Glacier Gal

by Langdon, L.

  Chapter 3

  Sven Halvorsen stood on his porch and looked across Gastineau Channel at the small city of Juneau, Alaska on the other side. Ignoring the raw southeast wind and the light rain, he made his plans for the days ahead. It was time to get his boat, Glacier Gal, in shape for the fishing season. She was a solid craft, but as with any boat, she needed care. Some things he would put off until the weather cleared up, but there was some engine maintenance that needed doing. He turned to go back inside his house. If he got down to the boat harbor soon, he could get finished and still have time to visit Rosie’s book store before he went to dinner at his usual hangout, the Kash Café.

  In the years since Laura’s death, Sven had rebuilt his life. Some of it he planned—particularly how to spend the money from her insurance wisely—and some of it was happenstance. He would not claim to be truly happy, but he was content. Things were less stressful now, as long as he stayed away from Laura’s relatives, who detested him. Her younger sister Mindy’s animus was particularly hurtful, since, in his opinion, she had grown into a very capable young woman. Dining at the Kash Café, near the boat harbor, rather than at the fancier restaurants downtown helped him to avoid her. Mindy Schumacher would not dream of showing up at a fisherman’s hangout.

  His years now had basically two seasons: winter and summer. In the winter, he had time to paint, which he found soothing. He also spent time working on his house. This was a source of pride to him, even if he never expressed it to anyone else. He had bought some land on Douglas Island with part of the insurance money. His land was near the bridge to Juneau—and hence, near the boat harbor—but it extended well uphill from the highway. He built his home on the upper end of his property, away from any noise. He had had professional help cutting a long driveway up to the home site and framing the house. Over the years, he had finished the inside himself, learning carpentry as he went. Just this past winter, he had completed a work room, where he did his painting and stored his completed pictures.

  The previous winter, he had finished off an exercise room, where he kept a set of weights, as well as a speed bag and a heavy bag. Boxing didn’t appeal to him as it had in his younger days, but working with the bags was good exercise, and it could melt away stress. Of course, when the weather permitted, he could relieve stress by exercising outside. There were wonderful hiking and climbing in the Tongass National Forest which extended up the mountain behind his property.

  His carpentry skills also gave him the opportunity to earn some extra money during the off season. Generally, when he accepted such work it was for a change of pace—he didn’t really need the money.

  But now, it was edging towards summer, his work season. By the time he got the boat ready, it would be time to go fishing. Other than the engine work, which would go quickly, he had to check his gear and paint the boat. Ironically, given his interest in art, he hated painting the boat, especially the copper painting, which was always a miserable experience. It was necessary, however. Glacier Gal would struggle through the water—costing him money in fuel—if he didn’t clean the hull and apply a fresh coat of anti-fouling, copper paint.

  He shook his head and went inside. He was just wasting time now. The sooner he got started, the sooner he could be browsing the shelves at the Taku Book Store. That was another of his favorite ways of relieving stress, and Rosie Craig, the store’s owner and sole employee, was a trusted friend.

  ___

  After he had his diesel engine purring, he decided to drop by Northern Marine to pick up the paint. As he entered the large marine supply store, he was hailed by Maxine MacKenzie. She had worked there since before Sven was born, and kept up with all of the news and gossip about the local fishermen.

  “Hi, Sven. I heard that you finally fired Mike.”

  He made a face. “Yeah. He can’t stay away from the bottle. I don’t want anyone like that around me.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that he didn’t work out, but it doesn’t surprise me.” Maxine knew Sven’s own history—he had had a drinking problem himself after Laura’s death. After a few months of that, he had looked himself in the mirror and hadn’t liked what he had seen. He quit cold turkey. And he was determined to stay away from anything that could possibly be a negative influence.

  “You know what they say about reformed drunks,” he said self-deprecatingly.

  “So, are you going to fish by yourself this year?”

  “It’s looking that way,” he said, “but I wish I’d waited to fire him until after we finished painting the boat.” He quirked a wry smile and walked over to pick out a supply of paint. When he got back to the counter, she smiled.

  “You’re the only guy I know who carries eight gallons of paint as if they weighed nothing.”

  There wasn’t much to say to that; he knew he was strong. He could thank his genes for that, not any personal virtue.

  After he stowed the paint in the forward cabin of Glacier Gal, he checked his watch. He had time to get to Rosie’s, but he’d promised to bring her some of his completed paintings. Ah, the paintings. Of all of the facets of Sven’s rebuilt life, his painting hobby was the most completely unexpected.

  One morning, soon after he had stopped drinking, he was piloting Glacier Gal to one of his favorite fishing grounds. He was alone—hiring a deckhand came later—and he had a good ways to go, so time weighed heavily on his hands. As his boat came around a point, Sven was struck by a particular vista. There was a fog bank hugging the water and partially blocking the hill behind the point. In the distance, however, it was clear and there was a beautiful, sunlit view of Mt. Fairweather, one of a number of Alaskan mountains taller than any in the ‘lower 48.’ On impulse, he picked up a pencil and some note paper and tried to sketch the scene. The result pleased him, so he started to look for other opportunities. Eventually, he had a sheaf of these efforts—strictly for his own satisfaction—but he wanted more.

  On one of his visits to Taku Books, he had bought some books on painting and mentioned his interest. After that, Rosie had asked him about his progress and pestered him gently to show her some of his work. He didn’t want to broadcast his hobby, but he did want to get another person’s opinion. Since he trusted both Rosie’s judgment and her discretion, he brought in several works—he had graduated to oils by this time—to show her. She was enthusiastic and accepted one as a gift.

  Then she asked him to let her sell some on consignment. It took some time for Sven to agree to this, but he eventually did, insisting on strict anonymity. To his considerable surprise, and secret gratification, she sold a steady trickle of them. He was gradually building up a small nest egg with the proceeds. What he would do with it, he had no idea.

  After swinging by his house to pick up the latest batch of paintings for Rosie, he drove downtown, parking his pickup truck in the alley behind her store. He walked around to the front entrance on Seward Street. He glanced up and down the street as he walked. An outsider would consider the older Juneau streets to be quaint. They were narrow and perched on the side of a hill. Many of the sidewalks in front of the stores had roofs to protect the pedestrians from the rain. In some places you could walk for several blocks without getting wet, except when crossing a street.

  “Well, look who’s here.” Rosie looked up from a book she was reading and smiled. She was a tiny, bright-eyed woman who perpetually had a cigarette in her hand. Sven had estimated that she was around sixty years old.

  Sven looked around. There was a single customer with her nose in a book. Sven looked at her idly, but didn’t recognize her. “I’ve come to poke through your stock,” he said to Rosie. “Any suggestions?”

  “Are you going to take it out on the boat with you?”

  “Yeah, so don’t suggest something that I’ll finish in a couple of hours.”

  “When are you going out? I’ve got a shipment coming in this week.”

  “That should be OK. I won’t be heading out for another few days. And I’ve got plenty to do in the m
eantime.”

  She paused to ring up a purchase for the other customer. After Rosie and Sven were alone, she changed the subject. “Have you got any paintings for me?”

  “They’re in my truck behind the store.”

  “You and your secrecy.” Rosie made an amused face. “Don’t worry. I tell any customer who asks that HSSH is pronounced ‘hush’ and it stands for ‘quiet’ because the artist is a recluse and lives out in the bush. They eat that up.”

  Sven couldn’t help but laugh. He wanted anonymity, so he signed his pictures with his initials and an extra ‘H’ in front: ‘HSSH.’ Rosie respected that, and had somehow turned it into a sales device. He was also careful in his choice of pictures to give her. Some were too personal and would give too much of a clue as to his identity. Of course, the tourists wouldn’t know, but some Juneau residents would see them on display. For example, he had painted a picture of Laura from memory which he had no intention of selling. Not so much because he treasured it, but because any local person would likely guess that Sven was the painter. And who knows what Mindy’s reaction to that painting would be—even if she liked it, she would be resentful that it had come from Sven. No, it was best to leave that hornet’s nest untouched.

  While he was thinking about this, Rosie handed him a check. “I sold all of the last batch you gave me. This is your share of the money.”

  Sven nodded his thanks. After he had finished his browsing, he settled on a small collection of purchases. As he left the store, he saw Mindy walking down the street. She had evidently just gotten off work. He steeled himself for some ugly remark, but she contented herself with directing a cold glare his way. Would she ever stop blaming him for Laura’s death? He held no great hope for that. Especially, he thought guiltily, since she was right.

  ___

  Sven brought his new books into the Kash Café with him. His friend Wally hadn’t arrived yet, and Brian Kashimara, the restaurant’s owner, was explaining to yet another new customer that the restaurant’s name was an abbreviation of his—that it had nothing to do with the acceptable methods of payment. Sven didn’t bother to conceal a smile. Brian must have given that explanation hundreds of times. He seemed to enjoy doing it, though. If Sven had been in Brian’s place, he would have gone nuts in the first week. I guess that’s why Brian owns a restaurant and I don’t.

  After he’d placed his order, Sven spread his new books out in front of him and tried to decide which he would read first. He always felt like a kid on Christmas morning when he came out of Rosie’s with a bunch of books.

  Wally arrived just as the waitress was serving Sven’s food. “I’ll have the same,” Wally said to her as he slid into the booth opposite Sven. “I guess I know where you’ve been shopping,” he added to Sven.

  Sven put his books on the booth next to him and looked back at Wally. “Are you ready to go out?”

  Wally made a disgusted noise. “I’ve got dry rot on the aft wall of my pilot house. I’ll have to get that fixed first. Just what I need.”

  “You skipped your painting last year, didn’t you?”

  Wally glared at him. “Don’t rub it in. I suppose you’re all ready to go.”

  “I need to do some painting myself. Then I’ll be ready. Checked out the engines today.”

  Sven and Wally ate a leisurely dinner, talking about everything but fishing. By the time Sven got home, it was dark. The rain was still falling. He looked at the lights across the channel. He liked this town. He had grown up here. But he was ready to get back out on the water.

  Chapter 4

  Gerri caught the bus in Florence two days after her graduation. In those two days, she had had hardly a moment to spare. She and her mother shopped—trying to anticipate what different clothes she might need, and trying to find them at affordable prices. She packed a small bag to carry with her and a larger duffle bag which would go in the cargo area of the bus. She was trying to travel light, since she would spend plenty of time lugging her possessions around between buses.

  Her father presented her with some cash, along with urgent warnings about being careful. She cringed at what this was doing to the family budget; some day, somehow, she would pay them back for all of this.

  Even Marilyn got caught up in the enthusiasm. She tagged along when Gerri went shopping, and hung close by as she packed. It was Marilyn who was the instigator of Gerri’s major transformation: she argued strenuously for Gerri to wear an Afro hairdo on her trip. Gerri had certainly considered this style—a few of her classmates had adopted them, with, in Gerri’s view, varying degrees of success. Gerri had been timid up to now. She had feared that an afro would look silly on her, and that she would then be unmercifully teased. The chance to experiment away from the eyes of the local girls finally convinced her to accept Marilyn’s help with her hair.

  The excitement was not without apprehension, though. Gerri could tell that her parents were having second thoughts about their child’s—yes, Olivia slipped up and used that word several times—traveling alone, particularly through the South. They supplied Gerri with a variety of bus schedules and a road map of the United States.

  Mindful of the fact that public accommodations, while subject to the new civil rights laws, were still an iffy proposition for black people in the South, Olivia handed Gerri an enormous bag of chicken and biscuits as the family saw her off.

  The whole family reminded Gerri to write frequently; Olivia had quietly added that “Maybe the stories of your adventure will excite Marilyn’s interest.” Gerri was more than willing to write. The problem was that, after the novelty of the bus ride wore off—which happened quickly—she had little to write about.

  She was able to put together enough bits and pieces to mail off a letter when the bus stopped in Kansas City: seeing the Mississippi River for the first time, seeing the St. Louis Arch, and her dawning realization of just how big the United States really was. To those remarks, she added some observations about some of the more colorful of her fellow passengers.

  As the bus crossed the seemingly endless prairies of Missouri and Kansas, Gerri had plenty of time to think. She tried to anticipate what she and Rich might do together, and she wondered what her family in South Carolina was doing now. Mixed in with these were less pleasant thoughts. She wondered again whether she should have stopped helping Thurman when she did. Certainly, she wished that she had stopped years earlier—or never started. But at the last minute? Gerri couldn’t make believe that he had deserved better.

  In the final analysis, she took refuge in a conversation with Dr. Darnell while Gerri was taking one of her education classes. Dr. Darnell was justifying her uncompromising grading standards. “Pee Dee State College is being judged by its alumni,” she had said. “While it may seem kind to let an undeserving student slide through, it would then be unkind to all of the other graduates. They will inevitably be judged more negatively by those employers who have encountered the undeserving graduate.”

  As the bus entered Colorado and Gerri could see mountains in the distance, she started another letter to her family. This one, mailed in Salt Lake City, had more to say about the scenery: the Rocky Mountains were indeed beautiful; the deserts were indeed desolate; but The Great Salt Lake didn’t really impress her.

  Gerri could hardly wait for the ride to be over, though she didn’t put that in the letter. She desperately looked forward to her three week stay—which would be three weeks away from buses. In fact, she was so tired of sitting all day that she didn’t care if she ever saw another bus. Her only defense was to take every opportunity to walk when there was a stopover—even if she only walked back and forth in front of the bus station.

  Ironically, at the same time she took pride in getting to be—she felt—an expert traveler. She always tried to chat with the driver of the day. Some were unreceptive, but others gave her useful tips on what to see and where to eat during the stopovers. And, of course, she had her collection of maps which she spent time studying.

 
Now, after changing buses in Portland, she was on the final leg of her journey. She sat in the front row (the better to see forward or to ask the driver questions) next to the window on the right hand side (the better to see Mt. Rainier, which the last bus driver had said was not to be missed). She could hardly contain her excitement: she would be seeing Rich this very afternoon.

  ___

  Gerri saw Rich waiting at the bus terminal in Tacoma when her bus pulled in. She was the first one out of the bus and yelled his name as she ran toward him. He gave a double take and started grinning as he opened his arms.

  She raced into his arms and gave him a hug that had all of her pent up energy in it. “It’s so good to see you, Rich.”

  “It’s good to see you, too.” His eyes slid up to her hair and his grin got wider.

  “What? Does my hair look that funny?”

  “No, no. It looks nice. I’ve always wanted to have a brother.”

  Gerri pushed him away and scowled. “I was afraid of this. I’ll change it back tonight.”

  “Don’t do that. It really does look nice on you.”

  “Sure it does. That’s why you’re laughing.”

  “No, really. That was just the surprise. You’re the last person that I’d expect to go natural.”

  “It was Marilyn’s idea. But these three weeks are supposed to be an adventure, so why not?”

  The smile left his face. “We’ll have to talk about your stay here. I assume you have other luggage?”

  They walked to an older model car, which Rich unlocked. He saw her inquiring look. “No, it’s not mine. It belongs to the people that you’ll be staying with.” When they were sitting in the car, he turned to her without starting it. “Their names are Mark and Ann Miller. He’s a friend of mine, and they live in an apartment off base.”