms for any of their luggage but to report immediately.

  George stood in a crowd and put on his canvas life preserver. He smelled no smoke and the Admiral Rodman didn’t show any sign of listing. It was a fine morning and the winds were calm. The older passengers fanned themselves and did not laugh when a young man called for a band to play “Nearer My God to Thee.” Men smoked cigars and women stood on tiptoe, trying to see over the shoulders of the people around them and hoping for a sliver of information. A sailor came to the station to explain that the ship had lost power but there was a tug coming to tow them to the dock in Craig. Once the tug was alongside, the passengers would be allowed to go back to their business on ship. A steward started handing out cups of bouillon to the crowd and the atmosphere took on the nervous gaiety of a temporary crisis.

  The old reverend who shared George’s table at dinner came walking down the covered deck with his life jacket wrapped tightly around his narrow chest.

  “I overheard the engineer tell the steward that the bolts in the main coupling have failed. He’ll be able to make repairs in Craig but it will take several days at least.” The reverend seemed pleased with himself—comfortable, George supposed, in having privileged information.

  “Several days?” George asked.

  The reverend said “yes,” then continued walking down the covered deck with a peculiar pigeon-toed gait, looking for some other lucky soul to share his information with.

  The steamship line served wine with a special dinner of salmon and halibut the night after the ship was taken to the wharf for repairs. Some of the passengers spoke of disembarking and finding other means to travel north. Although he knew he should be eager to get to Juneau and establish his headquarters for the search, George was secretly grateful for the time to spend in the village.

  They had not been allowed to disembark that night while the ship was getting settled in for repairs. The next morning George got up early to clear customs and be one of the first ashore. He had planned to walk directly to the small boat harbor to see if any dories with a woman and girl had been seen down the coast. But as he turned the corner of the wharf onto the commercial street fronting the pier, he heard someone’s voice rising above the clatter of cranes and carts rolling along the planks.

  “Detective,” a young man called out, and George turned. The red-faced boy was carrying a dispatch case slung over his shoulder and as he came to a stop he fumbled with it. “Detective Hanson, from Seattle?” the boy asked, straightening the front of his shirt.

  George heard the young man’s voice, but he did not respond right away. He knew the young man would have news from Seattle, and he didn’t want news from Seattle. George was just realizing that news from Seattle was the thing he was trying to outrun onboard the steamship headed north.

  “I have come from the territorial marshal’s office in Ketchikan,” the young man blurted out, and he stepped forward and tugged on the bottom of his suit coat in hopes of straightening out his appearance. “There are several telegrams here for you, and a package addressed to you came up on the plane. My chief wanted you to get them as soon as possible since the ship won’t be in Ketchikan for some time.”

  “All right,” George said, looking at the young man who continued to fidget with his uniform. “What’s your name, son?” George asked in a calm voice.

  “I’m Walter Tillman, sir.”

  “Good. I’m George,” he said, and extended his hand. The young officer pumped George’s hand up and down enthusiastically. Then they both stood silently for a moment. People getting off the ship pushed around them on the muddy street.

  “Do you have something for me, Walter?”

  “Oh … yes.” He dug in the dispatch case to get out the papers. “Here you are, sir.”

  “Good,” George said, taking the packet of papers. “Now, is there a place where we can sit and maybe get a cup of coffee? Policemen in Alaska do drink coffee, don’t they, Walter?”

  “Oh yes, sir. We can mug up across the street.” The young man pointed timidly down the street, and gestured for George to walk ahead of him.

  “Lead on,” George said, and waved as if the young police officer were a sheepdog and he wanted him to work.

  He opened the envelope Walter Tillman had given him, and the murder that had brought him north settled like a fog down the street. A folder was topped by a telegram from the captain and it was short: See Ketchikan P.D. package, to follow.

  They walked into the café that was in a log cabin slumped along the mud street of the village. The front windows were hazy with steam and the air inside smelled of grease and cigarettes. There were two stools at the counter next to a narrow door back to the kitchen. Two men were eating breakfast and looked to be nursing hangovers. The waitress wore a white jumper with a red ribbon in her hair. The jumper was snug around her waist and the top two buttons of her blouse were undone. She smiled at the policemen as they entered, but her eyes lingered on young Walter as they sat down.

  The young man was tongue-tied, leaving George to ask the waitress for two cups of coffee and two pieces of pie. George wanted to just sit and enjoy the day, but the envelope in his hand felt as heavy as lead. He undid the brown ribbon on the file folder, reached in, and took out the photographs and telegrams.

  The police photographs spilled out on the red countertop. The waitress, who was rounding the corner from the kitchen, got a glimpse of the pictures as they spilled out. She sucked in her breath and turned away quickly. They were black-and-white photos of crime scenes: men with skulls caved in and distorted faces like stretched rubber masks, overturned rooms, phone cords wrapped around soft flesh, and blood that looked black in the overexposing flash. On the backs of the photographs were names, dates, and Party affiliation. Someone had been busting up the radicals in Seattle.

  There was a handwritten note clipped to the last photograph from George’s captain. Sorry to mess up your vacation. Hell of a mess. You were right. Can’t rely on the Fs. Find Ellie Hobbes and the man she is with. Bring them in alive and we might be able to straighten some of this out. All the best, and he signed his first name.

  As George looked over the photographs, a dense sadness settled down through his head and into his chest. The waitress set his coffee down and he looked into the dark round reflection in the mouth of the cup.

  “Was there anything else?” he asked Walter Tillman.

  Walter reached into his pocket and took out a telegram. George read it while the young policeman awkwardly tried to chat up the waitress.

  Departed for Alaska May 29: William Pierce 32, dock boss/McCauley Conner, 29, stevedore./Raymond Cobb, 31, club fighter. You have friends in common, but not for long.—Fatty.

  “I can arrange a flight for you to Juneau if you like,” Walter Tillman said.

  “No,” George said, “I’ll stay on the ship a bit longer.”

  Ellie was almost blind with nausea. The throbbing pain in her hand spread up her arm and sluiced all over her body. She listened to the harmonic thrum of the radial engine. The wooden Vega had a single overhead wing held on to the main fuselage by means of a steel strut that coupled inside the main cabin. While flying the plane, Willie made a show of reaching around and tightening the nut half a twist.

  Ellie was caught in the push-pull of agony and exhilaration and she seemed to
be slipping into some giddy fever dream of the first time she had been up in a plane. She had been sixteen and the pilot had a gold tooth tucked back in his smile. The first lift of the plane away from the dusty field had almost made her pass out. She could see the shrinking barn and cars, the dumbstruck kids staring up into the air with their mouths open and their hands shading their eyes. She had never seen the river from the sky, how it wound like a snake across the flat land, how the sections of corn and wheat were cut into straight lines like a checkerboard. A part of her would always be airborne from that day forward.

  Now she was in the Vega and the sensation was exquisite. Taking off from the sea was smoother than the rutted field in Spokane. The inlets flowed out beneath her and the plane stayed in the corridor between the mountains. Mountain bluffs fell away under the plane, giving her a heightened sense of vertigo. Willie turned in his seat and gave her a bag to throw up in and she used it.

  The Lockheed Vega was traveling at more than a hundred miles per hour past the stone faces where ice still clung to high rock ledges. She felt as if she were standing on the lip of a cliff about to be pushed over. The plane lunged up over an ice cornice. Ellie dug her fingers into her legs. Then she threw up again. Willie turned around and yelled something to Ellie, but she only nodded her head that she understood when in fact she hadn’t. The mountains passed by the wingtips of the Vega and Ellie’s eyes tried to grab hold of them. All of the tethers between the earth and the sky seemed to be frayed, and she had the giddy, panicked exhilaration of being out of control. Blood dripped from her bandage and she scuffed at the droplets on the floor with her shoe.

  The Vega buffeted up over another ridge and a huge expanse of water lay before them. Cumulus clouds sat fat-bellied and satisfied above the sea. Beneath them the ocean waves curled around the breaking rocks on the coastline. Three fishing boats rolled toward the north. They quickly slid under the wings of the plane and disappeared behind them.