After a while, leaving time so as not to appear too eager, Jones strode over to one of the tables to pick up a piece of smoked salmon and then ambled to join them. He addressed the one named Hancock whom he remembered as friendly from Eva’s. “Didn’t know they let guys like you in here,” he said.
“Seeing how they let you in,” rumbled Hancock in good humor, “I guess they’re already going to hell.”
“Pretty far from Ketchikan for you Coasties.”
“Shows how much you don’t know.” Hancock pulled a rumpled pack of Camels from his coat pocket and offered them around. Jones and the other chief each took one, then lit up on a single match that Hancock struck. “Coast Guard goes to Westward like this twice a year, one of our ships or another. Near six thousand miles round trip from Ketchikan for us. Do it in springtime after the ice, then early autumn before the shitty weather sets in. We load off supplies to all the light stations clear to Sarichef and Scotch Cap. Then out to other Coast Guard outfits like the loan station in Attu. Service harbor buoys and other aids clear up in the Bering to the Pribilofs. All that. Then do the same run again in early fall before shitty winter settles in. Navy and army might grease their guns in peacetime, but we go on doing real work.”
“Yeah? Where’s the Coast Guard station here in this dump?”
“Came to Akutan for water at that old whaling station. Could do it at the old naval base in Dutch Harbor next stop on the Chain, but the people here always make us welcome. Then there’re the bars in Dutch. More problems with shore leave. What’s your excuse to be here?”
Jones hesitated. Was there any secret to it? Finally: “Big crabs. Just curious.”
The other chief looked him over coolly, pursing his black eyebrows practically into a straight line across his forehead. “Fishing, cuz? This far out?” He snorted. “Not enough that we pull your troubled asses from the water back in Southeast. Now you’ll go sink boats all the way out here and expect us to save you.”
At last, this was the kind of talk Jones felt at ease with. “Rather go down than trouble you,” he said easily.
“Now, buddy.” Ed Hancock turned to Jones. “Jimmy Amberman here likes to bitch. But you’re in luck if he ever has to come save you. Providing you can stand his mouth.”
Just then one of the Native men hurried over. “No smoking inside the center here. Didn’t anybody tell you? Fire and all.”
“Oh, sorry,” said Hancock. “Should’ve remembered.” Rather than stop smoking, the three went outside. Wet snow blew into their faces. The big flakes caught up a glow from the lights in a few of the houses. It softened the dark mountain sweep behind the village and blurred lights on the two ships across the water.
“Oh man,” said Hancock, and he drew in on his cigarette. “Be glad to get back to civilization.” He blew out a puff of smoke. “Watching this poon-tang I dassent touch makes me miss—never mind.”
“Do it or don’t do it, cuz,” grumbled Jimmy Amberman. “Just stop bitching.”
A head poked from around the building. “If you come out for a slug of this, don’t think you’ll get it at the doorway.”
“That you, Kowalczyk?”
“Guy here just sold me some stuff. Says he makes it secret in his house. I wouldn’t touch home-hootch if we was in Dutch where they got bars with the real stuff. But I’ll say this shit has a kick.”
At the suggestion, Jimmy came to life. “I hear church bells!” He laughed and tossed away his cigarette, heading for the corner.
“Won’t hurt to see what he’s got,” Jones declared, and followed.
“Take it easy there,” called Hancock. “This place is supposed to be booze-free.”
“Then better come see for yourself, cuz.” Hancock inhaled the last puff from his cigarette, then ground out the butt and trailed after them.
An hour or so later, the three—along with Kowalczyk, the quartermaster who had found the bootleg—leaned comfortably against the side of the building. They passed the bottle between them as they watched the snow slowly whiten a nearby pile of boards and, beside it, a wheelbarrow. The native who had sold it to them had slipped off to fetch another bottle—this one was already nearly empty. The wall they had chosen to lean on was opposite the musicians inside. Jones listened to the scrape of the fiddle and the accordions wailing. Calls and sometimes a laugh rose from the hum of voices and thump of feet. It all sounded better out here, he decided.
Amberman clung to the bottle longest when it was passed around. He handed it on without comment whenever one of the others muttered, “Quit hoggin’ there, buddy” but held his hand ready to receive it back.
Suddenly Hancock turned to Jones with half-closed eyes that had lost their directness. “When they transferred me up here for a two-year tour, Ellie stayed down in Tillamook with her folks. Like I hadn’t been away enough during the war. Maybe away too long. If we’d had kids . . . I figure they’ll transfer me back after two years, then with my war record not mess with me no more until retirement. So we ought to keep the house there, I guess. But these long trips, even though I get a month home leave to Oregon afterward. I’m a man, you know. Need things a man needs.”
“Should’ve stayed single then, cuz,” growled Amberman. Through his growing buzz, Jones felt a sobering pang. Did he want to lose that girl back in Ketchikan? What was he doing so far from her? What kind of man was he to leave her for so long, just because he’d grown restless? What if she found somebody else back there? Somebody who treated her right.
Once started, Hancock didn’t seem able to stop talking. He had by now decided that the Coast Guard’s spring and autumn trips to Westward were at least sometimes interesting. “You want souvenirs? Some places where we kicked the Japs off, like Kiska and Attu, there’s all kinds of crap they left before they committed harry-carry or whatever. And us—the USA! You ought to see the stuff we left behind when the war ended. Stuff just . . . left! Not just ponchos and canteens and cots all in piles. Bulldozers, all yellow and rusting! There for the taking. Cheaper to leave stuff than to ship it back to the States, somebody at the base in Adak told me last year. So we just left it all out there to the rain and the wind.”
“Don’t mean they didn’t collect up the guns and ammunition,” muttered Jimmy. “Nothing left worth taking.”
The initial burn of the homebrewed liquor down Jones’s throat had lessened with each swig. His buzz was in full swing by now. “Canteen? Where’d you say? Wouldn’t mind one of them things again. Always had my canteen back in the Marines. Wonder what happened to it?”
“Marine, eh?” Hancock turned enough to face him so that Jones could see in the dim light the heavy features glistening with snow melting down from his hair. “We took Marines in on landing barges. Near shit ourselves dodging Jap shore rockets to take Marines into—where? You name it. Iwo, Kwajalein, Okie. Then those guys waded in and took it. At least, if we wasn’t hit we gunned back out of range until the next time.”
Jones took a while to think it through. Jimmy and the quartermaster stood in black silhouette a few steps away, paying them no attention. “Well. You mebbe took me in to one of them beaches. Me and my buddies. If so, at least you didn’t turn back. Till you got us as close in to shallow as you could.” He took another swig from the bottle. It tasted less like rotten fruit than the swig before. “Them landing barges. Some dumped their soldiers short of the beach. Deep water where guys drowned. Packs were too damn heavy. Too chicken to take them all the way in. Guess you weren’t.”
“Not for lack of wanting to. No. Not for lack.”
Jones stared up at the white-topped mountain that hemmed in the village. It seemed to expand and close in as he watched. Instinctively, he pressed back against the dancehall boards.
“Guts?” Hancock muttered softly. “Oh you guys had guts to jump off that barge and wade in.”
Suddenly the vision opened fresh for Jones. “On the beach, some of my buddies,” he blurted. “Guts all over the sand and rocks. Slipped in guts still
warm, from my own bud—.” The memory engulfed him. He began to sob in gulps beyond control. “Fuckin’ Japs!”
Beside him, Hancock’s voice turned husky. “Yeah. Yeah.” When the Native brought them a second bottle, Hancock pulled the cork and handed it to Jones first. A windy gust blew the snow clear. A tarpaulin flew against the wheelbarrow, snagged, and remained flapping. The low peaked roofs of the village emerged like lines on a slate, and the sloping mountain behind seemed to retreat. In a moment the air turned colder.
“Weather’s blowing worse,” said Hancock. “We should get out of here, back to sea. Finish that Coast Guard’s Westward run while we can. So it don’t screw my Christmas leave back to Oregon.”
After they had emptied the second bottle, they pulled themselves together enough to return straight-backed to the party. Laughing, Jones and Hancock steadied themselves with arms locked over each others’ shoulders. Jimmy, who might have drunk the most, glowered and strode in, seemingly unaffected. Kowalczyk started with them, but vomited and instead wove off in another direction.
The stove heat and noise in the hall hit Jones hard as he entered. Hard even to breathe through the thick smell of kerosene and sweat. In the fudge of sounds, feet banged, a fiddle squeaked, people yelled. And all the colors waved. Silvery bands of tinsel blew in his face from the wind at the open door. He brushed them aside. But loops of red and green stuff from the bare boards of the ceiling swooped practically into his face. When he tried to wave them off they turned out to be far above his head.
People on the dance floor seemed to ripple as he watched. There lumbered two of the big Norwegian deckhands from the ship, clutching their partners and half stomping as if they wore heavy boots. And young Native guys, some from the Deep Sea processing lines, hopped with their girls past sailors in tight dress blues who danced smoothly with their own girls. They all blurred alike. Young and old. The chief. Even chuckling, fat old Native women who bounced and kicked their heels in time to the music as they held tight onto their men.
There was Swede standing in a corner with the captain and the owners of the Deep Sea. A Coast Guard officer was among them, and the Scotsman. All so like gentlemen. Holding cups of drink like at a tea party. Kissing each others’ asses.
On the dance floor, one woman even clung tight to the Jap, pushing him step by step in time to the music while he smiled that Jap smile. What was Jones doing at this dance a thousand miles from his own woman? Should be home holding Adele. Have it again the way it was just a couple years ago, when she’d still leaned her head against his shoulder. Before the baby. He rubbed his head to clear it. Things weren’t right.
Jimmy Amberman barely paused before he strode onto the dance floor. With barely a motion at all, he nudged the Native girl in red and took her from the Deep Sea Norwegian named Lars. Lars stood for a minute, scratching his head. Then he strode up, pulled Jimmy off by the shoulder, and resumed dancing with the girl. Seconds later, the two men had locked against each other, exchanging angry blows.
The music stopped. Jones and Hancock glanced at each other. They had both been weaving around the food table, filling their plates from bowls of potato salad, smoked fish, and hot dog pieces floating in stewed tomatoes.
“Party’s over,” Hancock announced. He laid down his plate and headed toward the dance floor.
“Over!” echoed Jones. He made it to the big Norwegian just as Swede and the Scotsman converged from another direction.
“Here now. None of that!” declared the Scotsman. But he didn’t intervene. It wasn’t easy to separate the two opponents. In the process, Jones ducked Jimmy’s fist and it grazed his shoulder enough to hurt. The pain jump-started his anger enough that Swede had to pull him back against Lars the Norwegian. Lars mistook the action and thumped Jones hard before muttering “Oh ja, Jones. Fuck, sorry.”
Separated at last, the two original combatants exchanged scowls. The girl for whom they’d fought slipped away as soon as Jimmy released his grip on her. The two watched her, then shrugged.
“Left hook not bad,” Jimmy conceded.
Lars wiped his thick fingers across the blood on his chin, and with “Also you,” he laughed his “har har.”
“I smell alcohol,” said the Scotsman. “You don’t understand how dangerous it is here with Native people when you have liquor. Please, if you have a bottle of that stuff, remove it back to your ship. You don’t understand the work I do here to make certain that—”
“Sorry. Sorry,” murmured Swede. “We can’t watch everywhere after so long at sea.” He frowned at both Jones and Lars. “Kom,” he said, taking Lars by the arm. And with a firm sweep of his head, he motioned Jones toward the door. When the big Norwegian seemed to resist, Jones took his other arm—clutched it rather—although he was careful to watch for a fist. But Lars had suddenly turned docile. The three lurched unsteadily toward the door. For a moment, it occurred to Jones that Swede gripped one of his own arms and Lars the other. That they were perhaps leading Jones himself away. In a blur Jones watched Hancock and Jimmy just ahead of them exiting through the door. The music had started up again. Others on the floor had resumed their dance.
Off to the side, the Jap stood watching.
“Well what are you grinnin’ at,” Jones growled in passing. Didn’t the damn Japs ever leave off grinning? Poking their faces in the way? “Better not step on me in the middle of the night.” He said it as almost a threat, but by the time Swede and Lars had dragged him through the doorway, Jones was too tired to care much. Just sleep with one eye open.
33
DECISION
Before Jones finally returned to Ketchikan, he shuttled from Anchorage back to Kodiak for a day. Saw again the big crabs. If he and Adele had to move, this was where they’d go, he decided. This was the place for a man to have his boat. And when scampering up the hill behind the harbor to view the lay of water, he saw a house with a For Lease sign in front, he contacted the agent listed without a second thought. Hadn’t Adele said herself they needed to leave Ketchikan?
Back in Ketchikan, there stood Adele on the tarmac. It was blowing a light southeaster with the typical rain. The flaps of her waterproof coat opened enough to show that she wore the bright green dress that he’d once said he admired. The minute she saw him descending from the plane she began to wave. For a moment, she seemed the eager girl of a half dozen years ago who had hugged his arm so tightly at that Fourth of July parade. He’d barely reached the ground before her arms were around his neck. Perfume smell. It almost embarrassed him, the way his erection popped up. Going to be again like the old days. Starting fresh.
Then she began to sob as she clutched him. He wrapped his arms around her slim shape and held her warm and quivering against him. Her fingers dug into his back. Let her hold, then. He’d escaped it too long. But he knew why he’d had to escape.
He readied to protect her. “Okay, honey,” he said at last. “Good news. Couple of days ago I found us a house in Kodiak. Paid six months’ rent, so we can pack and go. Any time.”
Adele gasped audibly. “Why would we leave here?”
“Before I took off for Bristol Bay you said you were crazy to go.” Jones reminded her gently.
“Did I? Did I?” She demanded. Seemed almost frantic. “What could I have been thinking! Leave little Amy’s grave behind with strangers?”
“What about my dad and mom? They live here.”
“My Amy was not their baby!”Adele snapped. “They’ve been sweet of course. I’m welcome to dinner any time I want. Even when your dad’s away fishing. I mean, if Helen doesn’t have some kind of meeting to go to. They’re so busy. It’s not like having my own parents nearby.” She paused, chewing her lip. A stop in the barrage of chatter. “Yes, I want to move. They can transfer a little grave, can’t they? But we need to go to California where my daddy’s just retired. They’ll have all the time in the world for us. And you’re so smart. You could get a job anywhere. There’s a whole machine factory or something right there.
And you, a veteran, they’d probably make you a foreman very soon.”
Jones felt a wave of unease rising close to panic. His gaze swept beyond her shoulder, although he continued to hold her tight. Was she serious? Where the familiar wharf ended, familiar stores began. Joe Stanley, a fisherman he knew from the boat Lisa Jane on the grounds, strode with an engine shaft over his shoulder. Grease smudged the oilskin jacket where the shaft rested, a cap pulled half over his eyes as when he fished, and he hadn’t even bothered to change from hip boots. Didn’t matter what anybody said. What would it be like someplace else? Leave here where he was known, for any other place?
Suddenly a pack of people moved down the street together like bees in a hive. People dressed for a party rather than work. One of the ships must have docked that shoveled in Seattle tourists for a few hours before moving on to Juneau and whatever. Their mass surrounded Joe, and when they had finally poured into a store selling souvenirs, he had pressed against a wall to avoid their onslaught. Even in Ketchikan, streets had crowds with no stake in the water.
“You’ll like Kodiak, honey,” he said firmly. “No damn tourist ships and geegaw stores. Place on the hill has a nice view, all the way past the islands to the open water. With a spy glass you’ll be able to see me come in from fishing. Fish for crabs so big you’ll think I—”
“And a place to bury little Amy?”
“Sure. Whatever you want.”
And so it was settled. Jones and Adele Henry would move to Kodiak.
NOVEMBER, 1951
Amy’s grave had been removed to the cemetery at Kodiak, not too far from the sea. Jones, in his cleanest clothes, and Adele, in that same green dress, stood at the foot of the little thing’s headstone, sharing a moment of quiet in this out of the way spot. Too many memories to speak them all. Adele nestled her head against Jones’s shoulder, like back in the old days before baby Amy had even been thought of. Jones held her while she sobbed, not so loudly now she used to, and when she asked to be left by herself, Jones took to wandering the rows of engraved stones and chipped wooden crosses. For a town so small as Kodiak, there were a surprising number of markers. Many of ’em fisherman that died in the frigid waters, Jones supposed. He wondered grimly how many bodies were actually buried with their names, and how many were left to float bloated, with eyes pecked by gulls, undiscovered at sea. Or worse, just a pile of guts and shrapnel lost in Jap-land. Like his own buddies. What were their names? Sokovich. Sugarmouth. His fists clenched. Jimmy Sleeves. Chuck. Callihan. All of ’em.
WARRIORS Page 35
