The River Queen (27 page)

My father was a man of stories. And his own set of broken dreams. He was an enigma to me and I knew little of his personal life. But if he got you in his clutches, he'd talk your head off. Once my mother and I went shopping and we left Larry listening to my father. We came back three hours later and Larry was in the same place. My father said, “So, I've got a sore throat and Larry's got an earache.” The thing about my father's stories was that they were pretty much one-way events, monologues that as he got older and older he'd get himself trapped inside of and my mother would make a circular gesture with her hands and say, “Here he goes again.”

He was himself a very poor listener, but he could go on and on about his friends long gone, about his business interests that had never quite succeeded. He wanted to be as rich as the people he tried to impress. He loved commerce, buildings rising, the smell of paint. Yet he cried during movies and musicals. He couldn't watch anything violent or sad. In truth my father was a very secretive man, and in the end he didn't really succeed. He sold buildings and the profits went to taxes. He sold buildings for peanuts that later went for millions. This was one of the things, among the many, that made my mother bitter.

I knew little of what was really in his heart. Most of what we knew of him were his rages. Nobody could do anything right, and nothing was ever good enough. In the end, life was too entropic. The center pulled apart. He could not control every waiter, every family member. His rages could not make everything right. In his later years he was calmer. He liked to sit in his chair in Milwaukee and look out at the woods behind the assisted living center where they lived. In the winter, just before he died, he and I sat, a heavy snow falling, watching a squirrel secure its nest.

During my last visits he grew confused. He thought the pictures on the wall were real people and he began talking to them. He talked to his brother. He talked to his grandchildren, who were living in Hawaii and Brazil.

When I came into the room, he looked up and asked, “Whatever happened to our vaudeville act, Mary? Did you ever take it on the road?”

I did a little shuffle and soft-shoe. Disappointed, he shook his head. “Nobody will come and see that,” he said.

I am standing in the gift shop of the Mark Twain boyhood home next door to the house where my father told me he lived as a young man. I am standing beside this aging woman in a powder blue sweater and pearls and I start to weep. I sob. “I'm so sorry,” I tell her. “I didn't expect this.”

She nods, “Oh, I understand. Doesn't matter how old they were.…”

I walk out to compose myself. I stand in front of this house. I walk up and down the block, which has been turned into a Mark Twain theme park, and I know that my father walked here. He stood on this street and looked at the river. He worked in a department store called Klein's. I stand on this little street where tourists push past me en route to Judge Clemens's office or Becky Thatcher's house and gaze down toward the river. My father stood on this spot. He saw the river every day. What he told me was true.

I go back into the gift shop. “Is that picture for sale?” I ask her.

“Yes it is. It's eight dollars,” the woman says. I nod. “Let me wrap it for you.”

She wraps it carefully in tissue, secures it between two pieces of cardboard. As she wraps it, I think how I want to pick up the phone and ask him more. There are a million things I'll never know and I feel a terrible regret. As I head back to the boat, I know that something is over for me in this journey. Tom and Jerry stand impatiently on the dock, waiting. Samantha Jean is doing her guard dog thing on the flybridge. I should hurry, but I do not quicken my pace.

As I approach the boat, I see a small green step the boys have rigged up for me. “The boating equivalent of the red carpet,” Tom yuks. Back on board Tom and Jerry are ready to rock 'n' roll. I go to put away my things as Jerry shows me a shelf he has built for me under the sink. “You can keep your books and things there,” he says. “Like your work.”

I drop my backpack onto the bed. A single chocolate mint rests on my pillow. “Tom,” I say, going up to the helm, “did you put a chocolate mint on my pillow?”

He blushes as much as Tom ever will. “You know,” he says, “special treatment. Like a hotel.”

It's time to push off, but we're in a tricky spot. We have to back way up in order to exit the narrow channel that leads out of the marina. I hear Tom telling Jerry to “spin her hard. Give her all you've got.” Jerry is tense, nervous about backing into another boat. “You've got a good hundred feet,” Tom tells him, and then as he takes her back, “Okay, that's enough. You're good to go.”

As we pull out of the narrow channel, Tom points to a tow anchored on the side. “Hey, we saw her yesterday. She didn't make it. She didn't lock through.”

A barge loaded with freight passes us at full throttle and we get bumped in its wake. We're back on the river, chugging along. Hannibal recedes. I'm moving on. I'm leaving all this behind.

*   *   *

At Lock and Dam 22 we have a seven-minute wait. “He sure knows his lock,” Jerry says. Tom's come below and he's hanging on to a ladder outside that is covered in cobwebs and bugs. “June bugs,” Tom says.

I don't bother to correct him, but under my breath say, “Mayflies.”

“You know, two years ago, there were so many over at the Pettibone marina that the harbormaster had to get a snowplow to get rid of them.”

“Yuk,” I say, pushing off the wall.

Since we've got a little time to kill, Tom tells me he's bought some things for Kim. “You know, cuz she helped so much. And cuz she saved Sammy's life.”

“That's nice of you,” I tell him.

“I got her a necklace. Wanta see it?”

I tell him I do. He lets go of his line and we both head inside, where he reaches into a cubby above my head and pulls out a brown paper bag. The boat gives a little rock, taking on the exiting barge's wake, and its contents spill onto the couch. I see the necklace, and a gold box, and a pair of silver handcuffs. Tom scoops up the handcuffs with his sheepish smile. “Joke,” he says.

“Okay!” Jerry calls. “We're locking through!”

We float free and as soon as we come out Tom and I go above. The river's open. It's a clear evening and I'm piloting now. If all goes well, we should reach Two Rivers by dark. Tom's sitting with Samantha Jean in his lap, keeping me company. “You know what I'll always remember,” Tom says with a laugh. “That night when the barge brought us into Keokuk in the dark. That's the kind of people you meet out here.”

I nod, moving into the bend.

“You know, this river is a big unknown. She's a bitch and she can take you down if she wants to. Don't quote me on that.”

I'm steering and laughing. A flock of pelicans soars above. “But she's big and she's mean and she's full of the unknown.”

Ahead we're coming up to a barge, heading north, and I get up from the captain's chair. “You want to take her, Tom?”

“No, you stick with her.”

“Really?” I'm nervous. I've never passed another ship before. Thus far my driver's education has consisted of a very wide stretch of empty river. “Are you sure?”

He nods. “You take her.”

I'm looking at the barge and its place in the river. I'm seeing which way the tow driver is heading. “I think starboard.”

Tom shakes his head. “Port to port.”

I don't agree. From the way she's coming, I think I want her to pass me on the starboard side, but Tom's pretty adamant. I'm waiting for the tow to give a signal and I'm at the point where I need to decide when Jerry peeks his head through the little window below. He seems surprised to see me at the wheel, but he doesn't skip a beat. “Take her on the starboard. On one whistle.”

“Starboard?” I ask.

“Yeah, their pilot just called.”

I give Tom a little wink and he looks away. At Mile 287.1 I get my one whistle and pass the barge on the starboard side. We catch a little wake and I point her nose into the troughs.

“That's good,” Tom says. “Now take your river back.”

HURRICANE

33

A
PLACE
with the odd name of Louisiana, Missouri, was once famous for its cigar factories and for the Stark Apple Nurseries, home of the Delicious apple. But we're heading to the Illinois side—the Two Rivers Marina. I ask Jerry if he'll call ahead. He's reluctant to use his cell phone because of the cost (Jerry's a thrifty guy), but now I am officially desperate to do my laundry. It's been a long, hot day and I also wouldn't mind a meal and a shower. “I'll call,” I tell him. “Tell me what to say.”

“Tell them we're looking for a slip and our L.O.A. is forty-seven feet.”

“Our L.O.A.?”

“Length over all.”

I use my cell phone and call Two Rivers. A woman answers the phone. “This is houseboat
Friend Ship,
” I tell her, “wondering if you have a slip available. Our L.O.A. is forty-seven feet.”

“Yes, we can accommodate you. You come on ahead.”

I am unbelievably proud of myself for handling this simple communication. I smile so much my face hurts and Jerry just shakes his head. As we sail into this lovely, full-blown marina in a quiet cove, I am in heaven. It actually looks like a real place. It's tucked under the bridge for Interstate 54 and I am content to see trucks and cars and what passes for civilization buzz by.

We moor and plan to head right up to the restaurant. We're all starving but Jerry decides to hang back and make a few notes. As I'm walking up with Tom, I call Kate on the phone, but I get her voice mail. Before I can say anything, Tom grabs the phone away from me. “Whale Kisser,” he says, “come in. This is the
River Queen.
Do you read me?” Then he laughs.

As we approach the restaurant, a bevy of teens comes pouring out. “Oh-oh,” Tom says, “local hangout.” But the restaurant is large and virtually empty. This is, after all, a weekday in the off-season. There are some teenagers playing video games near the bar, perhaps leftovers from the crew we saw leaving, and the bar itself has customers, but the restaurant has only one or two tables filled. A family with a baby is at one.

Tom and I take a seat in the middle of the room and I notice a strange man walking around. He has greasy hair and a blank stare. He plunks himself down next to the family with the baby and lights up a cigarette.

“Can I get you something to drink?” the perky blond waitress asks us.

“I'll have a diet Dew,” Tom replies, looking her up and down. I order a glass of chardonnay. My eyes are fixed on the creepy guy. Who'd sit down right next to a baby and light up? But Tom's got his eyes on the leggy waitress. She's just a girl, really, but Tom is fixated.

Our drinks arrive and the waitress starts to tell us the specials when the creepy guy gets up and starts walking around again. Though there are dozens of tables to be had, he goes to the table right next to ours and sits down. Then he lights up.

“I'll have the sirloin tips with asparagus,” I tell her, my eyes on this man.

“I'll have the same,” Tom says. “But can I have mashed potatoes with mine?”

Tom notices me staring at the man. He turns back to the waitress. “Excuse me, but do you have a nonsmoking section?” I am surprised at how polite and formal he is with her.

“Yes we do, Sir.”

“We'd like to go over there.”

When we move, the creepy guy moves away as well. Tom gives him an ominous stare. “That was nice of you,” I tell Tom.

He shrugs. “Why should you be uncomfortable?” he replies.

Jerry joins us quite a bit later and I'm already falling asleep. I'm grateful when our orders arrive. As our waitress walks off, Tom, who is looking a little the worse for wear, says, “She sure can move from port to starboard. And look at them buoys.”

I'm shaking my head as Tom buries his face in his hand. “Oh, God, I'm sinking.”

“You definitely are.”

Jerry nods, concurring.

I'm tired, and as soon as I'm finished eating, I get up. “I think I'll go to bed,” I tell them. Tom rises as well. “Are you leaving Jerry alone?”

“Nope, but I'm walking you back,” Tom says.

“You don't need to.”

“I'm walking you back.”

As we head out the door, I almost crash right into the creepy guy as he heads out the door as well. It is a clear night, filled with stars, and the path back to the marina is paved. We are silent as Tom walks me back. I'm standing on the deck, but he says, “I want you to go inside and lock the boat.”

“It's a nice night,” I tell him, “I'll go in soon.”

But Tom shakes his head. “I'm not leaving until you do.”

So I go inside and lock the door. He stands, staring at me until I do. As he's leaving, I hear him tell Samantha Jean, who is topside, “You keep an eye out for things, you hear, Girl? Now give Daddy a kiss on the nose.”

Inside the cabin I call Larry first to say good night. Then once more I try to call Kate. On the first ring she picks up. It is so good to hear her voice. She doesn't feel far away at all.

“Who left that message earlier? ‘Whale Kisser'?”

“Oh, that was Tom. He saw the picture of you with the beluga.”

“Oh.” She laughs. “I thought it was some kind of pervert.”

I thought how well things had worked out. What a nice little family I'd made. I met Larry at a writer's conference in Richmond, Virginia, when Kate was fifteen months old. He was from Canada and we were both in the same dorm. I had become a bit of a recluse after Jeremy and I broke up, but when Larry and I sat down to lunch together one day, he told me he'd just taken the walking tour of Old Richmond. Taking a walking tour seemed like a wonderful thing to do. The next day we went to a museum. We started seeing each other, eating our meals together, and after a week I knew I had to tell him.