The Alaskan Laundry (24 page)

“Pure power,” he said, stabbing the air with his cigar. “Fuckin' bomber.”

He surprised her by listening carefully when she talked, and she found herself telling stories, how her
nonna
died with ground veal beneath her engagement ring, which she never took off, even when making meatballs. How her father was an only child because of the lead in his father's blood. She showed him a few basic boxing combinations, and laughed when he attacked her with a double-leg takedown, dropping her on deck.

“The hell's up with you two,” Jackie hollered, sticking her head out the galley window. “Don't you burn down my boat.”

“She sneaks up on me in the engine room,” Miles said as they took their seats, and he relit his cigar. “A ghost. But she likes you. Your buddy Newt, man. She rode him hard. I blame it on her, what happened.”

“How so?” She leaned in closer to hear him, getting a whiff of his diesel and sweat scent.

“It was a short weekend trip, doing cucumbers. He was already going twice the speed of any normal drag-ass deckhand, which is why so many of the divers unloaded with us—he'd get them unloaded so quick. Still, she kept pushing, you know, in that way she does, like she's pissed off at the world. Constantly busting his balls, giving him shit about his teeth, going bald, how weird he looked, whatever.” He ashed over the gunwale. “That night some new guy in the fleet had overloaded his brailer bag in the forward hold, and it got stuck when Teague tried to pull it out. Newt shoulda called for the hook, lifted the bag to take tension off. But he knew Jackie was watching, so he just slashed with his Vicky. I heard this god-awful scream, and he came up, blood pouring down his cheek.”

It rang true—despite his testy nature, Newt was the sort who kept on pushing until he fell apart. “Thank god I know engines better than she does,” Miles said. “Anyways, this is my last season with her, even if the money is good.”

They both glanced up at a noise. But it was only the jars in the pressure cooker, glass shaking in the hard boil.

“Just keep your eye out,” Miles said. “That's about all I gotta say about that.”

ON JULY FOURTH
, in the middle of the king opener, they anchored off Salisbury Sound, in Kalinin Bay. The tender had been inching its way back up the line, keeping pace with the trollers working off Point Erin. Teague set a pot and brought up a couple red king crabs before pulling the hook the following morning. Jackie defrosted spot prawns and boiled up the crab for dinner. Teague melted down a brick of butter and spread newspaper over the galley table.

“Now, this,” he said, digging out meat from a crab leg, “is how we do it in Alaska.”

Tara rose, went into the galley, and brought over a plate of cannolis from the refrigerator. When Miles took a bite he rolled his eyes back in his head and pretended to go into shock.

“Now, where in the Sam Hill did you learn to make these tasty little hot dogs?” Teague asked.

“Bakery.”

Miles laughed. She was feeling nervy, and glared up-table at Teague.

“You playin' around?” he asked.

“No—I was raised in a bakery in Philly.”

“Your mom's a baker?”

She just nodded. “Well, I don't care what anyone says about you, Tara Marconi. You all right in my book.”

The next morning Jackie found Tara in the galley as she cleaned the fry-pot she had used for the shells. She stood for a moment, watching as Tara scrubbed.

“I've been meaning to tell you. You're not a natural fisherman.”

Stunned, she stared back at her skipper. “Excuse me?”

“But it's okay,” Jackie said, taking a granola bar from a cabinet, peeling back the wrapper, and tearing off a bite. “You try harder than any sonofabitch I've ever seen. Oh—another thing. Your father's been calling the processor. Trunk said to put an end to it. He's not your secretary.”

“When did you hear this?” Tara asked, shutting off the water.

“Don't go getting all worked up. Spoke with Trunk the other day.”

Her heart rushed. She wondered if he was hurt, if he had fallen on the stairs. “Well—I need to call him.”

“And that's why I'm telling you. Tomorrow we put in at Hoonah to pick up ice and mail. You can do it then.”

No good would come of it. He'd pick up, she'd refuse again to answer his question, and one of them would get angry.

She wished he would just leave her alone.

AS THEY CROSSED ICY STRAIT
to the small town, Jackie sent Tara into the hold to break up the last of the ice, which had frozen into a block. Each time Tara stabbed at it with the edge of the shovel, the berg threw back shards into her eyes. Finally, she stomped it with the heel of her boot, breaking it in half, before working down each chunk.

“Now, this is what I call a job well done,” Teague said, when she came into the wheelhouse to pour a glass of water. “Not a damn tree left.”

At first she thought he was talking about her. Then she looked out the window. The hillsides were clear-cut. “Native corporations,” Teague said. “They know how to get shit done.”

Teague's goofiness, originally charming, had turned strange. If her father had seen him giving her these eyes, there would be a problem.

“You wanna go throw lines?” he said.

After making fast she found a phone outside the liquor store at the top of the ramp. A single Plexiglas booth. She stood in a line of fishermen, repeating to herself that she wouldn't hang up on him, not matter what. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the folded arms of a man behind her. In a tan work coat with oil-splotched shearling lining. Purple tattoos on his knuckles.

“Your turn, honey.”

She was about to tell him to fuck himself, then recognized his sad blue eyes and thick white hair.

“Did I stutter?” he said, pointing toward the phones. “We ain't got all day. Go on and make your call.”

His eyes appeared glazed, the wrinkles in his face deeper, the tone of his voice tighter. Petree, the man from the ferry. She held her tongue, stepped forward, and shoved quarters into the slot. The receiver smelled of fish oil and still held the warmth from the previous hand. She flattened her ear to the phone. Her heart knocked as she dialed. Her father picked up on the second ring. His voice sounded thin.

“Yes?”

“It's me, Pop.”

She waited for his anger, bracing herself.
“Figlia,”
he breathed. “Where are you?”

“In a small town. North of Port Anna.”

“Where?”

“Hoonah.”

“What are you doing?”

“Fishing, Pop.”

“On a fishing boat?”

“I'm on a tender. Other boats unload their catch to us, then we bring it back to the processor, where it gets frozen and packaged.”

His voice grew raspy. “They said they couldn't tell me where you are. Vic said he'd get a map, and put it on the wall in the parlor here.”

She looked for a folding door on the booth, but it was broken off at the hinges. The idea of him tracking her on a map was hard to believe.

The man behind clicked his tongue. “Hey, daddy's little girl, you gonna be all day explaining how to fish?” Another male voice said, “Maybe when she's done she can give me a private lesson.” Chorus of laughter.

“Hold on—” She cupped a hand around her mouth and turned. “One second, okay?”

“Tara,” he pleaded. “I need to know when you're coming home.”

There was the old tone, the insistence. “I don't know, Pop.”

“C'mon!” the man from the ferry bellowed. “You got a line behind you, honey. Call your dad later.”

“Are there other people with you?” he asked.

“No—it's fine—”

“I'm having a hard time hearing,
figlia.
”

Eva came on. “Tara? It's me. Is everything okay?”

“It's fine, yes.” She turned again. “If you just shut the fuck up I'll be off. Okay?” She spoke back into the mouthpiece. “I wanted to say I'm sorry for hanging up on him. I thought he was going to be angry.”

“He just wants to talk to you. Maybe there's another time to call back.”

“Okay. But tell him to stop calling the processor, please.”

Eva took a breath. “Yes. I will tell him, Tara. Call from someplace where he can hear you. He just wants to know you are safe.”

Carefully, she set the receiver into its cradle, then stared forward, trying to push her insides back down. He had sounded so anxious, so desperate to know where she was, what she was doing. Even—was she imagining this?—apologetic.

“Hey,” the man behind her said. “It's been two seconds, honey. You wanna get out of the way so the rest of us can call?”

Like a string of lights the muscles lit up. Her left hand drew into a fist as her wrist moved through the air, her knuckles hooking into Petree's skin, digging under his cheekbone. His bloodshot eyes wide, he made a gasping sound. Instinctively she pushed, moving out of range, but not before one of his arms seized the nape of her jacket and jerked her toward him. She was close enough to smell the damp diesel on his coat, the stink of half-digested hops and ginger on his breath. “You little fucking cunt bitch, I'll rip your fucking throat—”

She felt a hand on her hip. And there was Jackie, popped up between them.

“Petree, Petree, Petree.” His Adam's apple twitched, his eyes still fastened on her. “What did I tell you about fighting girls? You're not careful, you're gonna get yourself a reputation.”

“She unloaded on me!” he said, pointing at his cheek, flushed red. He looked back at Tara. “I know you, anyways, you little shit. Where I seen you before?”

“Let's go,” Jackie said, guiding Tara by the waist. Petree spat at them. Tara turned. “You don't remember, do you? You said we'd meet again, and sure enough.”

Jackie slapped Tara on the butt. “Hoo-ah girl! I knew it from that first day we met. Never seen someone throw a punch like that.”

“I told him. He wouldn't give me two seconds of peace.”

Jackie dug into her coat, waved an envelope in the air. “Maybe a letter from your boyfriend will calm you down. Don't worry, I won't tell Miles. Get some rest while we run south. You deserve it after that performance.”

She took the envelope. Connor's handwriting.

When they reached the boat she went straight to her berth and closed the door, trying to even out her breath as she unfolded the pages.

June 24, 1999

Dear Tara,

I'm not sure where this letter will find you. By now maybe you're above the Arctic Circle hunting whales. Or fishing for crab out in the Bering Sea. I guess it's been a bit, and I wanted to know how you're doing. And also to tell you about what goes on here . . . wait for it . . . in the thrilling metropolis of Kansas City! (I'm already starting to sound like a New Yorker.)

I actually love it here. I'm interning at this small theater company for the summer. And you'll never guess what play we're doing. “The Lovers” by Brian Friel. It's actually two one-act plays called “Winners” and “Losers,” but we're doing just the first half (casting it as an island—my idea after thinking of Port Anna).

And guess what? I'm Joe Brennan. The director said he liked my height and sincerity and understated nature. So there you have it. Back on stage I go.

That's been my life. Living in this little room up above the theater with a mattress and a lamp on top of a box. While you—who knows.

Before jumping in the Mazda and hitting the road for Kansas I went back to Manton Street. The downtown skyline has expanded. People move in from NYC by the truckload—this couple with a greyhound dog the size of a small mule bought a place a few doors down from your pop. Vic and Sal and all the old Italian dudes don't know what's going on. People are calling it the “Mexican Market” instead of the Italian Market. Oh and City Council is considering outlawing burn barrels. Crazy. Nicodemo Scarfo got out of jail, so now everyone's on edge waiting to see if he'll get revenge for his son being shot up at Dante and Luigi's. You remember that? Halloween 1989 guy came in with a mask and hit Nikki Jr. nine times but didn't kill him. (I can't help but think your pop knows more about such things.)

I'm not really sure why I'm writing you like this. Just want you to know that the city you left still exists. And that I'm out here in Kansas City. Thinking of you.

Love,

Connor

The volume of blood in her veins seemed to have doubled—either from the fight or the letter, she couldn't be sure. She folded the paper, pinched her fingers, and ran them over the crease. Then unfolded it, read how he had signed, relieved to see it still said the same thing.

She felt emptied out from the fight, but the letter had lifted her spirits. Or maybe it was speaking to her father on the phone, hearing this new gentleness in his voice.

Topside in the galley, Miles and Teague were chomping away on the rest of the cannolis. “Motherfucking Petree Bangheart,” Teague said when she walked in. “That guy's a myth. And you go and hit him. Un-fucking-believable.”

She set bread on the cutting board and began smearing peanut butter and jelly. Miles gawked at her. “You're a fucking badass.”

“I was on the phone with my father,” she said, slapping the halves together. “He wouldn't shut up. What was I supposed to do?”

The two men exchanged glances. “Miles, you be sure to give me a signal if I ever don't shut the fuck up,” Teague said.