Chapter 33
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Fishing Cabin—Small Island Off the Coast of Chichagof Island, AK
The tangerine sunset reflected in the eastern sky.
A pair of humpbacks cruised along the surface, their spouts rising in soft cotton-candy plumes against the horizon.
A bald eagle dove at the water, snatching a fish and flying low with the prey in its talons before flaring up and landing on a rock near shore to enjoy its feast.
Anya relaxed into the worn webbed seat of her lawn chair next to the stump on the beach, her special place of refuge on the island. The breeze off the water warmed her face. She took a drag off her cigarette and blew the smoke out toward Lady Melinda, anchored in the bay.
It was good, coming here for a few days, getting away from the crush of well-wishers in Pelican and the annoyance of her alcoholic lawyer in Sitka, off chasing some imaginary pile of cash with dollar signs in his eyes.
He wanted her to sell the cabin. Probably so he could make a healthy chunk in commission or something.
It wasn’t quite clear why he thought the place would be worth much.
The only people in the market were likely fishermen looking for what she had—a place to drop anchor and kick back a bit between long fishing days.
On the other hand, there were a lot of tough memories here. If she wanted to keep the place, she needed to make some changes.
It was time to get to work.
Anya folded her chair, leaned it near the door of the cabin, and went inside.
She grabbed a hammer from the toolbox, took aim, and slammed it against the post supporting the partition that separated her bed from the rest of the one-room cabin.
After two or three whacks, the post cracked loose and the partition flopped, hanging from a thin board nailed to the wall.
She pried it loose with the claw of the hammer, and the entire thing collapsed.
She gathered the broken pieces of wood and carried them out to the burn pit.
I will never again hide in my own house.
Anya stripped the musty bedding and threw it in a pile. She emptied the men’s clothes from the small wardrobe and tossed them on top. She wrapped a sheet around all of it and started outside, then noticed the black boots by the door and set down her load.
Silence. When he started in, he always went completely silent. No matter how much shouting there was before, she always knew what was about to happen when he got completely quiet, like a dog right before it bites.
Anya touched her left side where one of those boots had cracked her rib. She still felt pain there sometimes—when she coughed, or cried hard.
She packed the boots into the sheet with the rest of the clothes and bedding and carried the bundle out to the burn pit. She took a can of gasoline from the shed, poured a generous amount on top of the stack, lit a match, and tossed it in.
She turned her lawn chair toward the bonfire and lit another cigarette.
Sparks rose into the sky, and the boards cracked loudly as the heat intensified.
The breeze shifted and blew smoke into her face.
She held her breath and blinked away the gray, acrid plume, tears running down her cheeks.
A burning chunk of fabric left the pyre, floating skyward as the flames consumed it.
At the bottom of the pile, the sole of one of the boots curled in on itself and melted into the glowing coals.
It smelled awful, like a mix of dead animal and diesel fuel.
She went back inside to look for anything of his that she’d missed.
His leather belt hanging from a hook on the wall, the stick he’d used as a cane when he sprained his ankle, one of his dad’s old fishing rods leaning in the corner.
She opened the base of the old wind-up record player—the Mills Brothers—she never wanted to hear that again.
All of it—onto the fire.
Anya carried all his dad’s old junk that wouldn’t burn around into the storage shed on the outside wall of the cabin. It was too much work to boat it out, and she didn’t want to have it staring at her from the trash pile out back.
Back inside, she lit the three kerosene lamps. She turned on the radio and tuned in to KCAW, catching the tail end of “In the Air Tonight” by Phil Collins.
She moved the bed to the other side of the room.
She’d forgotten about that orange-and-red braided rug—rolled up and stored underneath the bed years ago. He’d come into the cabin drunk and tripped over it, screaming that rugs don’t belong in a fishing cabin.
Anya unrolled the rug and positioned it near the center of the room, covering a dark stain that she had never managed to get out of the wood floor.
She hung her metal Red Baron sign on the wall.
She had rescued it years ago from the rubble of the fire that burned down her father’s bar in Sitka.
The cabin was feeling warmer and more welcoming already.
She made the bed with new fresh sheets she’d bought in town and a patchwork quilt she’d brought from home. Her grandmother had made it, and she kept it safe in a box in the top of her closet.
She rearranged the kitchen, just to make it feel different. She tore down the burlap bags that covered the windows. Who needs privacy when the nearest neighbor is miles away on another island?
She wanted light.
Every piece of furniture except the woodstove had a new spot.
Anya was pretty sure Chilton wouldn’t find any magical fortune in selling the fishing cabin, or in whatever pile of money he expected to find from a forty-year-old mining claim, but figured she should at least find out what it was worth.
If she did sell, maybe she could get enough to at least pay off the debt on the boat, and perhaps even to buy a second one.
Several fishermen in Pelican had asked if they could fish Lady Melinda for her, and while she wasn’t ready to give up driving the boat yet, the thought of starting her own fleet of fishing boats and sharing in the take from all of them sounded appealing.
Two wouldn’t exactly be a fleet yet, but it could be a start.