3. She’s Trouble
She’s Trouble
MATTHEW
If it weren’t for coffee, I’m not sure I could get out of bed every morning. Coffee is my wife and my mistress, and that’s all I’ll say on the subject.
Today, I get a late start. I usually like to be out on the water first thing in the morning, but it’s been a long and anemic season for salmon. I’m not too . . . let’s say, inspired to get out on the water and troll.
My guys meet me at my sister Gwen’s coffee shop most mornings.
The Half-Hitch is the hub for the fishermen.
It’s the closest one to the harbor, and the patrons are the least likely to give you the side-eye if you smell like bait.
We like to give her our business, get the bean water, and make a plan for the day.
I’m the last one in this morning. Jesse and Tuma are already at our usual table, coffee steaming.
“There’s the lazy ass,” Jesse says, with a wicked grin over his shoulder.
Tuma’s too busy to look up, trying to get the right ratio of sugar to cream in his coffee by alternating between the two.
I wave my hand at Jesse, a “get out of here” motion, as I approach the counter. Winnie, my six-year-old niece, stands behind the register, eyes level with the counter as she adjusts a small plastic T. rex and a brontosaurus across from each other.
“Battle of the century, huh?” I ask as I lean over the counter.
Her grey eyes flick up at me, and she smiles. Her grin is missing two teeth right at the front. They grow up so fast. “Of the Jurathic period,” she says excitedly. “Although, the thee-rex is a Cerathosaurus because they’re from the Crethaceous period, but?—”
“What did I say about dinosaurs on the counter?” Gwen calls out from the kitchen.
Winnie scoops up the two dinos and plunges them into the front pocket of her overalls as her eyes flick to me nervously.
“Dinosaurs? What dinosaurs?” I ask loudly, giving Winnie a very dramatic wink.
Her little face scrunches up into a smile. When she does that, it’s like going back in time to when Gwen was little. Cut and paste.
Speaking of, Gwen wafts in, throwing a rag over her shoulder and narrowing her eyes at me. “Don’t teach her to lie, Matthew.”
I shrug. “I know dinosaurs when I see them, and there are no dino?—”
“Not today, okay?” My sister sighs.
I know when to back off Gwen, and that’s as good a sign as any. It’s a look I’ve come to know well over the past eight years.
Gwen taps Winnie on the back, and the little girl scrambles out from behind the counter to go play dinosaurs somewhere more appropriate.
“You good?” I ask.
“I’m fine,” she says. “Coffee?”
I reach into my pocket for my wallet. I really need a new one. This one I’ve duct taped to hell and back, but hey, it gets the job done.
“Put that away,” she says with a wave of her hand.
“Come on, Gwen. I’m gonna pay for my coffee.”
She turns around and puts a few pumps of coffee into a paper cup with the Half-Hitch logo. “It’s just drip. No skin off my back.”
I ignore her and take a few bills out of my wallet. “Every penny counts.” It’s not easy to keep a business afloat in Naknek. After peak season drifts away, it can be a ghost town around here.
My sister shakes her head, sliding the cup of coffee across the counter toward me. “You’re the one who’s been complaining about the market price for sockeye this season. It’s like the more you catch, the less you make.”
Gwen holds my dollars out to me, but I ignore her, sticking my wallet back in my pocket. “I’m going out for coho later. I’ll be fine.”
She finally gives in, stuffing the dollars into her register. “What’s the point of Fishtival, if you all have to go back out?”
“We’re fishermen. We fish.”
“You know that’s not how it used to be.”
I sip my coffee and ignore the lump forming in my throat.
No. It’s not. Sockeye season alone used to be ridiculously profitable—an abundance of riches.
We got time off to be with our families and actually enjoy the fruits of our labor.
Now, with the sockeye market tanking, we’re lucky if coho season yields enough to make ends meet.
The coho aren’t as plentiful as they once were, and every year it feels like there’s less to go around.
The door to Half-Hitch opens, letting in a nice Pacific breeze.
Ian Brown lumbers in. When people talk about lumbering, he’s the definition.
I give him a nod. “Hey, Ian.”
“Hey, mate.”
Ian’s been in Naknek twenty-some years, but hasn’t shed his English accent or slang to match.
Gwen plates up a scone for Ian. “Scone, rhymes with yawn,” he said the first time he brought up the idea to her. He had to explain he didn’t want any of those American triangles with berries and crystallized sugar on the top. What he really wanted was a biscuit with fresh cream.
But Gwen always does her best to satisfy the customer, and that’s what she did. They’re a crowd favorite now. I step to the side and let Ian belly up to the counter.
“No sign of Stevie today?” he asks.
“I’m afraid not,” Gwen says.
I glance up at the Buy a Coffee board and smirk. I’m not sure how many years ago Ian bought a coffee for Stevie Nicks, but the man is holding out hope and I have nothing but respect.
“Damn. Well, you’ll never get away from the sound of the woman who loves you,” he says in consolation.
I snort, patting him on the shoulder. “You’re a real romantic, Brown.” I turn to join Jesse and Tuma at our table.
A few fishermen give me a nod or a wave as I go.
There are familiar faces I grew up with, but others I’ve become acquainted with over the past few months too.
We get a lot of seasonal workers at the canneries and on the boats during salmon season.
A lot of them will get their promised ticket back to Anchorage pretty soon.
A conversation has broken out between my usual table and two others with fishermen all talking about something that’s got most of their faces looking sour.
Drama.
“What’s happening?” I ask as I take a seat next to Tuma.
“The scientist,” an older guy, Kirk, says. Somehow his wrinkles even have wrinkles. That’s how worked up he is about whatever subject they’re discussing. “Brown said he was renting his cabin to some science center down in California and?—”
“She’s trouble.” Another old timer, Lefty (thanks to being born with his left leg shorter than the other), snorts. “Gotta be trouble.”
“Who’s gotta be trouble?” I try to butt into the conversation again.
“You haven’t heard?” Lefty says.
I shake my head. “Obviously not. That’s why I’m asking.”
“Your own brother ran into her on the docks yesterday morning,” Lefty continues, jamming his finger toward Jesse.
I glance at my brother. He’s got a layer of stubble that would be easily taken care of with a shave, but he doesn’t give a rat’s ass about looking clean-cut.
Other than keeping his hair out of his eyes, so it’s easier to make eye contact with women.
His words, not mine. “Is this a new pastime, or?—”
My brother has a habit of giving young female tourists a . . . different perspective of Naknek, let’s say. However, he doesn’t take my joke well. “Not like that. You think anyone I’d be interested in would be hanging out at the docks?”
“Will someone tell me what’s going on?” I ask.
Tuma pipes up from beside me, thank god. He’s the only one who makes any sense around here because he hasn’t spent his life nipping the bottle like the rest of us. “She’s a researcher. Apparently, she hired Sinclair to take her out to get some samples. That’s what she told Jesse.”
“He probably realized he’d sink his boat if he went out with a woman,” Jesse says with a smirk.
I kick him under the table. Not only is it a ridiculous superstition amongst fishermen and sailors, but it’s abjectly false. And, we have a highly respected female captain working out of Naknek. “Don’t be a dumb-ass.”
“Whatever she’s doing is bad news,” Kirk says. “Mark my words. Bad. News.”
“What’s she studying? I mean, surely, it can’t be that bad.”
“Bah!” Lefty yelps, crossing his arms over his wide chest. “We don’t need someone sticking their nose where it doesn’t belong.”
“Amen to that,” Jesse says.
I glance around the Half-Hitch. Plenty of people here are what we’d call outsiders. They’re here to work, sure. But how different is it, really? “What’s she studying?” I ask.
Everyone looks at me blankly.
“Really? You’re getting all up in arms about some girl who’s doing some research, and you don’t even know what she’s studying?”
“You talking about Lillian?” Gwen shouts from the register.
“Who the hell is Lillian?” Kirk responds unhelpfully.
Gwen puts her hand on her hip. “She’s here with—who is it?—Pacific Marine Institute, I think. She came in the other day. She wanted chai, but we don’t have chai. Poor thing.”
I remember her. The woman who came in looking totally out of place with a long auburn ponytail and colorful windbreaker. Not from these parts, I can tell you that. You remember all the women around here, especially when you’re my age and single. The pool is small and, for the most part, taken.
I try not to get my hopes up when someone new comes to Naknek. They’re here for a time. Not forever.
Something about her, though. Lillian. She struck a chord in me that hasn’t been struck in a long time. I stole a few glances while she talked with Gwen. Her long legs, sun-kissed skin, and full lips curled in a perpetual smile—a mysterious smile—drew me in.
It’s rare that anything surprises me around here anymore.
But she did.
Kirk grunts. “Aren’t there some laws around that? Just letting researchers . . . research? Doesn’t seem legal.”
“Did she tell you what she’s studying?” I ask Gwen.
“She didn’t tell me, but I googled her. She’s got her picture on their website and a little bio. Apparently, she’s a researcher in the animal population department. Could have to do with our fishing problem.”
“There’s no problem,” Lefty says.
I snort. “Yes, there very damn well is.”
Lefty shakes his head. “Things come in cycles. Circle of life.”
“Whatever it is, we don’t need her snooping around,” Jesse says, smacking his open palm down harshly on the table. “What’s she gonna do with that research? Give it to the government. Then they’re going to start coming after us instead of fixing the actual problem.”
“You know the actual problem?” I test my brother. “You know how to fix it?”
Jesse rolls his eyes. “I’m saying it doesn’t matter. We’re going to be the problem because we’re the thing they can control. They can tax the shit out of us and make us buy more permits. None of us need that on top of a shit fishing season.”
Tuma and I exchange a glance. He smiles and gives me a shrug. This is the way of things. We bitch and complain, but we still do our work.
I’m not interested in today’s bitch fest, though. “I’m gonna get something to eat. I’ll meet you on the dock,” I say to Tuma before getting to my feet and exiting the conversation without so much as a goodbye.