Breakers

by William B. McCIoskey Jr.

  “In other words, you’ve sold out to the Japs.” Jones rose and walked out of the room.

  “Would anybody care to tell me what’s happening?” asked Mrs. Sedwick.

  “I’d better go talk to him,” volunteered Hank.

  Adele pursed her mouth in the way that made pug-dog leather of her face. “Stay there. He’ll just have to absorb it. New ideas were never Daddy’s strong point.” They concentrated on Pete who, now that he’d begun talking, eagerly crowed each proffered word. Mrs. Sedwick went into the kitchen and washed all the pots and dishes. The others were too busy covering the tension to notice.

  Jones did not return, even with Adele’s anxious coaxing or then her irritated command. With the strained dinner ended, the crewmen had no trouble escaping.

  Florence Sedwick took Adele’s hand in parting and thanked her. Then she said quietly: “I know how it is. When you’re tied to a man with opinions you might as well reason with the wall. Certainly the story of my life.”

  Adele turned cool. “Daddy has his reasons, I assure you.”

  Hank phoned the Henrys next day. “No, Hank dear. Daddy can’t talk. He’s still sulking.”

  “Sulking shit, woman!” shouted Jones in the background. “Hang up that phone.”

  “Don’t you dare use boat talk to me!”

  Next day Adele confided to Jody, when they happened to meet while shopping groceries: “I’ve never seen Daddy this bad, even with the porpoise huggers. It’s eating him.” She looked tired. Wisps of hair poked untypically from under her bandanna. “I think it’s because he cares so much for Hank.” Jody’s mother alongside her knew enough to keep quiet.

  Hank worked on the house and on his boat in the days before he needed to leave, but nothing he found to do could lift the weight. Jones would surely cool down. Their friendship was too long and deep. But he knew the grain of Jones’s intransigence and part of him recognized, uneasily, that it might go on.

  Of the other weight: He started twice to tell Jody he’d cheated, but both times backed off before speaking. Things were going so smoothly. The strains before he’d gone to Japan seemed lifted. Jody now moved in harmony with everyone. She treated her mother kindly and dealt with the children as friends (but always with each, in charge). In bed with him she was warm and relaxed—so giving in fact that his guilt interfered with his performance.

  On the final day before leaving, he checked the Jody Dawn’s electronics once more while Seth lubricated the windlass and Mo and Terry noisily carried aboard cartons of supplies. Later he stood by Fishermen’s Hall looking out over masts at his boat and all the others. There was Jones’s crew aboard the Adele H running the seine through the power block. Jones was undoubtedly somewhere, readying his boat to function for six weeks without him. While Hank debated whether to risk a visit, he looked up to see Oddmund Anderson. “Odds! Look at you, man.” His former crewman, always self-contained even when doing the messiest work on deck, now wore a dark suit and a serious expression to match.

  “Captain.” They shook hands cordially although Odds’s reserve remained. His grave, smooth Aleut face and his bearing had a new assurance.

  “Family all good?” Hank appraised him as they talked. Reliable crewman, even though he’d deserted them in Dutch less than a year ago. At least Odds had a known capability, and extra crew would be needed when he converted to longline.

  “Fishing with anybody?”

  “No.”

  “Miss it?”

  “No. I work for the Native Corporation. It’s nice, because I go home every night. And church Wednesdays and Sundays. And AA. It’s nice. I done right.”

  Odds meant it. When Hank brought up the new venture, his former crewman could barely summon the courtesy to listen, eyed the sidewalk and people passing, finally glanced at his watch while legs moved restlessly. “You see, Captain, I’ve got a meeting soon. With our advisor, he’s an important lawyer from the United States.”

  “We’re the States right here, Odds.”

  “I guess. Anyways, I got to go.”

  Hank watched again the activity aboard Jones’s boat. The sun was shining. Shouts drifted up from among the masts, everything alive. It was the sort of day to settle differences. He strode down the ramp.

  The Adele H’s crewmen were running the seine through the block inspecting for holes. “Captain? . . .” said Ham warily.

  Hank kept it casual. “Boss in?” He started to climb the rail as he’d done routinely over the years.

  Ham stuck his needle into web and hurried over. The others stopped to watch. “Skipper don’t want to see you, sir. I’m sorry. Said if you ever came, not to let you aboard. I guess you know why. Sorry.”

  Hank studied him. Ham meant it. “I’m sorry too. Not your fault.” He slowly climbed back to the floating boardwalk and left, avoiding the hands in pockets and the slump he felt. He headed back toward the road, passing the bows of other boats—boats smaller than any he’d ever own or run again, seiners of the size that hugged water and talked to the fish. One crew stacking web called out a collective Hey, man. He was known. This was his country. Even the tarry diesel smells and damp of the pilings were his. He stopped, considered, strode back to the Adele H.

  “Captain. . .”

  “I’ll take the blame.” Hank threw open the cabin door.

  Jones Henry glowered up from the galley table. His stubbled face looked aged. “I reckon messages don’t come through clear. Ham! You want to stay with me, you get this man off my boat!”

  “Captain Hank. Like I told you—” The big crewman’s hands curled uncertainly into fists.

  “Ham’s not to blame, you thickheaded old pisser,” Hank said heartily. “I pushed past him.” He slammed the door. “We’ll have this out.”

  “Anybody sucks up to Japs—” Jones banged down his mug and rose. “If they don’t get off my boat I throw ‘em off.”

  Hank turned his back, pulled a mug from the overhead cabinet, and started to pour from the coffeepot while he hoped for the best. Jones’s strong hand clapped onto his shoulder. It caught Hank by surprise. With a sick feeling: Let it happen, he told himself. Just take it.

  Jones spun him around and pushed him toward the door. “Fuckin’ Jap-kisser, think I’m kidding?”

  “I know you’re not. But still, you hear me out.” He turned too suddenly. Jones hit him in the mouth. The cup fell and broke.

  They stared at each other, both shocked. Maybe this’ll bring him around, thought Hank.

  Instead: “Well, ain’t you hitting me back?” Jones muttered. “You afraid?”

  Hank licked blood from his lip. He controlled his sorrow. “I don’t hit friends.”

  “Get out of here, Hank.”

  “The world’s bigger than you want it to be, Jones.”

  Jones opened the door. “Your fancy talk’s nothing but shit.” His voice shook. “Mebbe I could take it from anybody else. But you and me—Get off my boat.” Ham and the other crewmen shifted feet on deck. “See this man leaves my boat if you want to stay crew for me.”

  Hank walked a straight line numbly from rail to pier, along the floats, and up the ramp. His breath came as labored as if he’d run a mile. By the Fishermen’s Hall he paused. Shaggy young crewmen were stretching a net along the pier to inspect for holes. Down among the masts, nets aboard the seiners rose through power blocks like sails while crewmen mended them. Once it had been all joy. He felt his life burning away.

  Black hole everywhere. Then let it be complete. Face Jody. He bought roses, and drove the long road home. “You could have expected that from Jones I suppose,” said Jody sympathetically. “I’m sorry.” She handed him ice cubes wrapped in plastic for the lip, then continued stuffing clothes into a hamper.

  Never had he wanted her touch more. He put aside the laundry bag and wrapped his arms around her. Just to stand and sway together, then go gently to the bedroom. Her returned hug was like balm. Don’t tell tonight and spoil it. He started to caress.

  S
he rested her head on his chest for a moment, then sighed and eased away. “You pick strange times. Can’t you see I’m hurrying to town?”

  “Just for the laundromat?” She was dressed for more than house, he noticed now. “Dear, don’t you ever hear anything but the fishing news?” She said it almost fondly. “A zoning bill tonight that half the town hates. Everybody’s going to need a say. Don’t worry, I’m taking Mother with me, she won’t be in your hair. Suddenly she’s showing interest in things and it’s time she saw something to keep her busy. Meat loaf on the stove.”

  “Let them do without you.”

  Her flare took him by surprise. “You don’t understand anything but boats, do you? Nothing anybody else does is important. I’m on the city council. I ran and got elected, remember?”

  Face it! “Wait.” He brought the roses from the mudroom where he’d left them. “I’m sorry.” His face must have shown he meant it, even though she took the flowers with barely a glance.

  “Hank, dear. . .” She faced him seriously and forced a smile. “Wives in Kodiak have to make a life of their own while their big men are out on the boats.” She touched his cheek and her look was both amused and wistful. “Sometimes the pieces don’t fit that neatly.”

  “Jody. Darling. I’m sorry for something else.”

  “I could have guessed that. This isn’t roses country. What did you do, lose bucks at poker?”

  He sat with elbows on knees, looking down. “In Japan.”

  After a silence: “Well, Hank?”

  “I met this woman. American, on a study grant of some kind. I missed you and she was good company. One night I got drunk. And we slept together.”

  “You son of a bitch!”

  All the way, get it over. “Slept together again the next night. Then I ended it. You’re the one that matters, Jody. I was lonely.”

  Silence. He looked up. She had not changed position but she looked away.

  “It’s tormented me ever since, Jody. I’ll never do it again. Otherwise why would I have told you?”

  Pete ran in from somewhere. “Go play in the bedroom, honey.” By her tone the child obeyed.

  Mrs. Sedwick followed from outside. “I’ve had my cig, I suppose for the night although I can’t imagine people not smoking at a meeting. Oh, hello son. Don’t you have a kiss for your old mother-in-law?”

  Jody told her calmly to leave them. Again her tone brooked no questioning.

  Hank rose and held out his arms. “Please understand. Never again.”

  Jody walked to the window and looked out. “Don’t be so sure. I suppose she was fun to be with?”

  He hesitated. “Yes.”

  “Well, Hank.” Her voice had become detached. “Japan seems to have made you break faith all around. You and I’ve been playing by different rules.”

  He started toward her. “I love only you.”

  She took his arm and guided him to the mudroom. Along with the roses she handed him his boots and oilskins. “Your boat’s now your address.”

  “Darling. Jody. Please. I love you.”

  “Take the truck, leave me the wagon. You can come in the back way and pack your things.” She returned to the kitchen and closed the door.

  PART IV

  JUNE-JULY 1982

  BRISTOL BAY

  ALASKA

  18

  GO DRY

  NAKNEK, LATE JUNE 1982

  . . bill of lading’s in my hand, I fucking know what I ordered, checked piece by piece in Seattle and then the hatch sealed. Count again, don’t make me come down. Should be sixty boxes raingear, not fifty-seven. Seventy gloves not sixty-three. Forty of welding rods not thirty. Hundred-fifty cases of those Filipino noodles, got that right.” Swede glanced up from his radio-phone and waved Hank to a seat. “Any stealing, I’ll find it. Your memory’s not so gone you know I’ll see it through from charges to jail, you can say that around.”

  Speakers crackled with boat talk. “Orion, yeah, I don’ know.” Hank recognized the father on the Italian gillnetter, what was his name? It returned the whole scene four years ago when he’d skippered the Orion, that barge. Was the old fart engineer—Dork or Doke was it?—still trying to take charge? A good summer, turned happy when Jody and the kids came aboard. Pete not even bom. But happy.

  “And nobody loses three hundred feet of four-inch pipe, check corners of the damn barge.” Swede’s voice continued, grating and efficient. No bottle and shot glass from a drawer, but otherwise he was more like his old self than for years. Jaw as squared as the tractor cap, shoulders taut. Maybe it happened like this every year at salmon shakedown time, Hank decided, and he’d been seeing only the autumn Swede with more time for brooding and bottle. At least some of all that had seemed eroded had come back right again.

  The old Italian’s voice assumed the drone Hank remembered: “Go on strike when the run’s maybe two days away? Meeting today, maybe we go, I don’ know. I don’ feel like no fistfights, too old for that, maybe Chris here, maybe he’s lookin’ for a fight, huh Chris? He’s restless, I don’ know . . .”

  A telephone rang. “Then get to it!” barked Swede to end the radio conversation, then gave a curt “Yes” into the receiver. “No, Rhonda, four more carpenters, it’s three more electricians. That’s right, and five machinists. Get ‘em on the plane today, tomorrow latest. They can expect to stay through August shutdown, don’t send me whiners who want to run home to momma. I’m not finished, hold on.” Swede leafed with one hand through an ordered stack of papers as he growled to Hank: “Japs entertain well, don’t they?”

  “That they do.”

  Back to the phone with a paper: “Copy these names and don’t ever send ‘em to me again or they go back same plane your expense. Roger Foley. Joseph Todd called Junior. Sam Michaels, I think his nickname’s Shithead it’s apt. Lazy. Bitched I worked ‘em too hard. I thought you sent me people who wanted overtime. Collective sitdown—of course I fired ‘em, this morning, and please replace with bodies that plan to last. Soon as you can, my dock gang’s now short.” Pause to listen. “If your Local 37 calls that a legitimate strike I’ll start hiring off the street in Anchorage, you know that’s in the contract. We’re clearing decks for a real strike up here.” Pause again, then dry laugh. “D’you talk like that to your husband, Rhonda? I pity him. Thanks, girl.” Swede put down the phone and, to Hank virtually in the same breath: “John Gains in there’s anxious to see you. I suppose it was only a matter of time before you joined the Rising Sun along with the rest of us.”

  “They’ve made me a hell of a deal.”

  “They can be generous when they want.”

  “You make it sound sinister.”

  From one of the speakers: “Bugeye calling Switchblade, go to channel green, over.”

  “Switch green.” Swede reached to dials on a shelf above his desk, and motioned Hank to leave.

  “Switchblade, you listening?”

  “Listening.” To Hank: “On second thought, stay. You’re part of it now.”

  “Hey, Switch. Condition Gatsby.”

  “Interesting. Is Mrs. Gatsby still pregnant?”

  “Swelled up thirty-three, thirty-four inches something like. Doctor wishes she’d delivered yesterday, maybe operate today.”

  “Poor Mrs. G.” Swede scribbled numbers. “She’s an interesting lady, so better luck to her next time. Any more news? Good. Good. Out.” He turned to Hank. “Escapement almost reached, so Fish and Game could declare the first opening any time. The big mass of the first run started through False Pass yesterday and should be storming the Nushagak late tomorrow. They weigh six to seven pounds each, a whole pound bigger than two years ago. Fishermen had better decide to fish.”

  Hank shook his head. “I thought with these new radio scramblers you didn’t need code games anymore.”

  “I don’t trust gadgets.” Swede smiled.

  “You pisser, you’re enjoying this.”

  “It’s my work.” Another phone rang. Swede listened
, then: “Forty cents, Sam, sorry, that’s all we’re prepared to offer. Call it shit but that’s how it is. Yes, Sam, I’ll wait.” To Hank: “You didn’t sign anything not in English?”

  “Hope not.”

  “Welcome to the company. You’ll end up rich. Or if you don’t watch out, back in a hold pitching somebody else’s fish. What’s Jody think of it?”

  “She’s . . . all right with it.” Nobody yet knew.

  “Don’t leave her out of it. Am I the only one who knows what a catch you have in Jody?”

  “I know,” Hank said casually. Keep his distress private.

  John Gains, in rare open shirt without a tie, came from a closed office and put a sheet of paper in front of Swede. He shook Hank’s hand. “I want to see you. Five minutes?” And back into his office.

  Swede glanced at Gains’s paper and, into the phone: “Correction, Sam. We’ll break our asses and give fifty cents. The best we can do.” He listened, then said drily, “If you guys haven’t read the market reports you don’t know how many cans of salmon from last year’s pack still lay in the warehouse. England’s stopped buying all Alaska canned salmon since the botulism death. That’s our prime market for canned reds, closed by their government itself. I know, I know, one guy dead in Belgium five months ago, from a pack out of Ketchikan in another part of Alaska a thousand miles from here.” Pause to listen. “You won’t get a better price this year, Sam.” Phone down.

  “You paid over a buck a pound last year. No wonder boats might strike.”

  “This isn’t fun. I’m on a tight leash. I can offer an extra spring settlement if the price rises retail, but don’t count on that. Nobody’s buying canned salmon.”

  “Japan buys frozen, not canned. You can’t tell me that market’s crashed.”

  “Japan grabs opportunity. Your friend old Tsurifune might sweat, but he won’t go broke. If we can get it cheap that’s how we’ll get it. “