The River Queen (14 page)

The clattering grows louder. Tom is piloting from the fly-bridge where I assume he must be freezing. As I am putting my tomatoes into the pot, I hear Tom give Jerry a holler. “Will you take over below, Sir? I'm going to go smell my engines.” Tom is always smelling his engines, sniffing the air, listening like a bird to the ground. He can hear the slightest strain to a motor when the fuel isn't quite moving along. He talks to his engines the way I imagined he'd talk to a lover, or to his dog. “Come on, Girl. Do it for me. Don't let me down.”

This time we hear a big bang and Jerry goes, “Cowabunga. What're you doing, Tom?”

“Just wanta move the fuel along, Sir.”

“What's wrong with the fuel?”

I finish slicing the onion and put it all in the pot to simmer. Then take my place back at the bow, shivering once more as I sip coffee and write in my journal. I feel a kind of stutter to the boat as if it is moving in fits and starts. The engine seems to be making burping noises.

A blue heron rises from the bank. I turn to show Jerry and see him and Tom bent over the
Chrysler Marine Engine Service Manual.
They are studying a drawing and I can decipher the upside-down words
FUEL PUMP
. Somehow I suspect that when you see your river pilots staring into the engine service manual, this cannot be a good sign.

“God. I hate those little marinas,” Jerry says.

“Yep,” Tom says. “Never should've stopped there.”

“And they know we aren't going to go back upstream and yell at them.” I'm hiding my head, starting to feel very guilty as I recall the Guttenberg marina where I persuaded Jerry to stop. Jerry explains that, perhaps inadvertently, they sold us watered-down gas, which creates pockets of air in the engine, and that has destroyed our fuel pumps and so on. “We'll go on one engine until we get through the next lock and dam. Then we'll have to fix it.”

Tom is working on his engine and I'm stirring my sauce. “Tom, I'm going to take the throttle,” but Tom can't hear him with the engines running.

Tom shouts back. “The plugs don't seem to be wet, Sir.” But Jerry doesn't hear this.

“Mary, will you please relay?”

“Jerry's going to take the throttle.”

“Tell him the plugs aren't wet.”

“The plugs aren't wet,” I say. For a few moments I shout messages between them as we sputter into Bellevue Lock and Dam 12. Jerry says we won't float free. “You don't float with one engine,” he says, shaking his head. “Not enough control of the boat.” We go to our positions. Me to the front with my small stick, Tom to the back. Here we'll drop down six feet.

“We should get through okay,” Jerry says. “As they say in Oslo, no sweat.”

Jerry asks the lockmaster if he could tell us the nearest place for boat and automobile parts. “Just a sec,” the lockmaster says. “I'll give it to you as you're heading out.”

On our way out the lockmaster attaches a slip of paper to a long, pointed stick. “What do you call that stick?” I ask him as we let go of our lines.

“Oh, we call it a hand-me-down long stick.” And the boys have a good laugh over that one.

Just below the lock and dam we spot the Bellevue gas dock, and Tom says, “I could use a shower.” I'm nodding in agreement. Three days seems like about my legal limit. “But if I have to,” Tom goes on, “I'll jump right in. I've been christened in these waters all my life.”

I'd prefer hot water—which is starting to become a bit of an obsession—not a cold, muddy river, but I don't say so. A sign for “broasted” chicken catches our eyes and Tom and I both sigh. I don't even know what “broasted” means, but I make a mental note to bring some back for lunch. We're looking for a landing where there's a marina and also an auto body shop since our engines are Chrysler and can be serviced by auto parts.

We pull up to the funky metal Bellevue Courtesy Dock. It appears that this place is also a trailer park because there are perhaps a dozen or so trailers, most with some kind of dinghy attached. A man named George who seems to be the proprietor helps us tie up. “You looking for gas?” he asks.

“Nope,” Jerry says. “We don't need gas, but we've got engine trouble. What we need are parts.”

George nods. “You'll find a place in town. Well, let me know if I can help you out. Showers are three dollars apiece. You're welcome to use my phone. Your cell phones aren't going to work around here.”

“Well, we appreciate that,” Jerry replies.

After we're tied up, George disappears back into his trailer park and Tom and Jerry go to work on our shopping list and I sneak a peek. Heet for gas tank (to suck up the water), spark plugs 2 sets of NGK, six bottles of carburetor cleaning additive, 3 fuel pumps, hoses and clamps, DIL filters, half quart of 50 Valvoline.

I'm stuck at “3 fuel pumps.” How many fuel pumps does an engine need? Definitely not good. I take my sauce off the burner and put it in the fridge. I guess we won't be dining for a while. “My treat for the showers,” I say. No one argues this time. In fact no one seems to be paying much attention to me at all. I assume I will have time for a very long hot shower. Several if I wish. We are in cell phone limbo (as we will be on much of our journey) and Jerry needs to call for a cab. He's gazing into the engine as Tom starts ripping it apart. “I'll go find George,” I offer.

I head into the trailer park where people have set up their campers with signs that read
YOU DON'T HAVE TO BE IRISH TO HAVE ATTITUDE. BUT IT HELPS; DANGER NO SWIMMING
; or
DON'T BOTHER ASKING. I'M IN CHARGE
. There are statues of the Virgin, American flags flying. One trailer is landscaped entirely in plastic flowers and shrubs.

As I'm looking for George, I run into a woman from Iowa whose license plate reads
IOWA SHROOMS
. Dee has got her camper set up on the water's edge. She's got her hummingbird feeders up and her barbecue. Dee has on three or four layers of pancake makeup and her hair is all fixed in one motionless swirl with spray. “Hey there,” Dee says. “You just taking a rest?”

“Actually we have engine trouble.… I'm trying to find a phone, then I'm going to take a shower.”

“Really. I didn't know they had showers here.… How d'ya like that. Been here a month fishing and didn't even know I could get a shower. Got everything I need in my camper though.” She points to her pull-out breakfast nook, her barbecue and hummingbird feeders where several hummingbirds are flitting along. “You with that houseboat?” Dee asks.

“Yeah, I think we'll be here for a while. My captain is trying to get a cab to take him into town so he can buy parts.”

“Well,” Dee says, her pancake makeup cracking a little, “my husband can take you. He'll be glad to.”

I find Jerry, who is happy for the ride. He says he'll be back soon. I pack up my towel and my cosmetic bag and I go to find the shower. It is located in a pump house off the side and despite the wooden floor and cobwebs and the chill in the air, it isn't bad. The most important thing is that it has good water pressure. I take a very long hot shower, relishing the flow of water down my back. When I return, Tom goes up to take his. He drags his wheely suitcase with Samantha Jean tucked under his arm. “She needs a bath too.” He says he'll throw her in the shower with him. I tell him I'll watch the boat.

Tom's got the starboard engine lying in pieces along the stern and, as I gaze at them, I'm not optimistic about what's ahead. Since I can't make any calls, I have time on my hands. It's a cold morning, almost raw, and the river is a monotonous shade of gray. It takes Tom what feels like forever to return from his shower. “I'm going for a walk,” I tell him.

“Oh, take your time.” I hate it when they say this because I know he means we've got a long layover.

“I'll bring you back some of that chicken,” I say.

I decide to go sightseeing in scenic Bellevue. To a New Yorker, Bellevue is our most famous insane asylum, but this place seems pretty stable to me. I leave the trailer park and head up the road where I see a Phillips 66 station and a sign that reads
CAR WASH, GAS
$2.64,
LUBE JOB, LAUNDROMAT, OLD-FASHIONED ICE CREAM CONES, SPECIAL ON AMMO
. Then I head to the Richmond Café for that broasted chicken.

When I walk into the Richmond Café, the music video to “Mississippi Girl” is playing. I see two gay guys sitting, having lunch. This wouldn't surprise me, of course, in New York, but it does in Bellevue, Iowa. In fact it looks as if the whole restaurant is filled with guys, right out of
Brokeback Mountain,
eating burgers and fries. At least I think they are gay. Then I realize that the two men I first spotted are just both wearing the same sleeveless T's with the name of the cement company they work for across the front.

All the men in the restaurant are in uniforms bearing names like
TRUE VALUE, TACKY JACK'S SURE WAX
, and
PROFESSIONAL RESCUE INNOVATORS
. All the women are wearing rhinestone crosses and taking their mothers to lunch. Everyone in the Richmond Café is either in a company uniform or wearing a rhinestone cross or both. And now I'm pretty sure no one is gay.

“All Jacked Up” comes on the Country Music Channel as I order a hot meal. Chicken, a baked potato, a salad. Sitting there I am suddenly incredibly dizzy. The table, the booth are all moving. I feel as if the boat has entered me. I think it is a combination of the river and the drug cocktail I'm taking. I decide to try to ease off my pills.

Walking around Bellevue, there are smiley faces, Jesus and Mary statues, and names on the door such as
HELMUT
and
SCHRODER
. Two men in brown shirts get out of a van and smile at me and say hello as if they have been recently returned by aliens.

As I head back to the boat down a side street, a freight train passes me so closely that I can reach out and touch it. The engineer waves. I wave back. I find this river custom so quaint, yet so odd at the same time. I try to imagine waving at bus drivers, at subway conductors, at strangers on the street. But here we just wave and wave. On the river a fuel barge heads north. Nothing is moving south.

I return up the beach with two bags of chicken, fries, sodas for the boys. I know we must be very delayed because Jerry has gone for a shower. Tom is groaning at his engine. “Come on, Baby. Come on, Girl.”

The man who drove Jerry into town stands, rocking on his heels nearby, watching our progress. “Your husband looks like a good mechanic,” he says. I look at Tom in his Harley T-shirt, his belly spilling over his pants, as Samantha Jean, her tongue hanging out, peers down at him from the flybridge where he's stowed her. “That's not my husband,” I say.

Tom grunts, tugging at engine parts, tossing some into the trash. I am completely skeptical and Jerry, who's back and all cleaned up from his shower, is calmly sipping a beer. But somehow after four hours of throwing out damaged parts and putting in new parts and greasing and lubricating and testing the fuel, it seems we are ready to roll. The chill has left the day and with waves and a push off from the dock we are moving again.

It is good to feel the motion of the river beneath us, the boat chugging along. A huge flock of white pelicans does its strange interweaving dance. Bald eagles perch in the treetops. I had anticipated that the river would grow more industrial below Dubuque, that there would be more signs of man, on the river or along the banks, but it is remarkably devoid of human traces.

I want to stop at Savanna, Illinois, but given the hours we've lost, we have to pass it. We won't make a landing or a marina by dark if we stop anywhere now. We come to a railroad bridge and Jerry is worried about clearance. “Can we make this, Tommy?” he asks.

“I couldn't jump up and touch that, Sir,” Tom says.

Tom is right. We sail smoothly beneath the bridge. “Rock 'n' roll,” Jerry replies.

The cloudy gray skies open up and it starts to pour. For several miles we are in a driving rain. Jerry calls ahead to the marina at Clinton to see if we can get slippage for the night, but no one answers the phone. “We'll figure something out,” he says, shaking his head.

We go by a fuel barge, the
Penny Eckstein.
One crewman, holding an umbrella with one hand, is barbecuing on a small Weber grill on deck. We come up on two islands that have their trees stripped bare. Thousands of cormorants roost in the naked branches. The trees are filled with nests the birds have made from the leaves and bark. We drift past the islands in silence, except for the chatter of the birds. It feels as if ghosts could dwell here.

19

M
Y FATHER
died on May 14, just four months ago, which happens to be my birthday. Or at least he died at the very end of it. We had gone to the theater that night, Larry, Kate, and I, and were walking home along Fourth Avenue in Brooklyn. It was close to midnight and a woman was dragging a suitcase toward me. I stepped aside to let her pass and she kicked me in the gut, knocking me into the street. She screamed obscenities as her punch took my breath away.

Larry and Kate helped me as I staggered home, shocked by the blow. When the phone rang an hour later with my brother calling to tell me that our father was dead, I already knew. I felt certain he breathed his last as that woman kicked me into the street. As I spoke to my brother, I could hear my mother shouting in the background. Not in sadness or grief. And she certainly was making no effort to console me. “Tell her there's no funeral!” she yelled. “Tell her we aren't doing anything at all!”

I never spoke to my mother that night, but I know that she never shed a tear. She had reasons, I suppose, for being bitter. He had sold buildings he shouldn't have sold. They hadn't shared a bedroom in thirty years. He never took her anywhere. Once I asked her if it was his temper that had ruined the marriage for her and she said, “No, it was his indifference.”