Adrift in the Sound (25 page)

TWENTY–SEVEN

SHE LIFTED UP AND THROUGH THE CAR’S
fogged windows and saw the veil of night dissolving in the sunrise. Mt. Baker stretched 11,000 feet into the sapphire-colored stratosphere, puffy clouds hung around its snow-capped peak.
Close enough to touch
, she thought, gazing at the mountain’s ominous beauty. C
lose enough to feel the heat.
Lizette knew the volcano had erupted long ago, ripped the sky, spewed hot ash, killed all the fish, set the forests on fire, but now the mountain preened in the dawn like a seductive, dangerous woman.

She glanced over the front seat at Rocket, asleep with his jacket balled up under his head, one of Violet’s fluffy pink quilts covering him chest to knees. Turning to read the building sign, she located herself. “Long John Silver’s. Fish and chips. Shrimp baskets.” She scanned the parking lot behind the restaurant. Anacortes. They’d packed in a hurry, stuffed the trunk of Rocket’s 88, tore up Interstate 5, missed the last ferry for Orcas Island, parked behind the restaurant to sleep until daylight.

She pulled the car’s door handle down, pushed out, stood bleary eyed. She squatted behind the dumpster and peed, got back in and popped a bottle into Violet’s mouth. Waited.

“You awake?” Rocket said through the seatback, wallowing himself into a more comfortable position.

“What time is it?” she asked in a dreamy voice, cradling Violet, and stretched her cramped legs against the passenger door.

“Looks like O-dark hundred, to me.” He lifted up, settled back again.

“I don’t want to miss the first ferry.”

“Relax. First one leaves for Orcas at five thirty. There’s another one at six ten.”

“Rocket?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you know what you want?”

“A raisin snail and a cup of coffee?”

“Funny.” Lizette paused. She could hear him listening. She dug in her bag for a diaper and clean plastic pants, got on her knees in the backseat and changed Violet. The baby drew up her legs in protest, squeezed out a couple of crocodile tears from the edges of her squinched eyes. Lizette lifted her and suck-kissed under her jaw bone, forcing a giggle.

“Did that kid laugh?” He sat up.

“Isn’t it cute?”

“I didn’t know she could,” Rocket said. “Hand her over, let’s take a look.” He joggled Violet, grinned into her little face. “I mean, I know she’s smart, but I didn’t think babies had a sense of humor.” He lifted her back over the seat.

“Who do you think she looks like?” she said shyly.

“Who?”

“Well … Not Al, that’s for sure.” She laughed. “Or the landlord … Or Carl.” She saw Rocket’s chest contract at the mention of Cadillac Carl, heard him breathing more rapidly. “Have you ever thought about fishing? Or buying a sailboat to live on? Moving out of Seattle?”

“I gotta job. Work a couple of days. Take a couple of days off. It’s a good gig. Pays the rent.”

“But, after they tear down the Dog House. You know they will. Someday. Where will you live then?”

“Shit. How should I know? Next door to my connection?” He twisted on the seat, chuckled, turned his back against her. “All I can deal with is today, man.”

“I’m not a man and what about Violet?”

“What about her?”

“We could keep her. I mean, if Sandy doesn’t come back.”

Rocket was silent, lifted to stare out the window, glanced sideways at her.

“Yeah, we could drop her off, too.” He turned away, irritation scribbled across his face. “At an orphanage or a fire station or on the doorstep of some big-ass mansion on Mercer Island, one with a swing set and a perfect fuckin’ puppy in the backyard.”

“Knock it off, Rocket. We could go to Europe. Take her to France.”

“I can’t talk French.”

“I can. I could teach you. We could go to the Louvre. Check out Ingres, Delacrox, Fouquet, Poussin …, “ the hope in her voice deflated as she searched his stony face.

“Yeah? What about a job? How do you say shit in French?”

“Mon dieu!” Lizette snapped and settled back, held Violet closer, pouted.

“OK, now I gotta piss.” He got out of the car and went to the bushes at the edge of the parking lot. She watched his back, jacket hunched up around his waist. He shimmy shook his hips, zipped, walked back.

“Let’s head down to the ferry,” he said, sliding onto the front seat, tossing the blanket in the back. “We can get breakfast on the boat.” The car’s engine growled into action and he warmed it before shifting into gear. She got into the front seat. “What time is it?” he said.

“I already asked you that.”

“Sorry.” He looked straight ahead through the windshield.

They drove along the water, the town dark, silence hardening to granite between them. Violet lay bolstered by blankets and bags on the backseat, cooing, watching her hands in the brightening light. Lizette wanted to reach out, touch him, pierce his shield of annoyance, but she held back. They reached the ferry landing in time to watch the wide, flat-bottomed boat pull away, its horn blowing a warning as it sloshed into the sea toward the islands humped like pond turtles in the dawn.

“Crap!” Rocket smacked the steering wheel and looked around at the empty lanes used for loading. “It’s gonna be another forty minutes.” He got out of the car, slammed the door, popped the trunk, pulled his sea bag out, rifled around for a smoke and leaned on the rear fender, puffing. A Laura Scudders delivery truck pulled into line behind his car and Rocket glared at the driver, who checked his clipboard and acted like he didn’t see Rocket standing there fuming.

Cars and pickups piled into line behind them. Lizette watched the sun’s rosy glow strengthen, analyzed the shadows on the water and the play of light on the islands as they materialized from the mist. When the
Yakima
arrived, the deck crew lowered the steel ramp and signaled Rocket to board. He eased the big Olds onto the ferry and one of the crew shouted, “Nice car.” Rocket grinned, gunned the 88, offered a finger salute. Pulling close to the ferry’s super structure, he set the brake.

“Let’s eat,” he said, getting out.

Because the car was parked too tight against the wall to open the passenger door, Lizette lifted the dozing Violet from the back and slid across the seat. She followed him up the narrow gangway to the café, smelling of cheap coffee and sour dish rags, and took a table overlooking the water. She watched gulls make lazy circles around the pilings, water sloshed against the landing. Rocket came to her. “What do you want to eat?”

“Tea. Earl Gray, if they have it. Oatmeal.” She settled the baby next to her on the bench seat. He returned in a few minutes with a tray and unloaded her mug and bowl. She got up and grabbed a glass sugar shaker from the cook’s counter, looked disapprovingly at the two chili dogs, heaped with beans, onions and cheese, in front of Rocket.

“That’s disgusting.”

“Looks like work.” He took a big bite, orange-colored juice running down the heel of his hand. “We eat like this on the tugs,” he said with his mouth full. “It don’t matter what time it is. Somebody’s always coming off watch, looking for chow. Gets cold out there. Chili dogs warm your guts, keep you going.”

The
Yakima
eased back from the landing. Rocket watched out the window as the crew untied the lines and coiled the ropes on deck.

“Missed a throw,” he said, offhandedly. “Hey, look at that canoe!” He stood up and pressed against the glass. She leaned over and looked across the water. A big canoe, its tips shaped like orca fins, plowed through the Salish Sea. A dozen or so men pulled with long, decorated paddles, gaining on the lumbering ferry. A man stood at the back in a pointed hat, beating a round drum. The paddlers dug into the water, heads bowed, watch caps pulled over their ears. The rhythmic drumbeat carried across the water, overriding the ferry’s engine noise as the canoe drew closer. Black and white Chinook designs were painted on the canoe’s sides.
Lummi pattern, dancing salmon
, she thought. They caught up with the ferry and some of the men stowed their paddles, others dug into the sea in alternating intervals, maintaining an even speed, pacing the ferry.

“You could fish.” She relaxed into her seat. “Buy a boat.”

“What about my piano?” he answered, watching the canoe. “Those guys are really putting some muscle into it.”

“You could sell the piano. Use the money for a boat. Violet could … “

“Look. I’m paying rent on two houses now. I have a job. Sandy’ll be back. She’s just taking a timeout. The kid’s doing fine.”

Lizette choked, oatmeal stuck in her craw. She slurped tea, wiped her eyes. “I’m just saying. What mother would …?” Rocket got up, shoved the cardboard containers from the chili dogs in the garbage can, pushed through the door to the outside deck and leaned on the railing to watch the canoe. She studied him through the window, his sandy-colored hair riffling in the wind, golden stubble on his boyish cheeks bristling in the dawn. At Lopez Island, the canoe waited for the ferry, and again paced it through the strait to Shaw Island. At Shaw, the canoe pulled away while the ferry docked and the men paddled ahead, toward Orcas. Rocket came into the café and sat across from Lizette.

She leveled her eyes at him, put her fingers beside her cheek to stop her right eye from twitching.
Too much medication
, she thought and waded in. “You just have to sign it.”

“Sign what?”

“What do you think?”

“I don’t think,” he snapped. “What’re you talking about?”

“Violet’s birth certificate.” She pulled her bag from the floor and started rummaging. “It’s right here.”

“How the hell?” He spread his hands before her, shook his head in disbelief. “What’re you saying? Where’d you get that?”

“I’m saying it’s simple.”

“What’s simple?” He got up and paced beside the table, surveyed the empty café, sat down.

“Where it says father, put your name. Then I’ll sign mine. Simple. Done deal.”

“But … She’s not … “

“Look at her for chrissakes!” Lizette gestured toward the sleeping baby, her pink face folded in like a rosebud.

“We’re almost to Orcas,” he said and jumped up, pulled his jacket around him for protection, eyed her suspiciously. “We need to get back in the car.” He got up and limped to the stairs leading to the car deck, disappeared down the gangway. Lizette sat for a few more minutes, lost in the muddle. Violet’s fussing drew her back and she lifted the baby, tucked her blankets, put the wiggling bundle on her shoulder and went down.

At Orcas Landing, Rocket pulled into the market’s parking lot, the potato chip truck right behind him. “Gonna get some beer and smokes.”

Lizette got out of the car, stretched her legs. Violet napped in the back. A man burst from the group gathered by the lot’s edge where it overlooked the dock. “Lizette?” he called as he half jogged to where she stood. “It’s me. Raven.”

“Oh my God!” she embraced him, they swayed. “It’s so good to see you. What’re you doing here?”

“I’m home. Staying with my folks. Helping out at the ranch. We were out canoeing this morning.”

“I saw you, going really fast. It looked cool!”

“We’re getting ready for a spirit journey, paddling up to Bella Bella in B.C. We’re gonna meet some other canoes on the way.”

“I can’t believe it’s you. The last time … We, ah … “ A black shadow dropped over her heart. “You were on your way to Wounded Knee. How’d it go?”

“We probably shouldn’t talk about that, not now,” he said, bowing his head, speaking softly. “Forget it. OK?” She looked away, took a deep breath. “What’ve you been up to?”

“I have a baby.”

“No shit?”

Rocket came out of the store hugging a brown paper bag. Raven looked over her shoulder and she turned. “That’s Rocket,” she said. “I told you about him.”

“The father? The tug boat guy?”

“You remember? Yes. Well no. Not exactly. It’s complicated.”

“Hey man,” Rocket said as he got closer, suspicion on his face.

“This is Raven,” Lizette said, grabbing Raven’s arm. “We’ve been friends since we were kids. He’s Poland and Abaya’s son. The youngest one.” Rocket extended his hand. The men shook. Lizette felt her anxiety settle.