The Alaskan Laundry (27 page)

“You did the right thing,” Laney said.

“You mean getting off that boat?”

“I mean hitting her in the face.”

Tara drank half her glass. “I want this boat.”

“Why?” Laney asked, her tone challenging. “I mean, don't get me wrong, I want you to have it. But why?”

She thought but couldn't say. It was as if she was just floating, and the hooks of her logic were rolled up, out of the water. “It's not like I'm boat shopping,” Tara said slowly. “I don't know. I can't stop thinking about her.”

“You're stubborn,” Laney said. “And angry. I could tell from that first Thanksgiving. You think getting the boat will solve your problems. Trust me, I tried that.”

The woman watched her. The ears on her bunny slippers flapped as she crossed her legs. “You get me twenty-five thousand dollars, and we're good. Okay?”

Tara swallowed. “Yes.”

That night before sleep she took the dog for a walk along the docks. Pumps gurgled, dumping warm water from the bilges. Lines creaked against the bull rails.

At the bulletin board on the work float she put up a sign.
Deckhand for Hire: Hard-working, can cook. Two years' experience.
She paused, looking down at Keta.

“How will they reach me, monkey?”

Leave note on board, or for Tara Marconi at the library,
she wrote.

Not tired, she walked down the street to the Frontier Bar, took Petree's advice, and wrote the same on the chalkboard.

They slept that night in one of the quarter berths off the salon, Keta snoring softly beside her. It was nice to feel the sway, slightly out of sync with the rise and fall of the dog's chest. She tracked in her mind the different parts of the engine beneath her, the connecting rods joining the cylinder heads to the crankshaft. How when you spun open a valve, air released from the tanks to the cylinders, starting combustion. One day, she swore to herself, she would hear that sound. The engine would fire, and the boat would move beneath her.

The next morning she took Keta on a walk to the Frontier Bar and library. No responses to either of her advertisements. She returned to the tug.

“Give me something to do,” she told Laney. “Anything. Just keep me busy.”

The woman bent and pushed aside the stern hatch of the
Chief.
“I know you've been reading about the Fairbanks-Morse. Why don't you go visit with it for a while. And, if you want to keep moving, organize the cargo hold.”

In the engine room, with the caged bulbs shedding light on the cylinders, each one the size of a garbage can, she took off a plate, then peered into the casing. A brass piece of machinery attached to the crankshaft, which was the diameter of a small tree. Try as she might, she couldn't imagine it spinning.

She set to work filling carts with empty bottles of degreaser, sections of hose, a broken Zodiac foot inflater, and various other useless items, which she left in the harbor dumpster. At the end of the day, as Tara was spraying down the deck, Laney came up from the cargo hold, then put a glass of white wine in her hand.

“Damn,” Laney said. “You don't let the grass grow, do you?”

She bent down and pulled a weed from a deck seam. “Not if I can help it.”

HER THIRD DAY ON LAND
she walked up to the post office. Keta seemed chipper, peeing on every patch of moss. Her heart sank when she saw the empty box. For some reason she had been sure she'd find a letter from Connor there.

If Newt were here they'd split a pack of Rainiers, head out to the breakwater, and make easy sense of the world. She considered asking Trunk for her old job back, but couldn't let go of how satisfying it had been to be out there with Petree on the
Invictus.

She needed to make at least four thousand dollars in the next three months. On top of that, it felt wrong to be walking around like this while the rest of the fishing fleet was on the water. And yet there was nothing left to do except wait.

At the bookstore she bought a pad and settled into her booth at the Muskeg.

12 August 1999

Dear Connor,

I think this is the first time I've ever mailed a letter to Kansas. Hopefully it will catch you before you return to NYC.

I can't believe you got the lead in a play! And of course I remember Nikki Scarfo. He was down at the social club a few times. My father flipped out when they shot him.

She took a sip of coffee and reread. Her words sounded detached, unconcerned. Happy.

I got a dog. A big wolfish guy named Keta, a malamute-shepherd mix. He calms me. Although I'm agitated now, because I don't have work, even if I'm learning about the tug's engine. I think I told you—I need to move it a hundred yards, that's the deal (or it will be if I save enough money to buy it). I've been doing my best to get a head start reading up on the mechanics.

Thanks for your letter. I miss you too. I'm thinking about coming back for Christmas.

Love, T

Before she could scratch out this last thought, she folded the letter, slipped it into the envelope, and mailed it. It was how she felt right then.

SHE WALKED ALONG THE BEACH WITH KETA
, watching as he sniffed the tide pools, inspected the rocks. They checked the library for messages again. The woman at the front desk handed her a slip of paper.

“The guy sounded a little crazy on the phone. He said you could reach him at this email address. Kingbruce at Alaskanet dot com.”

She hadn't ever been on email, so she went to the library computer and followed instructions to open an account. Growing warm with anticipation, she sent a message.

This is Tara, you left a message at Port Anna Public Library. I'm looking for deckhand work.


A few seconds later the flag on her mailbox went up.

Hi Tara. Opening on a crab boat. Bering Sea. Can you cook? How many years on the water.


She answered:

Hi King Bruce. Yes, I can cook—I'm Italian. I have 2 years on the water.


This was a lie—two lies, even, and she knew it. But she had also been around long enough to understand this was how things got done.

Yeah let me know if you need me. Thanks, Tara.


She stared at the computer screen, willing the flag in her inbox to flip. When it did, her hands shook as she clicked open his message.

Could use another hand. pasing thru PA October 3 maybe earlier. check HO and meet us when we tye up. 3% share King Bruce f/v AK Reiver. Okay?


She looked out the library window. The Bering Sea! Up by Russia, on the big boats. Making the big money. Her heart grew loud in her ears as she hen-pecked the keys.

YES


Giddy, she hit the send button.

She closed out her session and stood, looking around the room. And there, sitting in an armchair by the magazine rack, was Betteryear.

“Tara,” he said, reaching for her hands, half standing. “It is so good to see you.”

She smelled his scent of grease and cooked greens, saw how his lips shook. He appeared older, but squeezed her hands firmly.

“I'd like to spend time with you,” he said. “Are you free tomorrow? There's a special place I'd like to go, perfect for relaxing, especially after your hard work on the tender. Yes?”

“I can't tomorrow,” she said. “I have things to do.”

“I see. Well, we can have dinner on Sunday. Does that sound good?”

She didn't want to spend time with him. Then again, he had been so generous with his knowledge, his food. “Is it okay if I bring my dog?”

“Yes. Seven
P.M.
We'll make beach asparagus.”

When she left she swung by the Frontier one last time to check the blackboard. Beneath her post someone had written in neat capital letters: 6
P.M. TOMORROW LEDA'S REVENGE.

That night, walking out the docks toward the
Chief
, Keta stopped in the middle of the walkway. He pointed his nose into the black sky and began to yip. She looked around, wondering what had set this off. His yips blended into a long howl. The sound made her shiver, the wildness and bravery of it. Her chest overflowed, and then she was leaning back, howling into the night. The two of them bayed together, until a fisherman came out of his wheelhouse and asked if they would please keep it down, he was trying to sleep.

SHORTLY BEFORE SIX P.M.
the following day she tied Keta at the top of the ramp and went off to search for
Leda's Revenge.
As she walked a rasping sound set off a dim memory. It made her think of Connor in his shop, but something else as well—her father, in khaki pants, on his hands and knees, refinishing the floors of their house on Wolf Street. An early memory—she must have been three or four. Her mother watching from the kitchen table, smoking a cigarette. Strange, now that she thought about it, that her father had never been allowed to smoke cigars in the house.

The rasp came from a newly painted troller, with the outline of a raven perched on the “
G
” of
LEDA'S REVENGE
, stenciled in black over the flybridge.

“Tara?” A man stepped forward and offered his hand, rough and swollen. “Zachary,” he said. His beard, flecked with thicker gray whiskers, was darker where a dust mask had covered it. Dust coated his eyelashes. “Can't figure out for the life of me what makes more sense,” he said, looking over the deck. “The orbital sander or the jack plane. Guess the fish don't care either way. C'mon aboard. What boat did you work for?”

“The
Adriatic
,” she said, stepping over the gunwales.

“Ever trolled?”

She shook her head.

“When people in town advertise themselves as having experience, that generally means trolling.”

She knew this. It hadn't stopped her from putting up her note. Black grime outlined his nails.

“How long are you looking to work?”

“I've got a job crabbing in October.”

“On what boat?”

“The
Alaskan Reiver.
”

He gave a tight smile. “Usually guys with years of experience get those spots. I assume it's for the two-week king crab opener?”

“That's right. The skipper said it was an emergency.”

He pulled at his beard. “So we're coming up on the middle of August now, which gives us about a month and a half. Usually work alone, but I could use a hand. My main priority is safety. We go out, fish tough, have a good time, come back a bit richer, and in one piece. That make sense to you?”

“That works.”

“Here's my proposition then. You be up front with me, I'll be up front with you. I can say off the bat that I don't like that you haven't fished before. And I also don't like that you put you had experience when you don't. So you take the marine safety class they're offering this Friday, pass it with flying colors, and we'll fish the salmon opener Monday, August sixteenth. If it works out we'll do coho in September, maybe chum depending on the run. I'll start you off with a ten percent deck share, and we'll take it from there. Then you go north to the Bering in October and crab. Deal?”

She didn't like him calling her out like that. On the other hand, this scheme meant she could pocket a few thousand trolling, and then the crab boat would put her over the top in October. From the way people spoke about crabbing, way over the top.

“Deal.”

“Only thing I'll ask is that you buy yourself a survival suit after your course. Here.” He handed her a wad of bills. “Consider it an advance. In the interest of safety.”

“One quick question.”

“Shoot.”

“Can I bring a dog?”

Zachary looked into the air. It was something Fritz used to do—peer into space, part serious consideration, part you've got to be fucking kidding me.

“Does he get seasick?”

Tara watched him. “I'm not sure.”

He smiled. “Good. Bring the dog.”

TARA ARRIVED EARLY
to the weekend marine safety class, held on Sawmill Creek Road, in a purple board-and-batten structure across from a trailer park. She set down her new survival suit on the table. A clean-cut, handsome curly-haired man poured her a cup of coffee.

“What boat are you on?” he asked.

“
Leda's Revenge.
”

“Zachary Sachs. You're in good hands there.”

Older men with pasty, weather-beaten faces, double-fronted Carhartts, and caps slick with oil residue took their seats around the classroom. The instructor split them into smaller groups. The men removed immersion suits from their orange rubber sacks and practiced slipping plastic bags over their feet before stepping into the neoprene heels. “Sixty seconds or less,” the instructor said. When he set off the clock, she shoved her fists into the mittens, zipped up, Velcroed the flap over the lips. Encapsulated in the suit, Tara felt like a school mascot.

They learned how to set off flares, board a life raft, test an EPIRB, call in a mayday on the VHF, providing coordinates, boat name, and details of the problem.

“Details like, we're fucking sinking, git your lazy coffee-drinking Coastie asses out here,” one of the trollers joked.