Chapter 21
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Pelican, AK
The buttercup-yellow dress matched the color of the fading bruise on Anya’s upper arm.
Debbie Harry was singing “The Tide Is High” on the radio.
Anya pulled the sleeve of her dress up a bit.
The bruise was the shape of a butterfly.
She turned at an angle to the mirror—still fit nicely.
The straps of her bra cut across the shoulders of the boatneck collar, spoiling the line.
It had to go. She reached behind her, released the bra’s clasp through the dress, pulled the left strap over her shoulder and bent her arm through the loop, then pulled the whole bra through the right armhole. Much better.
“Why the fuck you lookin all girly? You’re a fuckin fisherman. Who you dressin up for, anyway?”
Anya brushed a line of dust from the hanger crease on her shoulder. How long had this dress hung in that closet? Five years or more?
Raven Radio was relaying “Muskeg Messages.” “—community center. And to Joanie in Pelican: fishing is good. Will be home tomorrow.”
She kicked the Carhartts she’d worn to the wake into the dirty clothes pile in the corner and turned her attention to his dresser.
She gave him too much credit for being clever.
Sock drawer is just as good as a safety deposit box, right? Idiot.
“…to my wife Anya on the fishing vessel Lady Melinda: Happy Anniversary to the best boat driver in the fleet.”
Anya froze. A chill shimmied up her spine.
She turned off the radio.
When would he have called this in to the radio station? He never planned ahead. IS it our anniversary? How many years has it been?
No, no, NO! She would not let him do this to her again. Fuck him and his manipulative fake sentimentality.
Anya walked across the room, pulled the drapes aside, opened the window, and filled her lungs with the cool fresh air as she looked across the boardwalk at the mountains in the distance.
Refocused, she switched the radio back on, then continued looking through the stack of his “important” papers.
Some legal thing about the money they’d borrowed to buy the boat.
The lease for their house—looked like it expired five years ago, but nobody gave a shit.
Just kept paying the rent and they kept taking it.
Xerox copy of his birth certificate—born in Liberal, Kansas—wherever that was.
A picture of a woman—ah, his mother—she was pretty.
Some old personal letters. Official copy of their commercial fishing permit.
Deed for the island with the fishing cabin, and a stack of letters—most of them unopened—from the real-estate company in St. Louis that had been trying to buy the island.
Looked like they’d been after it for years.
Maybe she should consider selling it now?
Wonder if they’d still be interested. The latest one was less than a year old.
Nothing else in the papers looked like it had any particular value, but she’d need to get the boat, cabin, and fishing permit transferred to her name, and get a proper lease on the house.
Someone at Rose’s said she’d need a special death certificate or something since no body was found.
Lewis’s lawyer in Sitka might be able to help.
Anya stuffed the papers back into the manila envelope and tossed it on top of the dresser. She’d need some cash to pay the lawyer. The fishermen always took up a generous collection for the family when one of them was lost—which seemed to be happening pretty often these days.
Anya walked back to the mirror and gave the yellow dress another twirl, then went to the front door, leaned out, and plucked an orange poppy from one of the arrangements that had been left on the porch. She grabbed a bobby pin and tucked it behind her right ear.
Borscht was on the menu tonight. Papa’s borscht.
She followed his recipe to a tee—beef stew meat, potatoes, carrots, celery, cabbage, and a hearty beef stock with onion, garlic, and her dad’s “secret” combination of spices.
And of course, beets. Anya grabbed her blue apron from the hook beside the stove and tied it around her waist. She didn’t wear gloves when she handled the beets.
She usually didn’t mind the bright red reminder of her father’s cooking staining her hands for a day or so, but today the bright crimson that dyed her fingers and palms looked a bit sinister in contrast to the delicate yellow of her dress.
The smells of the stew simmering took her back to her childhood days at her father’s bar in Sitka, where she’d sit on the kitchen counter with a bowl of borscht in her lap, watching her dad sling cold beer and warm soup to his customers.
It had been years since she’d been able to savor the hearty red stew.
Her husband had hated beets.