By lunch her back ached from the steady, repetitive bend and rise, and her morning surge of energy was gone. Rain hammered away on the corrugated metal roof. This shitty work, being banished to the shed, was all because she hadn’t fetched Fritz his precious shim fast enough. She hadn’t spent four days on a ferry to deal with this chaos.
“Damn, you work slower than molasses going uphill in January.” Her head snapped around. It was Newt, peering at her in the dim light. “You dreaming up some time machine in here?” And then he was gone.
To trim her misery she tried to focus on good memories. Driving in Connor’s beat-up Mazda truck to Runnymede, New Jersey, a picnic on the hard dirt of a pitcher’s mound. Wrapped in blankets on the lifeguard chair at Cape May. That night in Rittenhouse Square when he held her, and she felt, for the first time, her heart grow shy in her chest.
And, further back, her mother sweeping the house, pushing dust from the foyer onto the sidewalk, watering her ceramic pot of basil on the kitchen windowsill. Removing the sofa protectors for guests and zipping the plastic back on when they left. The aroma of marrow bones, gravy bubbling, at 1005 Wolf Street for the Sunday meal. The gold medallion around her neck jostling over the ironing board as Serena pressed a white blouse for Tara’s first day of school, putting knife-pleats into her wool jumper, folding bobby socks while Little Vic cut off one of her braids at the dining room table. How furious her mother had been.
In these memories her mother was always in motion: leaning out the second-story window of the bedroom at Christmas with a broom in one hand, using the handle to arrange strings of colored lights into the branches of the maple. Uno, due, tre!—Tara’s job to push the plug into the socket. Urbano on the stoop, unlit cigar shaking between his lips as he clapped. The lights shedding an amber halo on the pavement below. Early winter morning walks to the bakery, sidewalks coated in frost, Tara shocked from half-sleep as her mother flipped on the fluorescent lights in the kitchen. The ticking sound as the oil in the deep fryer heated, Serena fetching a tray of precut cannoli dough from the walk-in freezer.
She recalled one morning a couple months after her sixth birthday when she and her mother watched on the grainy black-and-white television in the bakery kitchen as flames destroyed sixty-five row homes. Her mother wept as she filled the pastry tube. “What kind of country is it where a city bombs its children and no one does nothing?”
The side door slammed. Tara jumped, fearing Fritz’s grumpy wrath.
“The hell kind of show you got running in here?” Newt snatched a section of pegboard from her hands, split it, and tossed the pieces into a burn pile. “Thing’s about as warped as a dog’s hind leg. C’mon, we got some work ahead of us. I like having you around too much to see Grandpa fire your slow ass.”
He plugged in a table saw near the door, took the pencil from his hat, measured and marked, then handed her a pair of safety glasses. “Now just feed it nice and gentle, flat, slow and low like a turtle, otherwise it’ll catch back on you. Grandpa loves him a good organizational storage box. There you go, keep it flat. You done this before?” He took up the ripped section, then showed her how to hold the strips of plywood tight against the fence, just as Connor had once done.
“Blade’s sharp as a rat turd on both ends, so watch yourself,” Newt said. He swiped the chop saw, handed her pieces to hold while he drilled. “Glue it and screw it, and you’ll have something to show for the day. Hey,” he said, trying to catch her eye. “Hey, Molasses. You okay? You hanging in there?”
She fit a screw into the drill. “I’m good. Thanks.”
9
BUT SHE WASN’T.
As the days contracted further, the sun barely clearing the mountains to the south, the island seemed to fold in on itself, caught in a bubble of October twilight. Her bones ached despite layering undershirts, thermals, and sweatshirts to keep out the damp. At the end of the day she wanted nothing more than to crawl back into bed and float, semiconscious, waiting for the sun to return. When the clouds finally did part, the sun was halfhearted, low-angled, slicing at the buildings, sparking raindrops that dangled from spruce tips.
At odd moments a wave of sadness enveloped her, and she could hardly move. She remembered her mother’s casket being lowered into the ground in the plot overlooking the Schuylkill. Standing on the green felt, wanting desperately to sink into the earth with her.
She often thought about Connor, sometimes blaming him for the wedge of his letter, at other times for sleeping with her when she was so open, so needy. But most often now there was just the steady beat of missing him, wanting to feel his warm breath on her neck.
In the evenings after work she went to the docks and walked among the boats, listening to the now-familiar squeak of the buoy balls. Sailboats, fishing vessels, and skiffs crowded the stalls, bouncing in the swell. Men on the docks who before had given her quick, sidelong glances as she approached now acknowledged her with short nods.
Newt had tried to explain to her the differences between the fishing boats—trollers with their folded poles, seiners with the elevated wheelhouses and broad decks, and longliners with the aluminum chute extending off the stern. But they all just looked like tough, tired horses in their stables.
She liked catching snippets of conversation among the fishermen, who stood with their brown-booted feet propped up on the side of a boat, smoking cigarettes and speaking in low tones. A foreign language of drags and tides and fathoms. Or who dipped stiff-bristled brushes into buckets and scrubbed down the deck, or sent wheels of orange sparks into the water from grinders. The docks, limbs extending into the water off the central work float, were alive.
As she walked she thought about how quickly the house on Wolf Street changed after her mother died. No longer the lingering smell of garlic and meat, the basil plant in the window, the electricity in the air when her mother laughed. Homesick? What home was there to be sick for?
When the ache set in, she reminded herself that she was here, on this island, safe. Then the tugboat came to mind, dark-windowed, floating there at the end of the docks. Waiting.
10
SHE ARRIVED AT the hatchery at 7:50 to set up the egg treatments, check the temperature of the water in the incubator trays, fill the magazine on Betsy. With care, she hung antibiotics, piercing plastic bags with a twist of the nozzle, taking note of the survival rate in the sliding trays, recording it in the speckled journal.
Fritz had done an inspection of the warehouse, where she had labeled each compartment, grouped widths of wood together, and scrubbed the planked floor with degreaser. “You sure took your sweet time with it,” he grumbled, looking around. “And I guess now you’re the only one here who knows where anything is.”
He was such a grim bastard. Newt flashed her a don’t-you-dare-open-your-mouth look. And she didn’t.
She fed the fry, swept the cement floor of the workroom. Be the first with a broom in your hand, the last with a beer—this was written on the blackboard above Fritz’s desk. She had made a vow to follow the dictum.
At night she went back to her efficiency apartment, closed her eyes, and tried to think of one thing she had done since first arriving on the island that was successful. Three weeks, and she had organized a warehouse. Even sleep, the most elemental task, came with difficulty.
As she lay awake she pictured her father back home, moving up the stairs, chalky heels sticking out from his slippers. Had he just headed back to his office and smoked a cigar after he kicked her out, as if nothing had happened?
How many times had she heard the story? (The Marconis had a way of repeating family lore, the details shifting but the thread staying the same.) The doctors had told Urbano’s parents, Grandpa Joe and Tara’s nonna, that they wouldn’t be able to have children because of the high lead levels in Grandpa Joe’s blood. He had spent much of his teenage years working for a shoemaker on Snyder Avenue, soling nails clamped between his teeth. Tara’s nonna miscarried four times. When she gave birth to a son, G
randpa Joe took to the streets howling, calling the neighborhood over to examine his child’s large head and thick black hair.
Instead of a traditional Italian name, Grandpa Joe wanted to call his son Hercules, the last mortal son of Zeus who sprayed Hera’s breast milk across the heavens to create the Milky Way. Her nonna would have none of it, and settled instead on Urbano, figuring—correctly—that he would be a man of the city.
As a teenager Urbano boxed. To hear Grandpa Joe tell it, his son was never much of a fighter until he got hit. And then—forget about it. “Your papa, he coulda gone pro with that temper of his. Just need to get him riled before a fight. He got those stone eyes, scared the shite out of those Irish boys.” Tara had seen the photos at the social club of Urbano’s arm raised high, blood running from one eye. People respected him, even when, as a teenager, he chose to linger in the kitchen in his sweatpants, studying cake recipes with the women instead of playing stickball on Manton Street.
After high school Urbano joined the Army. Korea was over, and he served two years in peacetime. In Philly he returned to the bakery, grew the business, but quit socializing. He stopped boxing, didn’t flirt with the girls at the public swimming pool, stayed in his billing office during the Italian Market festival. He took on the nickname Fava for his oversized head, and was still single at the age of thirty-five, interested only in his bakery and relaxing with a cigar at the Italian Market social club with his buddy Big Vic.
With his wife nagging him for nipoti, Grandpa Joe decided to play matchmaker. Soon he had a stack of Polaroids, a few cameos, and one oil painting spread over the parlor table.
After much consideration he selected a wide-hipped, long-limbed, curly-haired woman from the old country, the notch at the base of her neck filled with a scoop of shadow. This was Serena Isola, a distant cousin to Big Vic. From a fishing village on the eastern coast of Sicily, fourteen years younger than Fava.
Grandpa Joe mailed Serena’s father a letter about the wonders of South Philadelphia, and his virtuous son—a quiet, intelligent man who didn’t cheat or gamble, and owned a bakery known throughout the city for its cannoli. As a good faith gesture he included a picture of Urbano standing beneath the lit-up Marconi’s Bakery sign, dressed in a three-piece worsted suit with a gold watch chain. A ticket for passage from Naples to New York City followed, along with a diamond-studded bracelet and a thousand dollars in cash. Serena’s family sent word back that by Christmas 1972, their daughter would be in the New World.
Even as preparations were being made, Urbano insisted with shakes of his shaggy, graying head that he wasn’t interested. But when Serena arrived, wearing the glittery bracelet on her thin wrist, medallion of Saint Anthony nestled into that notch at the base of her neck, it became clear to anyone who knew him that Urbano was smitten. “He’s a slow cooker, my boy,” Grandpa Joe always said. “Not a loud sonofabitch like his old man. But we broke him. We got him now.”
For a wedding gift Grandpa Joe ordered the concrete dug up outside his son’s row home, and planted a red sugar maple sapling. The very same one Serena would decorate each Christmas. Waiting patiently for Tara to plug in the lights.
11
WHEN SHE TOLD Fritz that one of the tanks was low, he sighed and heaved his bulk from behind the desk. “Newt handy?”
“He’s off at the processor.”
He spat a stream of tobacco into the grass and handed her a fish net. “C’mon then. Use the handle to chase away the fry so I can see what the hell’s going on.”
Outside, she followed his instructions, herding the swarm of fish to one side. He scoffed, spit again. “Another goddamn leak. Where’s Newt?” he repeated.
“Processor.”
He stomped off without saying where he was going. Tara busied herself organizing the workbench, hanging up individual tools and arranging the wrenches in descending order. Thinking about how disappointed Fritz had looked when he realized Newt was gone. Like he might as well have been left with no one.
Hearing a high-pitched honk, she went outside, watched as Fritz bucked a construction lift into the yard. He slid out of the seat, ran truck straps beneath the leaking tank, climbed back in, then throttled the engine and lifted the tank.
“Your hands cold?” he shouted. Confused, she shook her head.
“Well, then get them out of your damn pockets. Hold that tank steady.”
She cursed silently. She wanted to be a good worker, but he made it so difficult. He fiddled with the joysticks, jockeying the tank to where he liked while she tried to keep it in one place. Waiting for him to point out something else she was doing wrong. He scooted out of the seat and stopped a minute to look into the clouds.
“Might be working against the rain—snow, even, if the temperature drops hard enough. You look cold—you all right? Wanna go back and take a warm shower?”
Her knuckles itched. With his orangutan body he’d be slow and cumbersome. She’d stay out of range. She could take him.
“I’ll be fine.”
But he was already under the tank, inspecting the leak. “I’d ask if you ever worked fiberglass before, but I’m pretty sure I know the answer.”
“We iced cakes with it at the bakery.”
He ignored her. “Just do your best to keep the thing still while I work with the sander.”
“Okay,” she said back, in a lilting tone to let him know she was purposely annoying him. When he came up he gave her a knotted glance, as if to say he didn’t have time for her games, switched on the sander, and began moving the pad over the worn-away section.
Thirty minutes passed, an hour. Even in the dimming afternoon light, through clouds of sanded glass, she could see his pissed-off expression when the tank wobbled. He reminded her of her father, not only in his bulk, but also in how he seethed.
“Earth to Philly! Would you hold the damn thing still? I can’t build up any pressure.”
She tightened her grip. It was either that or let go and start beating the fat fuck. She looked around the yard. At her wits’ end, she shouted over the whine of the sander. “You know, there’s a better way to do this.”
He shut off the tool. “What did you just say?”
She didn’t care. Let him fire her. “I said, there’s a better way to do this. Like, if we find something to set the take on.”
He slipped the facemask from his mouth. With the curved red marks on his cheeks he looked like an astonished, obese clown. Shreds of tobacco coated his tongue. Go on, she thought. Say something insulting.
“And how, my little genius, are we going to set it down with me still able to sand under it?”
Desperate, she searched the yard. Cinderblocks poked out from the weeds. She pointed. “What about those?”
After a moment he said, “Well, hell. Go.”
She heaved four out of the wet grass and positioned them on end where they would catch the tank when it was lowered. He returned to the wheel of the lift. Her mind played the scene forward, the heavy fiberglass coming down over the blocks. “What about tying a rope to the straps so I can pull the tank when you lower it, make it easier to position?” she suggested.
“What, did you fall on your head or something?” he said. “Go on then.”
She ran across the yard, her face flushed. After organizing the warehouse she knew exactly where to look. Back outside, Fritz watched as she knotted the length of rope to the truck strap. He slid out of the seat, undoing the lump.
“Now pay attention.” He folded the rope on itself. “Pretend this here’s a rabbit. Rabbit goes up out of the hole, over the log, around the tree, back over the log, gets scared and heads back down. Got it?” He sent the end through the hole, around, then in again. “Simple. You try.”
Her fingers shook. “The rabbit comes out, and then he . . .”
“Goes over the log.”
“Over the log, and around the tree.”
“Back over the log . . .”
“Back over the log into the hole.”
“Good!” he shouted, turning off the lift. He poured resin into a bowl, squeezed in hardener, then dipped long strips of mesh into the syrupy liquid. It smelled bitter as he smoothed the layers with a plastic spackle knife. “Here, use this one,” he said, handing her his respirator. “Didn’t think you’d be helping out, otherwise I woulda grabbed a spare. My eggs are so scrambled, it doesn’t matter anymore.”
Flakes melted on her forehead as she took the sander and began smoothing the fiberglass. Fritz stood up, hands on his hips, watching her.
“We just might make a worker out of you yet, Marconi.”
12
THAT NIGHT, standing in front of the long mirror in her apartment, Tara traced the imprints on her cheeks left by the respirator. Shadows over her jaw from a summer of crackers and cream cheese were filling in. Dirt from the warehouse was trapped in the pores of her nose. When she ran her fingers through her hair, they caught on snags of matted curls. Grime rimmed her nails.
Still watching herself in the glass, she pulled off her tank-top, splashed water on her face, then leaned forward on her hands. Her ribs appeared darker, thicker. A shadow split the muscles of her stomach. After the day spent fixing the tank, she felt stronger, in a different way from boxing. As if the strength from punching the heavy bag were vitamin C and what she was doing here at the hatchery were the thing itself, an orange.
After her shower she slipped into sweatpants and climbed beneath the covers, the springs of the bed sagging. The temperature had dropped, and flakes drifted through the cone of light outside her window. Closing her eyes, she slipped a hand beneath the waistband. She came steeply, almost the moment she touched herself, imagining Connor over her, sweaty, that concentrated, intense expression on his face. She lay there, waiting for sleep to come, trying to ignore the feeling of the room closing in.
The Alaskan Laundry Page 5
