“I am sorry,” he blurted. “A terrible thing. I am sorry.”
“I see you are. Never mind. Just continue to be a fine young man. Now. I’m not sure where Mr. Jackson plans to fit you in first, so you’d be smart to wear those brogans, but pack along your rubber boots.”
By the time he strode through the cannery, noting the operations with a new, possessive interest and had reached the road to town, the somberness of her loss was dissipated. After all, he’d suffered himself and had not survived easily. And now had come his time in the world and his place!
In a buoyant mood he sauntered the mile to town. Suddenly he was going to be a part of the town! He’d possess it! Earn money boldly without apology to any relative, be responsible for himself alone, be in charge. Buy clothes! Afford his own quarters where he’d close the door whenever he felt like it. Tell Nels tonight at dinner. Nels had fished alone before taking him in, so this could not be considered a desertion. But he’d certainly remember his debt to Nels and Helga. Invite them to dinner in a restaurant at least once a week. Yes. Peel off dollars to pay the bill as calmly as breathing!
He entered the fancy clothing store for the first time, with barely a glance at the window where he’d lingered before. The place had an instant odor of things right, of fine cloth, leather, even perfume. Not a hint of all the metallic, oily, rubbery odors that permeated other stores on the street.
There, trying on a silky, embroidered jacket, was a woman it took him a moment to recognize. Her plain, puffy face had no makeup and wore an expression more a frown than a smile. Her red hair peeked out only in a wisp from under a plain felt hat, but undoubtedly it was Miss Eva herself. Of course—there was the other woman—Angie was it?—trailing behind in a long brown coat.
“Good afternoon,” he said with polite assurance and a smile of familiarity. “It is a pleasure to see you in the day.”
Her face turned toward him, but her gaze fixed on some object beyond.
“The weather is not so much rainy now as it was,” he continued.
Her eyes, so welcoming only two nights before, barely surveyed him before turning away. Oh.
Swede decided he would not wear the new clothes he’d bought until the right time, so he appeared for supper as usual in the clean, rough shirt and pants he routinely changed into from the boat. Save announcements also until a bit later, perhaps after the meal.
“Well, I am happy to announce good news at last,” Helga declared as she placed a bowl of boiled potatoes beside the fish stew already on the table. “There shall be finished here the Sodom and Gomorrah.”
“That’s good,” said Nels automatically, as he ladled food onto his plate. “Good indeed! You will eat without me tonight, and take your dishes out to the kitchen when you finish.” Swede and Nels regarded her fully for the first time that evening, although both had spoken with her more than once since coming in. She was dressed in the clothes she wore only to church on Sunday.
“Eh? You’re going out?” Nels asked.
“I certainly am. To City Council with the Reverend and all the ladies from the church. This is the night.”
“Night for what, Helga?” By now Helga had on her good wool coat, and she shook her head in answer, because of the two long pins she held in her mouth. After she had secured her hat, she stated, “If you paid attention to more than that boat you’d know. We’re finally going to force those people on the Council to pass a law that drives the whores from our town. That disgraceful boardwalk of houses over the creek will soon be lived in by respectable people, I thank the Lord. It wouldn’t hurt if you two said a prayer for this tonight.” And she was gone.
Nels passed the two dishes to Swede after he had heaped his own plate, and then poured thick gravy over his fish and potatoes. “Well. At least she didn’t say we must follow to the place. The women are strong enough without us.”
“Close down Creek Street and drive out the women?”
“Ha, Arnie, I know you went there. No secrets around the boats. Too bad. Young fellows need something like that until they get married. But the women don’t like it and that’s that. They’ll get their way with that preacher of theirs, I suppose. Even though the mayor doesn’t want to. Neither do a lot of the fishermen—and the loggers when they come to town from the camps. Next I suppose the preacher and the women will try to close the bars. Then where will the men without wives go? That’s why it’s good to be married, Arnie. You should find yourself a good woman. Make sure she knows how to cook.”
11
JONES MARRIED
Jones Henry married Adele Johnson in November of 1946, after the season for Chinooks had finally closed and he’d put his boat up for the winter. It was a nice church affair, since that was the way she wanted it. Most of the guests on his side were friends of his parents from around town. Even three Norwegian couples with their accents, although by now most of the Squareheads had gone back to Seattle for the winter. Naturally, Adele’s father and mother came up from where he was now stationed stateside on a Coast Guard ship. The girl, for her part, had friends from working at the bank. Women always had other girlfriends, since they always talked so much. With Adele’s gaggle of bridesmaids, he himself needed to find at least a couple of guys to stand behind him at the altar. Fortunately, his best man Gus Rosvic was just back—discharged from Japan—so the two of them could stand together in full dress uniform. And—why not?—he’d asked that guy his own age named Swede, who’d come to fish with his squarehead cousin Nels after they’d visited boat to boat and done the Creek together, to stand alongside him too.
He’d even thought of inviting Miss Eva and a couple of her girls from Creek Street. But even before Adele heard—and to his surprise, reacted indignantly with him for the first time ever—Buck Henry had declared, “I knew you were dumb, boy, but I never knew how dumb till I heard this. Know when you’re well off!”
Not that he’d need the services of Creek Street anymore. Adele, from the way she looked up at him, was all the woman he’d ever wanted to handle. Bright, curly haired, cheerful always. But so energetic that he sometimes wished she’d settle down. Yet, other times, he’d watch her and find himself grinning at his good fortune.
Everybody at the Elks’ Hall reception said they made an ideal couple. He knew it was so. Even Commander Johnson, Adele’s father, who gripped his hand—strength for strength, neither man letting go—declared with gray eyes staring right at him, “Glad it’s you, Marine. I know you’ll take care of her!”
“Oh, leave the boy be!” exclaimed Adele’s mother, sidestepping their handshake to plant a kiss on his cheek.
“I will, sir! Sure will!”
After the drinking and dancing, when it was time to catch the ferry for their honeymoon in Seattle, Adele, with a bright laugh, tossed the bouquet. He swooped her up in his arms to carry her out the Elks’ doorway. As everybody cheered, he felt her warmth and softness against him. Smelled whatever perfume she’d put on and felt stimulated right there. He couldn’t help grinning again. That night, alone at last in their ship’s cabin, he knew, if ever there had been a doubt, that he’d done right. Lucky. He began to admit that he likely loved her.
Adele was ready to make a home right away. That suited him. Nobody would ever say that Jones Henry couldn’t make enough to afford a down payment on a house. Even though a new boat would have made a smarter investment. They found a small house with a bedroom overlooking the harbor, a living room, and a room facing the hill behind—for a kid, when one came.
He found himself hurrying his boat to town even when his checker wasn’t plugged—even making mere daytrips rather than two- or three-nighters on the grounds—and grew impatient if he needed to wait in line for delivery. All of it was time wasted before he could walk in the front door and have her arms around him.
Maybe it had been easy before marriage to knock on his parent’s door at dinner time, even if he wasn’t expected. But it was nice to open his own door and smell the cooking. Adele prepared food fancier than his
mother knew how to, with spices dumped in that Jones had never eaten before. Most of it tasted fine. He shrugged off the rest and ate it when he saw her gaze lingering on his plate, anxious for his approval. One night, they invited the folks over. His mom’s warmth toward her as they washed dishes together and his dad’s hearty praise for the girl’s cooking made him remember once more that he’d chosen right.
And when she came to him tenderly in the dark, no longer a chatterbox, but a woman of soft flesh and firm breasts, and they remained quietly close after the heat of intercourse, he would lie back satisfied for maybe the first time in his life.
A few months later, one Friday evening when he opened his front door and, to free his arms, threw down a load of dirty boat clothes for the laundry, she just stood there in tears.
“Something wrong, girl? Where’s my kiss?”
“Oh Jones, dear. It’s happened! Doctor says I’m pregnant.”
“Hey! Well, good!” He knew it was good, and he held out his arms. As she snuggled against him, suddenly he realized that she wouldn’t be all his alone any more. She wanted hugging, and he did so gladly, enjoying her plump warmth.
Things did indeed change. They had intercourse less and less, and if he tried anything beyond the usual she’d murmur, “Careful, dear, careful” with a hand to restrain him. After the fifth or sixth month, when, in any case, she had become large in the wrong place for lovemaking, she insisted gently that they stop altogether. As a point of pride, and of course to save money, he walked from the boat harbor past the entrance to Creek Street without even a glance toward the houses. The tassels and stuffed chairs of Miss Eva’s living room remained in his mind like a pleasant scent, but he dismissed it.
He’d never seen his own mother so animated and busy. All the maternity clothes and baby blankets and doodads she bought for Adele, and all the talking they did together.
“Let ’em have their fun, boy,” his dad advised, with lines of amusement creasing his weathered face. “Keep out of their way now, if you know what’s good for you.”
“I could use a beer.”
“You know where the Frigidaire is. Get me one too.”
While it spooked him, even at her invitation, to lay a hand on her stomach and feel the baby stirring inside her, it made him catch his breath and share her wonder. With that kind of liveliness it’s got to be a boy, he decided. A few years and he’d teach the boy to be handy on the boat. Adele thought it would be a girl. Either way, he told himself. But for sure, he’d felt there the boy he wanted. Would suit to call him Jack, say. Or Tom or Hank—something manly, like the way he was going to be. A good solid name the kid could grow up with.
Still, when a nurse at the hospital came out with a smile to show him a red-faced squalling baby girl, he gladly hugged tight the swaddled bundle and couldn’t speak for fear of choking. And a while later, he stroked Adele’s forehead as she lay in bed, with curls damp against her skin. He’d murmured: “Nice going. Honey. Dear.”
“I know you wanted a boy,” she whispered.
“A girl’s fine.”
“Next time, Jones, dear.”
“Sure. Next time.” He’d forgotten the bunch of flowers he’d brought and laid beside the bed. When he picked them back up and handed them to her, she started to cry. “Hey, come on, I didn’t mean to—.” But he could tell it pleased her, whether she carried on about it or not. Women were emotional. “I like the name Amy, Jones dear. After my mother. Family’s important.”
“Amy? Sure, good. Mebbe Amy Helen, then, to throw in my mother?”
“Oh yes. Yes.”
Now he had another reason to search out the fish. Adele was already saying it would be a good idea to start putting away money for Amy’s college fund. As if anyone in his family had ever needed college. Then, his mother said that she and his dad had bought a $500 savings bond in Amy’s name, to mature at the time she’d need it for higher education. When women started making plans, there was no stopping them. But none of it was bad.
PART TWO
12
A SMALL WORLD STEWING WITH CHANGE
Fishing Bristol Bay has become the stuff of legend. To catch an abundance of fish, Alaskans face high tides that sweep over shallow banks and threaten to sink their boats. In the old days many fishermen drowned. Technological advances have alleviated the casualties, but not the danger.
From late June through July, red—or sockeye—salmon pour into the Bristol Bay river systems to create one of the world’s grandest storms of fish. The fish, born four to six years earlier in the same waterways, have gone far to sea and matured. They now return to spawn and complete their life cycles. This has occurred for centuries, as past generations of bears and other fish predators could attest. For man, it has been a part of his formal harvesting and processing labors since only as recently as 1884.
One of the Bristol Bay seasons most engrained in legend, remembered directly by old-timers and passed on to new generations, was that of1951. At stake that year were major issues about the way things had long been done, and they all came to a head at the same time. Some blamed the changes on the perceived spread of Communism, although in reality these changes were long overdue. World War II had ended, and returning veterans who had ventured forth and faced death for their country were not about to resume a Depression-era subservience to authority.
Bristol Bay is a place far removed from the cities that can provide options for work other than fishing. Many converge from faraway places to fish and process there for the brief season but afterward, they return home, leaving the small communities of year-round residents to work lesser bounty for the rest of each year. Resentment over such distant control of a local resource was a large part of the problem that pulled Bristol Bay apart in 1951. Locals started their own union for fishermen and cannery workers, an action that threatened the authority of the Seattle-based union that had, until then, controlled the majority of seasonal manpower. Labor loyalties became divided when dealing with the sole employers: the canneries. These canneries, having stored the boats and shipped all their supplies for the season—into relative wilderness, at that—at a cost beyond the scope of individuals, had always felt entitled to dictate terms. And, as the only customer and only source of revenue and maintenance for the Bristol Bay fishermen, the canneries had been free to set terms, so long as the unions cooperated.
Until 1951, a Federal law under the US Interior Department’s Fish and Wildlife Service—and which was vigorously supported by the canneries—restricted access to the fishing grounds of Bristol Bay to boats operating only under sail and oar. This was despite the fact that all other fishing boats throughout the nation—including those of the dangerous Alaskan waters—had been free to run under engine power for decades previous, since the technology had become available.
The canneries justified their stance against engine power by asserting that inefficiency kept the salmon stocks from being overfished. But they neglected to voice that by limiting the type of boat available to them, and by constraining the quantity of fish they could catch, the canneries kept the Bristol Bay fishermen entirely under their control. The company had a “monkey boat” with an engine that would tow the sailboats of loyal fishermen to the fishing grounds, and it would assist a sailboat in trouble. A powered company scow would be stationed in the area to receive the fish, so the fishermen could make more frequent deliveries, thereby increasing their season’s catch. The fishermen had no choice but to depend on the canneries’ selective assistance. But while under sail and oar, they remained vulnerable to both huge tidal currents and to the region’s sudden and unpredictable squalls. Most years men drowned when, for example, wind drove them onto the sands that had been bared by the falling tide, leaving them stranded, then fierce incoming waves from a rising tide would swamp their boats. Fishermen knew that earning a living on the water was tough, but they had long prided themselves on their strength of body and nerve, which had gotten them through many a rough season. Many veterans back
from World War II, however, had been tested enough to no longer find charm in needless hardship. Why should they risk dangerous tides and winds through skilled sailing and muscled rowing, and why get hernias, grunting hundred-weights of fish over a roller, if, by the flip of a switch, an engine could do the same work for you?
Meanwhile, veterans returning to local communities in Bristol Bay had begun to chafe at seeing their sea wealth move south each season when most cannery workers and fishermen went home to someplace else. Why should these carpetbaggers dictate terms from faraway places? (It would be seven years before Alaskans achieved statehood in 1958 and thereby gained state control over their near-shore fisheries. Nevertheless, out-of-state management of Alaska’s resources from Washington, DC, via interests in Washington and Oregon was already a hot issue.) Even under the threat of being called communist—a ready accusation in 1951 for any organization or individual challenging the status quo—Alaskans wanted to have a louder voice in their own affairs.
In Bristol Bay, old alliances fell apart. Fresh angers flared. A new Alaska-based union called a strike for higher cannery wages and a higher price to fishermen. The Seattle-based union ignored the strike and sent its members to work anyway. This meant some men fished at the start of the season in late June, while others fumed beside their landed boats. And, among those fishing, some eighty had been able to afford the newly-permitted engine boats—finally legalized in 1951—without the aid of cannery money or assistance. Although they now had to earn enough through their catch to pay for their new boat loans, these fishermen could lord it over the thousand-plus who remained committed to company sails and a heavier cannery obligation. To make the scene more delicate yet, Bristol Bay was experiencing a spate of seasons with historically poor runs of fish. The openings, which usually ran from 6:00 a.m. Monday through 6:00 p.m. Friday, began to have mid-week closings. If the Communists could have controlled this poor return rate of spawning salmon they would certainly have been blamed for that too, along with the union and boat rivalries. They probably were anyhow. Nineteen-fifty-one was that kind of year.
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