The Alaskan Laundry

by Brendan Jones

  “Laney never told me about the deadline. The engine block’s cracked.”

  “Learn to weld.”

  “You can’t weld to cast-iron.” She had read this in one of her books.

  The harbormaster fastened her weary eyes on Tara, the same blue as the faded, ugly banner around her neck. “Sweet lord, why didn’t you just stay away like I told you?”

  Before Tara could respond, the phone rang. The woman tipped the microphone to her lips. “I’ll give you till Christmas. Now git.”

  89

  HER FIRST NIGHT on the boat she stretched out in the rope hammock and stared up at the hemlock tongue-and-groove ceiling, making constellations of the knots. She could hear Keta snoring in the salon below. How many times had she imagined this, smelling the salt brine coming through the open portholes? Somewhere, she was sure, her mother was smiling.

  In the morning she brought out a bucket of bleach and scrubbed the moss-stained lettering of Pacific Chief, using a toothbrush to root out mold. For lunch she rested a sandwich on the whale vertebrae, settled into the Adirondack chair, and opened her notebook.

  The volcano appeared purple over the water, clouds spinning around its peak. It would rain later on, she thought. Or perhaps this was just the winter settling in. It seemed like yesterday it had been summer solstice, when it never got darker than twilight. She took a bite of her sandwich, propped up a leg, and started a letter.

  Dearest C,

  Just wanted you to know—I bought the boat. Army TP-125, with an engine the size of a school bus. Which I’ve got until Christmas to get running. And after that, I’ll

  “Y’all rentin’ out berths on this here beast?”

  She turned. At first glance she didn’t recognize the thick-necked man standing on the dock with a woman beside him. But then she saw the eye patch, pushed aside her notebook, and threw her arms around Newt. His head was shaved, and his fingers were wrapped in tattered tape, gummy with dirt. The woman stood about his height, with plank shoulders and knit gloves.

  “T, I’d like to introduce my one true love, Ms. Plume Rand.”

  The woman wore shorts over rainbow-striped tights, a wool sweater with half-dollar wooden buttons. She left off petting Keta, stepped forward, and extended a hand. A bolt of jealousy shocked Tara.

  “I’m real, for better or worse,” she said, smiling at Newt. Even his teeth looked whiter.

  “This guy back here,” Newt said, pointing to a bright-eyed toddler with a felt cap. “This is Luis.”

  She looked between them. Plume reminded her of herself a couple years back, her eyes working over the tug, mesmerized. Luis chewed his fingers, gurgling.

  “I don’t know, Newt,” Tara said. “You’d have to baby-proof it.”

  “Ain’t nothing hard liquor and a hammer won’t fix, right, babe?” he said to Plume. “Plus, this guy’s a tough little gummer. Rugged stock.”

  They both turned at the sound of footsteps. Petree and Irish stumbled along, Irish carrying a suitcase of Rainier.

  Petree slurred his words. “Kangaroo, tell me the news ain’t true.”

  “Still up for helping to get that engine going?” Tara asked.

  He gulped back a beer. “C’mon, Irish. Girl’s got a temper on her. You stand around too long, she’s like to smack you one.”

  Stung, she looked out over the water.

  “Go on, boys, drink somewhere else,” Newt said. “We got business to discuss.”

  “Is that basil?” Plume asked, pointing toward one of the portholes.

  Tara looked at the plant, which she had picked up at the hardware store. “It is.”

  She watched Petree and Irish make their way toward the dead end of the dock. After a moment she started up the gangway. “C’mon inside.”

  She’d finish the letter later.

  90

  SHE SMELLED PETREE before she saw him—the scent of ginger and hops. He had a plate of the Fairbanks-Morse on the engine room floor beside him, and was shining a light into the crankcase.

  “Who let you on my boat?” she asked.

  “Your friend Newt.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Your buddy and me struck a deal. I get this girl running, he’ll buy the Invictus. Plans to fish it with his family.”

  She continued to look at him, wary. He tore open another ginger chew.

  “We’ll have to grind down the cracks, seal ’em with JB Weld, see if they hold.” He caught her gaze. “Look, word is you have until Christmas. You gonna help or what?”

  She rolled up her sleeves. There was no time to waste.

  “Teach me.”

  After a morning of feathering a grinder blade over the belly of the exhaust manifold, eyes throbbing from the orange sparks, she walked through town to the library and called her father.

  “Figlia.”

  “Hey, Pop.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Back in Port Anna.” There was a lightness to her voice, she could hear it. An airiness in her muscles she hadn’t felt before.

  “I tell the boys down at the club what you are doing and they cannot believe it. Was it good? Did you make money?”

  “Enough for a ticket back to Philly.” Silence. “Pop?”

  “Yes. I just—I thought, I just wasn’t sure.”

  “Weren’t sure about what?”

  She heard some talk, followed by Eva’s laughter. He came back on the line, his voice frail. “Just, it’s nothing. Vic wants to see you. Acuzio’s back from Santa Fe. Little Vic, too.”

  “There’s just one more thing I need to do. And then I’ll be there.”

  “Is it money?” he asked after a moment. “I can send some. Just—come home.”

  “I’ll be back soon.”

  “You come straight to Wolf Street.”

  She smiled at the order. “Okay, Pop. I will.”

  91

  FOR THE NEXT FEW WEEKS she worked twelve, sometimes fourteen hours a day in the engine room, helping Petree rebuild the compressor, run WD-40 through the braided lines, clean and polish the oil strainers. They moved onto the Deutz three-phase generator, taking apart each of the six cylinders, Tara cleaning the heads and rings and rods with a soft cloth while Petree measured tolerances.

  “We’ll show her, just you watch,” he said. “Hell with a hundred yards. We’ll do a drive-by, drown ’em in our smoke.” She began to get the sense that running the engine was Petree’s final revenge not only on the harbormaster in Port Anna, but on all the harbormasters who had ever given him grief when he arrived into port with one of his hard-luck boats.

  Around Thanksgiving, Miles, back home from college in Bel-lingham, stopped by. It didn’t take long for him and Petree to bond. He took on the job of cleaning out the heat exchanger over the boiler, reaming out each of the rods, then making a new gasket on the fifth, smaller air compressor cylinder. When she handed Miles a container of Locktite to smear on the bolt threads as he tightened up the cylinder head, he smiled back at her as if it was the nicest thing anyone had ever done. “Thanks, Tara.”

  Fritz came by to check their progress. He followed the beam of her headlamp as she showed him where she had mixed up the two-part JB Weld epoxy, then grinded it down, using sandpaper, then emery cloth, before putting on another layer. “These old beasts need attention,” he said, running a finger over the fix. “They like to be taken in hand, held close. Loved. They’re like dogs. When their owners leave them, they lose their hair, get bitter.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you get sentimental,” she said. “It’s touching.”

  He gave a slanted grin. “Speaking of which, you and that dog of yours holding up okay?”

  “He’s taking to the boat, I think. He likes peeing on the docks.”

  Fritz shook his head, running his fingers along the maze of pipes above. “What can I say? This boat just needed someone crazy enough to take her head-on. Hey. You mind if I snip off a couple of those basil leaves for Fran? She needs some for her Th
anksgiving stuffing.”

  “That’s why it’s there.”

  “Tara Marconi,” he said, shaking his head again. “You’ll forgive me if I still can’t get over it.”

  She picked up her tubes of JB Weld. “I forgive you. Now you’ll forgive me for kicking you off so I can get back to work.”

  92

  AT THE LAST MINUTE she decided not to go to Fritz and Fran’s for Thanksgiving, and instead collapsed into the salon cushions, still in her oil-stained mechanic’s suit. Newt bounced Luis on one leg, holding a bottle in one hand, a can of Rainier in the other, staring into the wood stove.

  “How’s Old Man River and his trusty sidekick down there? He ready to turn this beast over?”

  “Soon.”

  “And then you go back to Philly for Christmas?”

  “It depends if we run the hundred yards. But that’s the plan. How would you guys feel about looking after the boat, and maybe the good monkey here?”

  Hearing his nickname, Keta pulled himself up from the bed, made a show of stretching, and walked into the galley to rest his chin on Tara’s thigh. “I know. But it will only be for a little, okay?”

  Newt tried to fit the bottle between the baby’s lips. “You are coming back, right?”

  “What do you think? I’m gonna get the boat running, then abandon it, along with this love?”

  “Sometimes it’s hard to figure that curly head of yours, that’s all.”

  She thought about looking out the window at the Delaware, the navy yard as the plane descended. And then Connor. It couldn’t help but be awkward. They could hardly speak on the phone.

  “You thinking about your feller back in Philly?”

  She took the can of beer from him, tipped it back until it was gone. “Apparently I’m not that hard to figure.”

  “You get this far-off gaze. What’s it been? Two years?”

  “Two years and two months.”

  He crunched his can beneath a heel. “But who’s counting?”

  “Careful of the floor,” she said.

  “Feels like yesterday we were out on that breakwater, ain’t it? And me thinking what in the hell has this girl gotten herself into.”

  She laughed. “Feels like years ago when I was thinking just about the same.”

  93

  A RAINY DECEMBER SEVENTEENTH. Petree was back after a break, eager to make the final push on the engine. She was in the galley, studying the manual, waiting for her welds to dry. Plume had Luis on her back and was busy unscrewing the oak edges of the countertop, cleaning them down with white vinegar and oil, leaving a sharp scent in the air. Despite her “free love” appearance and soft voice, the woman was neat and organized. Whenever a leaf on the basil plant turned yellow she nipped it off with her thumbnail. Tara lit lint and cardboard and yellow cedar scraps in the firebox of the Monarch, then set the kettle on the burner for coffee.

  Plume was dribbling water into the dirt of the basil plant when she looked over at Tara, then back through the window. “There’s some guy out there. He’s been standing with his backpack for the past ten minutes, looking lost.” She checked again. “Actually, he’s kind of cute.”

  Tara checked her watch. The welds could use another half an hour at least. She closed her book, stood, and warmed a coffee mug with hot water. When she parted the leaves of the basil plant she saw a tall man in a leather jacket and sweatshirt with the hood pulled up against the rain. He was scruffy, with a high forehead, slow movements as he took something from the top pouch of his backpack. “Holy fucking shit,” she said, pulling away.

  “What?” Plume looked over her shoulder. “You know him?”

  She opened the door and went out on deck, expecting the spot where she had just looked to be empty. But it wasn’t. Connor’s face broke into a smile. He flipped his palms to the sky, shrugging. She ran down the gangway and gripped him, holding the back of his head, pressing him to her. Breathless, she managed to say, “What are you doing?”

  The features of his face were more defined. His freckles lighter, almost disappeared over his cheeks. Fine wrinkles at the edges of his eye.

  He looked up and down the length of the tug. “So you actually did it.”

  She watched his lips, the dimples in his cheeks, the one on the right deeper than the left. She glanced down and flipped the brass zipper of her oily mechanic’s suit with one finger.

  He pulled up her chin. “Is it okay I’m here?”

  She searched for the right words. After a moment of silence, all she could think of to say was, “Wanna help?”

  “Yes,” he said, his features relaxing. He hefted his backback. “And, how?”

  94

  WHILE CONNOR SHOWERED she went into the engine room, setting Petree’s coffee on top of the hot water heater. Her hands shook.

  “You okay?” Petree asked. “Look like you just seen the ghost of Soapy Smith.”

  “I’m fine. What do we got going here?”

  He splayed his fingers over one of the cylinders. “Touch,” he said.

  She reached out. “It’s warm.”

  “That’s right. Know what that means?”

  “My welds are holding.”

  “Damn right they are. The boy and I reamed out the pipes on all the heat exchangers. Opened up the sea chest to bring raw water in to cool her. All we need now is to clean out the oil strainers in the manifold. Take a look at this.”

  He flipped a light switch and a glass peephole on a metal box lit orange, the flame reflecting off tanks strapped in by the oil reservoir. “Rigged that up myself. We’ll change out the diesel filters, bleed the air lines. You give the oil screens a good scrub with a wire brush until the brass shines. I’d say a couple days and we’re in business.”

  Connor ducked beneath the bulkhead into the engine room. He was Petree’s height, but looked unmarked, fresh-faced after the shower, so young beside the old salt.

  Miles came back from the bow, where he had been working on the compressor. “Who’s this?” he asked, wiping his hands on his suit, looking at Tara.

  “My friend Connor,” she said. “From Philadelphia.”

  Connor shook their oil-stained hands, then rapped his knuckle against an empty CO2 tank.

  If there was a way she could take all she had learned over the last two years—not only about engines and combustion, but about biases and predilections, habits and quirks—she would share this so he would say the right thing. I wish I could help you, she thought. All the missteps I have made, please don’t make them too.

  His mouth opened. “So where do we start?”

  It was perfect.

  95

  WHEN SHE CAME DOWN THE LADDER the next day, Connor was sitting at the table, drinking coffee with Newt. The Monarch gave off waves of heat. The manual for the Fairbanks-Morse was open to the page on the oil manifold.

  “When do we get some sunshine around here?” Connor asked, nodding toward the volcano. It was just after eight. “Doesn’t the dark drive you nuts?”

  Newt stood. “We’re going out to the cape to try and rouse up some winter kings. Y’all have fun down there in the dungeon.”

  “You get used to it,” she said, pouring herself a cup, watching Newt step out on deck. She looked over his work pants and sweatshirt. “Sleep well?”

  “Like a baby,” he said. He clapped his hands. “So what’s the schedule? I’ve been reading about brass strainers.”

  She finished her coffee, grabbed an apple. “Let’s get to it.”

  In the light of the headlamp he traced the engine manual with the pad of his finger, from a white steel tank just aft of the bilge pump through two brass filters, into the crankcase, to the Manzoni injectors, hitting three sides of the cylinders. He tapped a wood plank with the tip of his shoe. “Which means our filters should be here?”

  He looked at her questioningly. Using a crowbar, she brought up the plank. Beneath, screwed into a timber, were two pint-sized cast-iron filters. “Bingo,” she said, catchin
g his eye and giving a thumbs-up. He kneeled, shifted a lever, and removed the caps. Inside olive-colored residue was caked around the screens. Without waiting he reached in, his hand going black. With a squelch the screen lifted out.

  “We’ve got gloves, C,” she said.

  “Ach, it’s fine.” He held the screen with the tips of his fingers, residue dripping into the bilge. If Miles or Petree had been here they would have yelled. Work smarter, not harder. She saw then that he was trying to impress her. He’d have to use industrial soap, even diesel to remove the oil from his hands.

  They went back through the cargo hold and climbed topside, the strainers wrapped in diapers. A gentle gray rain made a shine on the silver deck. In the galley she lit candles and set out newsprint, and they both used wire brushes and brass cleaner to scrub.

  There were so many things she wanted to talk about, she didn’t know where to start. He appeared content. She wondered then how she had ever thought they were going their own separate ways.

  There was an “Ahoy” from outside. Petree peeked in his head. “We’re not straining cocktails in that thing, buddy,” he said to Connor. “Just so they’re not gummed up is fine.”

  Connor grinned across the table at her, as if this were an inside joke of theirs. His quiet, contained movements reminded her of Betteryear.

  When she stood to make sandwiches, she noticed how Connor watched her. She allowed herself to feel his gaze, and didn’t mind how his eyes rested on her back, kept her close.

  “Nice job,” she said, picking up his strainer. It gleamed in the galley light.

  “Not bad,” he agreed. “Not bad at all.”

  Later that afternoon, Petree insisted Tara take his truck and show Connor town. He wanted to see the payphones at the library, the apartment where she first lived. “But first, show me that river you smelled when you arrived.”

  It was three P.M. The air was already taking on a twilight glow. Shreds of cloud skirted across the sky as they drove north. The volcano appeared enormous across the water. Keta whined whenever Connor stopped scratching his head. Fur swirled in the air, blowing through the sliding cab window, catching on Connor’s leather jacket.