Page 19 of Untamed Coast

He’d deal with the money later—send a few dollars himself under Denman’s name, same as he’d done for Chuck. The company would never know. Or if they did, they’d look the other way, same as they always did when the work kept getting done.

Denman. The guy with the jittery hands, the thousand-yard stare even when he was laughing too loud in the chow line. Joe had seen him sneaking sips from a flask, and had once found him passed out behind the generator shack, snoring in the oil-streaked gravel.

But Joe had no moral high ground there. His own flask sat within reach, tucked under a folded rag in the drawer beside him. Most nights, he didn’t sleep without it. Most days, he didn’t want to.

He set down his pencil and rubbed his temple, then took a long pull from his own flask. The burn steadied him, the way it always did.

He wasn’t fooling himself. Denman was on a downward slope. So was he. But maybe they didn’t have to hit the bottom at the same time.

Joe sat for a moment, staring at the quiet radio set, the hum of the tubes soft and steady in the background. He could still hear Bing Crosby’s croon from the Victrola a few feet away, “Pennies from Heaven” winding toward the final chorus.

The whiskey tasted like mercy tonight.

He opened the drawer, took out a clean sheet of paper, and picked up his pen.

Maybe he couldn’t save Denman. Maybe he couldn’t even save himself. But maybe he could leave something better behind. A small map. A pile of firewood.

He wished he knew the boy’s name.

Dearest Son,

I reckon by now you’re aware I had no choice but to bid adieu to you and your mama before your arrival into this world. I needed to earn money to take care of you even though it took me far away. There was a time when your mama and I would lock horns, sparks flying in heated debates. It seemed wisest if we plied separate paths.

In this northern expanse, I endeavored to forge a foundation for a brighter life, one that I hope you’ll witness firsthand when you’re all grown up. Enclosed herewith is a map to the small island in the Alaska Territory I presently inhabit.

Should you find me absent upon your arrival, kindle a fire for yourself. There’s an abundance of timber stacked out yonder in the woodpile. In truth, it boasts surplus enough to keep you warm and content for the entirety of your days. Take your time, relish the splendors of this beautiful place. See where I lived and enjoy the house and everything that comes with it. I’m leaving it all to you.

Love,

Your father

Chapter 15

.- ..-. - . .-. -- .- - ....

Gulf of Alaska, Off the Coast of Chichagof Island, AK

1982—Anya Baron

Anya stood dead still, facing the back of the boat, one hand behind her, steadying the wheel.

Lady Melinda drifted.

The impatient fury of the trolling bell quieted to an occasional jingle. The fishing vessel rose and fell as angry swells passed underneath on their way to crash against the Alaskan shore. Anya searched the cockpit, again and again, allowing only her eyes to move—afraid that moving her body would snap her out of some dream.

A single fish flopped on the cleaning table.

Chicago’s “If You Leave Me Now” sang quietly from the boom box.

He was actually gone.

Her hand slipped from the wheel. Her legs didn’t move. Her body was far away, as if it belonged to someone else. Lady Melinda rolled and she rolled with it, weightless, hollow. Everything held still—just the low pulse of the sea, the fish flapping on the table, the soft ache of that song on the radio, the emptiness of the fishing cockpit.

Her hand clenched and unclenched, remembering motion.

The trolling rig was still fully deployed behind the boat. She had to do something about that. Anya hurried down the companionway and threw the hydraulic levers. The winches sprang to life and started hauling in the two downrigger lines. When the first salmon emerged from the water, she stopped the winch, removed the fish from the hook with a gaff, unclipped the trolling snap, then started the winch again. She tossed the salmon in the fish hold.

Money in the bank, he’d always say.