by Pam McGaffin
“I didn’t know her name, but yes. And maybe others as well.” She sighs. “I think it’s fairly safe to assume he and Trinity weren’t lovers. As to others? Who can say? There’s no evidence of it.”
“There was no evidence he drowned either, but everyone assumes he did.”
“That’s different, Ida. And, to tell you the truth, I struggled with that too. That night you overheard me talking to Grandma? That was all I was saying, that it’s hard to accept someone’s dead when there’s no evidence.” The tears that have been welling up in her eyes roll down her cheeks. “Turns out your grandparents were right. I wasn’t cut out to be a fisherman’s wife. I’m not strong enough.”
I lean over to give her a hug and knock the Kleenex, along with a couple of my baby pictures, to the floor in the process. Neither of us moves to pick them up.
“Maybe you weren’t cut out to be a fisherman’s wife,” I say. “But you’re stronger than you think.”
CHAPTER 32
Come About
To maneuver the bow of a sailing vessel across the wind so that the wind changes from one side of the vessel to the other
My head’s reeling with revelations, including the news that I could have had a brother, but there’s no time to dwell on any of it. We have a memorial service to plan. Mom wants to have it at the Acropolis, the dance-hall-turned-roller-skating-rink north of Seattle where she and Dad met. I think it’s a fabulous idea.
“Will there be roller skating?” I ask, just to be funny.
“Of course,” Mom says. “But what do we do about Grandma Grace? Can you see her on skates?”
“I can’t even see her at the Acropolis.”
“Bingo. You’ve identified our first hurdle. We have to get her to agree to a service outside of a church. I have a plan.”
We start with Uncle Pat and Aunt Janet, who helped Mom search for me when I went missing. There was much fence-mending on both sides, apparently, but they’re still shocked to hear she wants a service at all. Once they get over their surprise it’s not hard to sell them on the idea, especially given Dad’s support of the Center for Native Alaskan Youth.
“A memorial potlatch is a celebration of life,” Mom tells them. “It will do more to honor Steve’s memory than a long, stuffy Catholic service. The Tlingit have the right idea. Debts are paid, and then they send their loved ones off to the after-life with songs, stories, and a last meal. We won’t do the debt or gift-giving part, but we’ll do the rest, and throw in some Croatian dancing as well.”
“You want to do this in two weeks?” Uncle Pat’s forehead wrinkles in doubt.
“Twelve days, actually,” Mom says levelly. “But I’m sure we can pull it off.”
God, is this the same woman who was afraid to drive? Or have aliens come down and taken over Mom’s body? Whoever she is, I like her.
“ABSOLUTELY not!” Grandma Grace literally puts her foot down, sending Lassie skittering off in terror. “My boys were born and raised Catholics, and they’ll go out Catholics!”
“But Father O’Neal has already given his blessing and agreed to give a short eulogy,” Mom says.
“He has?” She looks so stunned I wish I had a camera. And when Mom puts her in charge of the food, she actually starts asking questions—as in, how many?
I later find out that the Father O’Neal claim was a complete lie when, in a gamble that would have made Dad proud, Mom convinces the good Father to participate by telling him that Bill and Grace Petrovich wanted to have the service in a bigger place.
Now that everyone’s on board, we actually have to pull this thing off, which means figuring out the guest list and a million other details. Given how last-minute this is, we use the fishermen-homecoming telephone tree to invite people and get their confirmations. I get the job of contacting people in Alaska, including Trinity, who we hope will provide the Native dancing, music, and storytelling. I also send an invitation to Jody and Dwight, asking that he extend an invitation to Hank.
TRINITY responded right away. She’ll be coming with a troupe of young dancers from the Center to perform a traditional dance in robes and masks, the whole nine yards.
Nana will be coming from Montana with her new boyfriend, Phil, and my aunt Corrine, of the many letters.
On the other side of the family are the aunts and uncles and cousins, as well as friends from church, since it’s not going to be at the church. The list goes on. Fortunately, the Acropolis can accommodate everyone and still have space to spare for a circle dance. Uncle Pat knows a family of musicians and singers who will lead the uninitiated in a traditional Croatian Kolo.
The days whizz frantically by. With only a week to go before the potlatch, I find out that Sam’s back from Alaska, so I do what any girl who’s been separated from her boyfriend for too long would do: I drop everything and run to his house.
His mother answers the door. I don’t think she recognizes me at first because of my short hair, but then she gasps and hugs me. She asks me about my head and I show her the wound. “It’s getting better,” I tell her.
“That is good!” She pats my shoulder kindly, but there’s a nervous twitch in her face when she calls for Sam.
When he walks into the room and sees me, he pretends to stagger backwards in surprise.
“Your hair! It’s shorter than mine!”
And it is. After a summer in Alaska, Sam’s hair is down past his neck.
“Do you like it?” I ask, biting my lip.
“It’s a lot different, but yeah.”
He gives his Mom a peck on the cheek, says he’ll be back for dinner, and sweeps me out the door. Once we get a safe distance away from his house, he grabs me and gives me a long kiss. “I’ve missed you.”
“Same here!”
He asks what’s new, and I tell him all about the memorial potlatch we’re planning for Dad. “Of course, you and your mom are invited, if you want to come.”
“I wouldn’t miss it.”
We walk along the waterfront, past the cannery where Sam’s mother works. They’re already winding down for the season.
“I have a place I want to show you.” Grabbing his hand, I lead him toward the bluff. “It’s not far from where I first saw you.”
“Oh, yeah. I remember,” he says without a trace of sarcasm. In fact, there’s a hint of sadness in his voice.
We walk in silence, past the turnoff to the lighthouse, along the dirt path that keeps going straight onto the bluff overlooking the mouth of the harbor. I take him into the wind-dwarfed trees to my “old man.”
“Sorry, he’s really a one-person tree, but if we squeeze together …”
Sam laughs, but only faintly. Why is he being so serious? We somehow manage to adjust our bodies around each other so that no one’s arms or legs are in danger of falling asleep. Fortunately, the ground is dry and padded with needles. The air in late summer carries the sweetness of sap and evergreen. I rest my head on his chest, inhaling the Ivory soap smell of his skin and listening to the thumping of his heart.
“Ida, I enlisted.” The words vibrate in my ear. “In the Navy.”
“Wait. What are you saying?” I prop myself up on my elbow so I can look him in the eyes. “You’re not even eighteen.”
“So I’ll have a year. I’ll finish school. It’s better than being drafted.”
I try to understand, but I still can’t figure out why anyone would volunteer to go to war before they’re even draft age. “Why couldn’t you wait? Maybe you would have gotten lucky. Maybe this stupid war will end.”
“That would be great. My dad would come home, but—”
“That’s the real reason, isn’t it? You want to show your dad how tough you are! What happened to being the man of the house? What about your mom? What about me?” I slap him on the chest with my palms.
“Whoa!” He grabs my hands so I won’t hit him again. His hands are warm. How is it his hands are always warm?
“Ida, hear me out. I enlisted because I don’
t want to end up on the front lines. There’s a wait for Navy spots. If I really wanted to show my dad how tough I was, I would’ve joined the Marines.” He lets go of my hands.
“Why do you have to fight at all? You’re going to college, right?”
“The service gives you a way to pay for college. It’s called the GI Bill. But you have to serve first.” A fat blue vein pulses in Sam’s neck. I want to touch it, but I just might strangle him instead.
“You just can’t walk away from a fight, even a stupid one!” I’m almost yelling now. “What if your ship blows up or sinks? What if …” But I can’t think of another what-if. “Damn it. I don’t want to lose you!”
“I don’t want to lose you either, and I came close on Nagoon.” He holds his arms open, inviting me to lie on his chest again. I do, and he squeezes me in a hug. “How’s your head?”
“Fine. Don’t change the subject,” I say, slapping him on the chest again.
“I’m not. When you hit your head, I really thought I’d lost you. Your eyes were open, but you looked like you …” He stops, searching for the words. “Weren’t in this world. Then you said something that made me think you were dying.”
I prop myself up to see his face. “What?”
“You don’t remember, do you?”
“Apparently not.”
“Ida, you asked for your dad. But not like you wanted him to come. More like he was already there, like you were looking right at him.”
A shiver runs through me in spite of the warm summer air and the heat of Sam’s body against mine. I don’t remember any of this.
“Then you said my name,” he says. “And I knew you were going to be okay.”
“God, Sam, if you hadn’t been there to help me off those rocks, I would have drowned.”
“If I hadn’t been there, you might not have tried to climb the rocks in the first place.”
“Maybe, maybe not. Don’t underestimate me.”
He laughs softly. “Oh, I’d never do that.”
I squeeze myself around him and that familiar buzz shoots through me. Now that I’m showered and not collapsing from cannery exhaustion, the electricity is more intense than ever. It’s want, pure and potent. His body is so lean and strong and perfect. I can’t believe I once thought we didn’t fit. We fit fine. I turn towards him and kiss that vein. It’s smaller now, but his heart is beating fast and hard. His mouth is open and his eyes are closed. I kiss his lips, tasting spearmint. Sweet Sam. I roll over on my back, pulling him on top of me. He buries his face in my neck, working his way down with his mouth to the edge of my bra. I’m glad I wore the pretty one. I grab his hair while his hand slips under my shirt, cupping me gently. He moans. Or is it me? I reach down for his belt but he grabs my hand.
“I’m ready,” I tell him. “I want to.”
“I don’t have anything to put on.” He rolls off me and onto his back, panting. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay.” I kiss his cheek, tasting soap and sweat. “We have a whole year for this.”
“Longer, I hope.”
We lie side by side, letting our breathing return to normal as we stare up at the branches and the shapes of sky in between.
“I told Mom I was going to the library,” I tell him. “I don’t know why I lied. I think she’s okay with us now.”
“You have to stop lying.”
“I know, but she’s still such a worry-wart. It’s a habit.”
“My mom’s too tired to worry about me.”
We talk about our families. I tell him about the older brother I could have had. He tells me about the relatives he’s never met in the Philippines, a town called Olongapo, or “old man’s head.” The name comes from the mysterious disappearance of a rich landowner whose body later turned up missing its head. “It’s just a story,” he says. “I don’t know if it is true or not.”
I tell Sam that I’m the only thing that the Irish and Slavic halves of my family have in common.
“Petrovich is Croatian. It means ‘son of Peter.’ Pretty boring, huh?”
“Taposok means ‘from my heart.’”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“You’re not just making that up to get me to kiss you again?”
“No, but you can still kiss me.”
And so I do, over and over, until we have to stop ourselves again.
SAM walks me home even though I live about eight blocks past his house. He turns down my invitation to come in for a Coke, reminding me that I’ve just spent the afternoon at the library but didn’t check out any books. I kiss him good-bye, hoping that my mom isn’t watching from the window.
She isn’t, but she’s sitting at the dining room table waiting for me. “Finally!” she says as I walk in. She isn’t mad, but I have to wonder if she senses something different about me. I’m so full of sensations of Sam, I don’t know how she could not notice.
Were it not for the letter, she probably would.
CHAPTER 33
Beacon
A lighted or unlighted fixed aid to navigation attached directly to the earth’s surface
“It took all my willpower not to open this.” Mom hands me a Scotch-taped envelope addressed to me. It’s from Alaska.
I take it up to my room, make myself comfortable on my bed, and settle in to read. The letter is three pages long and written in a child’s large, blocky print with different-colored inks, as if it took several days.
DEAR IDA,
HANK SAID YOU WANTED TO KNOW ABOUT YOUR DAD. I FISHED WITH HIM THE LAST 3 YEARS. SORRY I CANNOT COME TO THE POTLATCH BUT THIS IS WHAT I WANT TO SAY.
I DID NOT KNOW A BOOM FROM A CANONBALL WHEN I STARTED FISHING. NOW I SAVE $ FOR MY BOAT! I HAVE A LIFE THANKS TO HIM. FOUR YEARS AGO I HAD NO JOB AND NO HOME. I WAS A DRUNK AND STOLE THINGS. GOT STABBED BY A MAN FOR MY COAT. ALMOST DIED BUT GOD WAS LOOKING OUT FOR ME. HE SEND AN ANGEL. TRINITY TOOK ME IN NO MATTER I AM NOT NATIVE.
THE CENTER TEACHED ME TO CARVE. IF I WANT A DRINK I PICK UP MY POCKETKNIFE. I GOT REAL GOOD AT THE CARVING BUT MY DREAM WAS TO FISH. TRINITY GOT STEVE TO GIVE ME A JOB ON HIS BOAT. WE WORKED! I NEVER WORK SO HARD IN MY LIFE!!
WHEN WE WEREN’T WORKING, STEVE LOVED A GOOD STORY. HE TELL SOME AND I TELL SOME. NO ONE ELSE LISTENED TO ME EXCEPT HIM AND TRINITY. I TOLD THEM SOME BAD THINGS, BUT THEY NEVER SAID I WAS BAD.
SO YOU PROBBLY WANT TO KNOW WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR DAD. SORRY I DO NOT KNOW. THE FISHING WAS BAD. WE WENT WAY OUT CAPE SPENCER. DOZEN KINGS WERE A GOOD DAY. STEVE MADE NO $ BUT PAYED ME. WHEN I HEARED HE GONE MISSING I CRIED LIKE A BABY AND I WANT A DRINK SO BAD! THANK GOD FOR TRINITY AND THE CENTER! I GOT THROUGH THE WINTER AND IN SPRING GOT ON ANOTHER BOAT. I HAVE EXPERIENCE NOW THANKS TO TRINITY AND STEVE!
SORRY TO WRITE ALL ABOUT ME. STEVE TALKED ABOUT YOU A LOT. HE ALWAYS WANT TO GET BACK TO HOME TO HIS GIRLS. YOU AND YOUR MOM. STEVE SHOWED ME YOUR PHOTOGRAPHS. SO PROUD. EVERY YEAR HE ASK ME WHAT TO GET FOR YOUR BIRTHDAY PRESSENT. LIKE I KNOW WHAT GIRLS LIKE! I SAY JUST GET BACK TO HER. THAT IS WHAT THEY WANT. SORRY IF THAT MAKES YOU SAD.
SO I WILL END THIS LETTER BEFORE I NEED MORE STAMPS! HAVE A GOOD POTLATCH. WRITE BACK IF YOU WANT TO.
SINCERELY,
ARROW
PS. TRINITY HELPED ME WRITE THIS LETTER. I DON’T SPELL SO GOOD.
PPS. SHE GAVE ME THE NAME ARROW BECAUSE I AM GOING IN THE RIGHT DIRECTION NOW.
I show Arrow’s letter to Mom and she cries all over the last page, leaving wet, blurry blobs in the ink.
MY letter back to Arrow is much shorter than his to me, but it still takes me several drafts before I get it just right. I know it’s just right because Mom cries over, though not on, my letter, too.
Dear Arrow,
I love your nickname! From what you’ve told me, it fits you perfectly. I’m just sorry we couldn’t talk in person. Maybe someday. In the meantime, we can write, if you want. You have no idea how much your letter meant to me and my mom. She cried and cried when she read it, especially the last page. You may
find this hard to believe, but your words told me all I really needed to know about my dad. When you’re handed a mystery you can’t solve, it’s tempting to fill in the blanks with all sorts of nonsense, ignoring what you know in your heart to be true. Your letter helped me realize that love has no bounds. Sure, Dad loved fishing and Alaska. He loved Trinity and you and the Center. But he also loved Mom and me. I don’t know what happened to him and probably never will, but I do know he wanted to come home, and for now, that’s enough. I’ll write again soon.
Love,
Ida (my real name)
CHAPTER 34
By and Large
“By” is into the wind, while “large” is with the wind; used to indicate all possible situations
What Grandma Grace calls a three-ring circus is about to start. Dena, looking fabulous in a long, batik-print dress and huge hoop earrings, helps me usher people to their tables, which almost fill up the Acropolis’s rectangular ballroom, except for a space in the middle we’ve reserved for dancing. On the back wall is Dad’s life in photographs, including a timeline of his leaving and arrival pictures from age twenty-six to forty-two.
Trinity sent us her favorite photo of Dad and Miss Red. Turned out she had the negative. Mom had a large print made because it’s so beautiful. There’s Dad in his red sweater, looking relaxed and happy as he leans on the polished rail of his beloved boat, blue and white peaks behind him. Mom has displayed the picture on its own stand, wreathed in red and white roses and sprays of baby’s breath. I now know why sailors consider flowers to be bad luck. They symbolize remembrance.
I stoop down to get a whiff of the roses, but all I can smell is Grandma Grace’s buffet, which takes up five tables—I counted—on one side of the room. There are cold cuts and cheeses, fruits and vegetables, salads of every stripe, and six steaming bins of hot food, including her famed pork shank. On a big round table is a whole galaxy of desserts surrounding a giant pink Jell-O-cream mold in the shape of—what else?—a salmon. There’s enough here to feed all of Annisport and some of Alaska, too—which is good, because Trinity brought a big dance troupe and Dwight came as well. His suit’s a little too small but I’m touched by his obvious effort to look his best, not to mention his coming all this way to honor my dad. Jody said she’d come, but I still haven’t seen her.
