Friday's Harbor

by Diane Hammond

  Then he took a strengthening swallow of coffee and told Brenda to open the floodgates. For the rest of the day he fielded calls from every regional newspaper, both daily and weekly; Northwest Cable News, Associated Press, Reuters, the Seattle Times, the Oregonian, Sky TV, and ITN. All the area television stations sent satellite trucks for live shots on the noon, late afternoon, and evening news. He appeared on every single one, refuting the rumor that, he quickly realized, everyone fervently wanted to be true.

  WHEN HE FINALLY got home, Truman sat with Winslow at the kitchen table over a bag of potato chips and a copy of the News-Tribune he’d laid out. Miles snuffled around them ingratiatingly, waiting for Winslow to slip him a chip Truman pretended not to see.

  “So what’s this?” Winslow said, looking at the newspaper.

  “I wondered if you knew anything about it.”

  Winslow pulled the paper closer, read the story, and then said excitedly, “Cool! We’re letting him go? That would be just like Free Willy!”

  Truman was startled—he hadn’t made the connection before. “No. We never were. It would be the ultimate cruelty. He’d stand no chance in the wild.”

  “He could learn, though. Couldn’t he?”

  “He’s not just lacking skills, Winnie. He isn’t physically in any shape to be on his own. That’s why he came here in the first place.”

  “So who said we were releasing him?”

  “I was hoping you might have some idea,” said Truman.

  “You mean did I tell him?”

  “Did you?”

  “No way!” Winslow said. “He’s an idiot.”

  Truman couldn’t help a small smile. “I know, but even idiots can ask questions sometimes that are hard to avoid answering.”

  Winslow shook his head adamantly and handed Miles a couple of potato chips which he crunched with piggy zeal.

  “Let’s put him behind the gate.”

  “He hates that,” Winslow protested.

  “You do know Dr. Bly says he’s too fat, right?”

  Winslow sighed. “He’s a pig. They’re supposed to be fat. Hey, did you show Neva that story? Maybe she was the one.”

  “No.”

  “No, you haven’t shown her the story, or no, she’s not the one?”

  “Both.”

  “You don’t think it was me, do you?” Winslow said, as the gravity of the situation apparently began to sink in.

  “No, but you did raise an interesting point about Free Willy. Has Reginald said anything about sending Friday back to the wild?”

  “No, and he wouldn’t talk to Martin Choi, either,” Winslow said loyally. “He thinks Martin Choi’s an idiot, too.”

  “Well, if you do hear him talking about anything to do with Friday’s going back to the wild, would you let me know?”

  “Yeah.”

  But Truman knew he wouldn’t. Winslow was nobody’s snitch, which was exactly the way Truman had raised him.

  ACROSS TOWN SAM had just finished reading the News-Tribune story with a sinking heart. Reginald was sitting across the table from him, looking like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.

  “You read this story?” Sam asked him.

  “What story?”

  “This story about Friday.”

  “There’s a story about Friday?” Reginald said disingenuously.

  Sam sighed and pushed the newspaper across the table. Reginald didn’t touch it.

  “Go on and read it.”

  Reginald read it. When he was done, Sam asked, “Was it you who talked to him?”

  “No. It could’ve been Winslow, though. I mean, he knows that reporter guy, Martin Choi.”

  Sam studied him for a while before saying, “Son, I’ve been around a long time and over the years I’ve learned some things. One of them is when people talk about something that’s none of their business, it catches up to them. Could take a day, could take a year, but trouble’s going to find them one way or the other. The other thing I’ve learned is, your word is the only thing you really own—money, houses, jobs, clothes, cars, even family can come and go, but as long as you’re alive, you got your word. So you have to take good care of it, protect it from harm, and make sure people can always count on it. The day people start wondering if you’re telling the truth, that’s the day you squander the one thing you got that you can be proud of. Do you understand?”

  Reginald nodded, avoiding meeting Sam’s eyes.

  “Now, are you the one who talked to this reporter?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Reginald faintly.

  “And does it make you feel like a big man, pretending you know things no one else does?”

  “Sometimes.”

  Sam nodded. “There was a saying back during World War II: loose lips sink ships. You know what that means?”

  “Keep your damn mouth shut.”

  “Language, son,” Sam said, trying not to smile.

  “It means keep your mouth shut,” the boy amended.

  “That’s right. Any idea why that might still be important?”

  “Not really. I mean, we don’t have any ships, and there’s no war, at least not in this town.”

  “No, but now take family secrets. Every family has some things they don’t want the world to know about. Doesn’t mean those things are wrong, it just means they’re nobody’s business. You know how Mama does her friend Bettina Jones’s hair every Tuesday?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And every fourth Tuesday she weaves in a little extra to cover up a thin spot the poor gal has right on the top of her head, which is a shame since she wasn’t much of a looker to begin with. Now, Mama knows that secret isn’t hers to tell. It’s not dangerous or even real important, but it’s not hers to tell, just the same. You see what I’m saying to you?”

  “You’re saying keep your damn mouth shut.”

  Sam smacked Reginald lightly on the back of head.

  “Ow,” said Reginald, but they both smiled.

  “You just remember, son, someone else’s secret isn’t yours to give away. You keep that in mind and people will tell you things because they know you can be trusted. Violate that trust and you might as well call that friendship over. And ending a friendship’s a mighty sorry thing. Mighty sorry. You got that?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Fine,” said Sam. “Now you’re going to call Truman and tell him it was you who talked to that reporter.”

  Reginald protested loudly, but Sam was adamant. “When you do some wrong thing, it’s up to you to make it right, and sometimes the only thing you can do is admit what you did. If you step up and be a man, then take responsibility for what you’ve done, that’s what people will remember about you, and after a while that wrong thing you did just fades away.”

  Chapter 10

  FOR CHRISTMAS GABRIEL bought Friday a fire truck—not just any fire truck, but one that was nearly three feet long, weighed fifteen pounds, and could produce a realistic siren and flashing lights as it sped by remote control along the smooth concrete floor of the visitors’ gallery. Rapt, Friday chased it up and down the gallery for an hour, watching it raise and lower its four-foot ladder, flash its lights, sound its siren, and speed away.

  “He loved it,” Libertine told Gabriel once she returned from the gallery. “It was the perfect choice.”

  Neva had hung a wheel of Christmas lights on the office window, one hundred feet of LED lights still coiled in its packaging. It cast a piercing light all the way over to the viewing gallery from the opposite side of the pool. She had also set a small fiber-optic tree on the office windowsill, where it blinked red to green to red. Sam and Corinna brought Friday two magnificent salmon, wild-caught in Puget Sound, and Ivy, on Gabriel’s advice, brought him an irregularly shaped white plastic cube the size of two hay bales placed side by side, made by the same company that made Friday’s beloved blue ball. Ivy also gave Neva and Gabriel a present: a bright yellow underwater scooter, which towed them through the water fast enough for
a spirited game of killer whale tag.

  But it was Libertine who gave him the most unusual gift of all: a swim with Johnson Johnson.

  With Gabriel’s permission, she’d asked Johnson Johnson a week ago if he’d like to be Friday’s Christmas gift, and he’d nearly collapsed with excitement; he hadn’t been back to the pool top since the day Kitty died. So at two o’clock on Christmas Day afternoon, just as Ivy, Truman, Neva, Winslow, Matthew, and Lavinia were sitting down to Christmas dinner, Johnson Johnson pulled on a borrowed secondhand wet suit that almost fit him, and booties that did, and walked through the shallow water of the slide-out area straight into the deep water of the pool with no hesitation. He sank down until he was head-to-head with Friday, who had his mouth wide open, possibly in astonishment.

  Gabriel toed a bucket of fish to the edge of the pool so Johnson Johnson could reach in. “Go ahead and offer him a few. It might take him a little while to get used to you.”

  Johnson Johnson placed one fish after another in Friday’s wide-open mouth. “I think he’s already used to me.”

  “Looks that way, doesn’t it,” said Gabriel. “Okay, hold back about half the bucket for later.”

  “Can I pet him?”

  “You can do whatever you want. If he doesn’t like something he’ll just swim away from you. You’re on his turf now. So to speak.”

  Johnson Johnson rubbed and scratched and patted and positioned himself to look Friday straight in the eye. “He sees me,” he said.

  “Absolutely. Pet his tongue,” Gabriel suggested. “He likes that, too.”

  But Friday closed his mouth and sank out of sight. “Is he done?” Johnson Johnson asked, clearly disappointed.

  Gabriel was grinning. “Wait.”

  “What?”

  “Wait. . . .”

  And then Friday rose up beneath him and swam away with him sprawled across his back, clutching the whale’s tightly curled dorsal fin. Johnson Johnson was so overcome with delight he didn’t make a sound. Gabriel shouted to him, “Stand up!”

  Like a surfer, Johnson Johnson carefully rose until he was standing upright on Friday’s back, wobbling a bit.

  “Okay, the game is, he’s going to try to make you fall off,” Gabriel called. “And you try not to let him.”

  Friday rolled and arched and twitched and Johnson Johnson fell off again and again. Each time, Friday came back to retrieve him. After nearly an hour, tired at last, he swam Johnson Johnson to the side of the pool.

  Johnson Johnson leaned down and gave him a gentle kiss just behind the blowhole.

  “This was a big treat for him,” Gabriel said. “We don’t let him do that during the day because Truman thinks it looks too much like we’re making him perform tricks, and he’s retired. Personally, I don’t agree, but he’s the boss. Anyway, why don’t you get out and feed him what’s left in the bucket? Then you can get back in the pool if you aren’t too cold. You’ll have company.”

  “I’m not cold,” said Johnson Johnson through chattering teeth.

  A minute later, Libertine stepped onto the pool top, smiling tremulously, in Neva’s wet suit and booties. “Merry Christmas,” Gabriel said.

  Tears stood in Libertine’s eyes. “Thank you so much,” she said. “Is it okay if I’m a little nervous?”

  “You’d be a fool not to be. Okay, as soon as you’re ready, go ahead and get in.”

  While Gabriel and Johnson Johnson watched, Libertine sat on the wet walk and then slipped into the pool. Friday had been watching her curiously, but as soon as she was in the water he swam away.

  “Is he afraid of me?” she said, disappointed.

  “It’s because you’re scared,” Gabriel said. “He’ll come back when he’s ready. Well, when you’re ready.” To Johnson Johnson he said, “Let’s get you back in, too.”

  Johnson Johnson jumped into the water near Neva. “Oh!” Libertine cried breathlessly as Friday, who had been in the depths of the pool, surfaced unexpectedly beneath her. Instead of carrying her on his back the way he’d done with Johnson Johnson, he slowly rolled beneath her until he was completely upside down and she was sprawled on his chest between his pectoral flippers.

  “Go ahead and stand up!” Gabriel called. “Hold on to his pecs and he’ll swim you around the pool like that.”

  “Oh!” Libertine grabbed the edges of the paddle-shaped flippers and found her footing between them. “Doesn’t this hurt him?” she called a little breathlessly to Gabriel as Friday began to swim around the pool.

  “If it did he wouldn’t do it,” Gabriel called back. “You weigh nothing, by his standards. Well, by our standards, too, but you know what I mean. When he’s ready for you to get off, he’ll just go underwater and you’ll float away.”

  Libertine held on, feeling how completely their roles had been reversed—she was in Friday’s environment now, clumsy and helpless. She could feel a great reserve of gentleness in him, as though he knew how fragile she was. He carried her with exquisite care.

  And then he tipped her off, rolled right side up to take two deep breaths, and swam to Johnson Johnson across the pool, putting him on his back. Then he picked up Libertine, so she was riding behind Johnson Johnson, and took them for a fast circuit around the pool. “He likes this,” Johnson Johnson turned to tell her.

  “Me, too!” she said.

  “I’m glad you gave me to him. I’ve never been anyone’s present before.”

  “You’re welcome,” she said with a suddenly full heart. “Merry Christmas.”

  “Merry Christmas,” said Johnson Johnson.

  When an hour later Libertine and Johnson Johnson got out of the pool, both of them shivering uncontrollably, Libertine walked over to Gabriel and said quietly, “Thank you for this Christmas. It’s been a wonderful day.”

  “You’re welcome,” he said.

  “I hope Friday liked it as much as we did.”

  Gabriel raised his eyebrows. “Hasn’t he told you?”

  “Not in the way you mean. I still haven’t sensed him since the beginning, except in the way you or anyone can.”

  “Any idea why not?”

  “I assume he hasn’t needed me,” Libertine said. “He must know he’s in the best possible hands. And he knows I’m around, if something comes up.”

  “I thought you said he was in prison,” he said, but he was smiling.

  “I don’t think I’ll ever change my mind about that,” she said. “But that doesn’t mean he’s unhappy. You’ve opened up a lot of worlds for him.”

  He looked down at her. “Careful—I may remind you that you said that one day.”

  “Go right ahead,” she said. “You can remind me anytime. That will be my Christmas present to you.”

  BUT THERE WOULD be one more gift for Friday that holiday season, this one engineered by Gabriel: a child. Gabriel’s sister in Seattle had a six-year-old daughter named Nicolle. Though she might have been the only six-year-old on earth who was not impressed with Friday—she’d rather play with the new Barbie she got for Christmas—he’d wheedled and bribed until she agreed to come and play. At about the time when most people were finally shaking off their New Year’s hangovers, Nicolle was running at top speed directly at Friday through the shallow slide-out area. She didn’t pause or even slow down as she approached, but the whale didn’t flinch, even when she arrested her flight on his face. Gabriel could see that his eyes were wide and keen. Gabriel’s sister Stella stiffened, but Gabriel held her back. “She’s fine,” he said very quietly, so the child wouldn’t hear him. “She’s safe with him.”

  Friday allowed Nicolle to rub and pet him for several minutes, and then he swam slowly away, hugging the side of the pool. After twenty feet, he stopped. Curious, the little girl followed, kicking water in the wet walk with her Barbie boots as she went. Each time she caught up with him he swam on, repeating the pattern over and over. Gabriel’s sister Stella watched as Gabriel explained that Friday was teaching the little girl a game of Follow Me. Once
Friday was satisfied that she’d learned that, he embellished: the next time they stopped, he rolled on his side and very slowly, with infinite delicacy, raised his pectoral flipper and touched Nicolle on the very top of her head, again and again, until they’d made a complete circuit around the pool. When Friday put his chin on the side of the pool, Nicolle stopped and leaned on Friday’s nose.

  And then, without warning, the whale sank, making it look as though Nicolle had pushed him under. Startled, the little girl kept her empty hands outstretched—and from the depths Friday surged out of the water and into them. Gabriel’s sister screamed, but Gabriel restrained her, understanding that Friday was only teaching her daughter a new game: Push Me, Push You. Over and over Nicolle sank him, and over and over he rose into the tiny cup of her hands.

  GABRIEL’S RESPECT FOR Friday was huge. He was easily the smartest, most tractable animal Gabriel had ever worked with. As his health continued to improve—by Gabriel’s calculation he’d gained nearly a ton since arriving—Gabriel had thrown a lot of new challenges at him, and he’d caught on and mastered every one. His innovative behavior count had climbed to nearly a hundred and twenty-five, and he dreamed up new ones every day with a spirit of joyfulness. His breaches and bows were high enough for people approaching the visitors’ gallery to see above the pool top; his speed-swims were now fast enough to create a breaking wave that followed him around the pool.

  He was also starting to challenge them. Last week during a work session, Neva had asked him to breach. The whale took off crisply, agreeably, but instead of leaving the water in a forward jump, he leaped out of the water backward, spitting water between his teeth.

  Next Neva had rolled his blue ball into the pool and asked him to touch it with his pectoral flipper. He touched it with his flukes, his nose, his head, his belly—everything but a pectoral flipper. She’d looked at Gabriel and said, “What the hell?”