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  “Some of you big fishermen didn’t read the fine print,” said Jody pleasantly. “Hank’s tried to tell you. The foreigners can bargain with the State Department for any quota that Americans can’t catch.”

  “You hear that, Daddy? Jody keeps informed even if you don’t.” Jones frowned at his wife but said nothing. As they left the ship, Adele took his arm. “But I must say Daddy knows everybody, even though we spend winters now in San Pedro. Not the president of France, of course, when we went to France last year. But just since we’ve been back this summer, when Governor Hammond came through campaigning for his re-election, and then Mr. Hickel against him, it was ‘Hi Jay’ and ‘Hello Wally,’ and you should have heard the ‘Hi Jones’ right back.”

  “You got to know the big fellows to get anything done,” said Jones, mollified.

  Hank stayed apart, still daydream-skippering a warship into Rio or Hong Kong. Or skippering a cutter like Tommy’s. A few months earlier he had ridden the Confidence as a guest to observe the extent of the foreign fleet still off Alaska: longliners and draggers by the sickening hundreds, still allowed to fish American waters and get away with what they could. Some obeyed the rules, others evaded them cleverly. Tommy, a true hunter, cruised silent in the winter dark, when the foreigners, used to being watched only in daylight, relaxed. Nighttime boardings, the ship’s boat over quickly with a large party rather than the usual one or two. As some of Tommy’s men fanned out to inspect both holds and crevices, others occupied the captain and mates with paperwork. Meanwhile, the boat zoomed astern to search for illegal catch hurriedly dumped. His operation had the excitement of the chase, with the occasional big one as reward. Commander Hank could have stalked these superfish.

  “Don’t you think so?” asked Jody.

  “What, dear?”

  “Sleep, Hank. You don’t listen. A while back we were coming to town for just a minute and then going home, because you were so tired—”

  They stopped. “You said I was tired, honey, I didn’t.” Abruptly he lifted Henny to the ground and swung Dawn into his place, a gesture against favoritism. “I’m just fine. We’ve got to go cheer Mo when he boxes.”

  Her mouth tightened. He knew she found the boxing stupid since crewmen needed their hands, but why should she be angry? She’d said herself they couldn’t have sex. Dawn began to squirm. He raised her up and down several times, both to divert her and to use a few muscles, but soon Henny had regained the shoulders. Tired? Hell, he now had energy that needed steaming off. Sleep was the last thing he needed. They headed toward the Legion Hall in a drizzle too light to disperse anyone. Firecrackers popped from a rooftop, and others answered from the harbor. Beer cans crunched underfoot as they drew closer to the ring. The town was in full swing. People clapped his shoulder and offered drinks.

  Mike Stimson, Jody’s old skipper, hailed them. A gold chain bounced against his open shirt and a gold watch gleamed on the thick arm that held out a bottle of the best. Jody laughed and took the first nip. (Should she be drinking when pregnant? And like that in front of the kids? It was all right for men . . .) Mike declared loudly—not for the first time—that fishing had no more piss and zing since losing his cook and head net-puller eight years ago. The praise brought the wide smile to Jody’s face, and when she invited Mike to make her an offer the direct, sassy eyes flashed as they had routinely a half dozen years before. Hank took it in secure good humor. He declared how peaceful and free life would be again if Jody found somebody else’s head to bang with a frying pan, but his hand eased around her shoulder.

  The boxing ring stood on a raised platform. The bouts had already begun. Hank knew the two crewmen who dodged each other’s gloves as a referee trailed them. By the steps below stood Tim from the Legion—he’d evidently closed his filling station for the day—coordinating the matches with microphone and clipboard. Beside him waited two kids in white T-shirts, joking nervously, their Coast Guard jumpers draped on a nearby rail. Just behind them pranced Mo, and Ham from the Star Wars, perform ing elaborate bends and stretches. Seth stood alongside, drinking from one beer can and holding two others.

  “I got him scared already, Boss,” called Mo, beating his chest. His beefy shoulders hid the muscles beneath like plaster on a wall. Glad I’m not going into the ring with him, Hank thought appreciatively. Ham, a big homely boy who grinned more than he talked, had the build to match Mo’s. Even match. Walt, the deck boss aboard Star Wars, started slapping oil onto Ham’s arms. Seth countered, rubbing beer over Mo.

  “Where’s your skipper hiding?” said Hank. In answer, Tolly Smith bear-hugged him from behind, then tickled Henny until the child kicked so hard that Hank had to swing him to the ground. Tolly grabbed him back up for a noisy roughhouse, then held still as Henny touched the gold ring in his ear. The two had reached an agreement that Henny could play with it if he didn’t pull. Henny usually remembered since a further privilege, playing with the big gold nugget around Uncle Tolly’s neck, hinged on his honoring the pact.

  “Okay, man, this is it,” Tolly declared. “I’m tired of your corking me on the grounds. I’d never cork him, Jody, that’s all lies. Our two deck apes’ll have it out, and justice will prevail when your boy hits the canvas. You dumb enough to bet on it?”

  Hank tried to sound casual as he caught Tolly’s eye. “No need for that. Come on, Jones, let’s buy him a drink.”

  “Hell with that,” said Jody. “If you place bets it’ll be in front of the budget directors.”

  “Daddy’s certainly not making any bets,” said Adele. “Are you, Daddy?”

  “Be quiet, woman. You don’t know anything.”

  “Ho ho ho!” Tolly stuck out his chest and looked around grandly. “I used to know these people when they roamed free as buffalos, the way Istill do. Jody, you’d make your own bets back then. And as for this shaggy corker”—he tousled Hank’s hair—”remember when you was a greenhorn college kid at Swede’s old cannery? Closest to a beard he had back then was when he forgot his safety razor. I taught him all he knew, that summer.”

  “You still dump cologne like mouthwash and stink like a whore’s kitchen,” said Hank easily, finger-combing his hair back into place. “Some of us change for the better.”

  The announcer called the next fight as the two in the ring, one with a reddened cheek turning purple, tapped gloves and retired to scattered applause. Below, the Coast Guard kids mounted the steps to begin. Seth and Walt started massaging their charges in earnest, and Mo had removed the bandage from his arm. Beside them stood John, typically both in and out of it, holding everybody’s beer cans.

  “Hundred bucks,” said Tolly. “That’s starters, that says my Star Warsis top boat in the ring.”

  “No sweat there,” said Hank, hoping Jody would not embarrass him. She merely shrugged. “Jody S gladly covers that to make a little party money.” He had planned to reach a hundred after opening with fifty, but now he’d be forced higher. Jones, glaring at his wife, made good his promise to stake fifty on the honor of the Adele H, and Tolly accepted with an inevitable jibe at the age and infirmity of Jones’s crew. Adele’s raised eyebrow promised later discussion, but she held her peace.

  The boxing caught Henny’s attention and he grappled his way back to Hank’s shoulders. “My daddy do that!” he declared, and started imitating the punches with such vigor that Hank had to steady him.

  The Coasties slugged earnestly, although by the end of the two-minute round their initiatives became less and less frequent. Soon Mo and Ham were strutting up the steps as the announcer gave their names and boats, and declared that by their request this would be best two out of three rounds. They’re so young and full of themselves! Hank thought. He himself was hardly old at thirty-three—Jones pushing sixty was still a hard man to outfish—but when was the last time he’d strutted? Down the mud-ice ruts of Dutch Harbor, maybe, after delivering a deck load of king crab. Or passing out cigars throughout Kodiak when Henny was bom, after missing the actual birth by two da
ys as he tried to dovetail a Bering crab run with Jody’s bio clock. (She’d said herself that meeting boat payments was all the more important if they were going to have a family.) When Dawn was bom they both agreed he’d stay with the crabs. Hell with that, this time. Other men helped deliver their kids and this would be his final chance.

  Mo and Ham spent little time circling and testing their footwork before one and then the other leapt in with a jab. Their usual friendly faces wore fight scowls. Mo sent a right that thumped against Ham’s chest with out budging him. Then Ham grabbed the opening to land a hard blow to Mo’s jaw. The two broke, danced for a moment, and headed straight into each other again. This time Mo’s swift hook found its way to Ham’s cheek. Ham delivered one to Mo’s solar plexus that budged him only a foot, and the two ended in a clinch that the referee broke.

  Hank, Jody, Jones, and Tolly cheered and grimaced with their men. Only Adele, holding tight to Dawn’s hand, took it coolly. Henny, on top of Hank’s shoulders, became a crowing extension of his father. At the two-minute bell the fighters streamed sweat, but they still pranced like racehorses. The referee called the round a tie. Jody pushed through to the comer where Seth was sponging Mo to shout her encouragement.

  “Two young men who need their hands for fishing,” said Adele. “It’s foolish, but they are beautiful, aren’t they?”

  Tolly returned from his man, grinning. “Double you both.”

  “Covered for Jody S’,” Hank declared.

  Jones hesitated. “Cover him, Daddy, cover him,” snapped Adele. “Don’t let your man down now.”

  John, the detached crewman, joined them. He declared to no one in particular that Mo lacked strategy, that anybody could see the opening Ham left when he put too much body in his jab. And Ham for his part was dumb if he didn’t see that Mo’s left jaw hurt and he’d left himself open on the right by protecting it. And Mo’s arm after all had that fresh cut on it that you could work over, since all’s fair above the waist.

  Hank turned on John furiously as Tolly laughed, “Sonofabitch, thanks,” and hurried back to his man just as the bell rang to start round two. “Lean on his left jaw, Ham,” he shouted up. Back with Hank he said, “Nice boy you have there, goes for a fellow’s cut arm.”

  “Well, they were just my observations,” said John. “I’d offered Mo advice and he wasn’t interested, so I figured nobody cared.”

  Ham heeded his skipper’s call and worked Mo’s jaw, but Mo took self-protection lightly enough that he managed a punishing blow for each opening Ham left in the process. But high stakes or not, Ham avoided Mo’s wounded arm. By the end of the round, their bounce diminished, the two walked solemnly to their comers to cheers from the audience as the announcer declared that this was a fight, finally, ladies and gentlemen. Their seconds watered them with vigorous concern.

  The referee called the round for Ham. Hank put down Henny, ignoring his objections, and grabbed John’s arm more roughly than intended. “If you’ve got any goddamned advice this time, advise your shipmate.”

  “Don’t shove me like that, please, Skipper.”

  Mo in his comer was breathing hard. He listened to John when Hank told him to, but the instructions were so detailed (they’d been clear enough when John was mouthing off in front of Tolly!) that Hank knew Mo was not assimilating them.

  “Yeah, Boss, my jaw hurts, but don’t worry, I got him on the run. You watch, this round.”

  Back with the others, Tolly suggested they triple their original bets. Hank and Jones agreed, tensely.

  Despite Ham’s advantage, Mo managed in the third round to knock him down for a count of four after storming in with an offensive at the starting bell. Both men slammed each other equally, and Hank groaned for his crewman’s jaw. When the final bell separated them they stood panting and slumped, eyeing each other with their scowls still in place. The knockdown earned Mo the round. The referee declared the entire bout a tie, and asked if they wanted to go another round for sudden death. The audience yelled its approval.

  “Sure, I guess,” said Mo slowly. “Hell yes.”

  “Hell, sure, yeah,” said Ham with equal slowness.

  Hank turned to Tolly. “We need those guys to fish. A tie suit you?”

  “Tie’s fine. Let’s stop it.”

  The two skippers shouted up praise and ordered their men down. Mo and Ham drew simultaneous breaths of relief—they resembled each other closely—grinned, hugged, and left the ring together as another pair of crewmen took their place. On the ground, Seth and Walt happily poured beer over their charges. Somebody’s bottle, passed mouth to mouth, was quickly emptied by the group slapping their fighters’ backs.

  “My daddy do that?” asked Henny excitedly, pointing to the ring. Hank tickled him to divert his attention, but the child said through his yelps and giggles, “Do that, Daddy, do that!” What would it be like to spar with old Tolly? Something for Henny to remember about his dad. They’d be almost an even match—Tolly a hair shorter but maybe more solid. Hadn’t put on gloves for about five years, be fun . . . As he took his snort from a bottle he warned himself it was probably the booze that had him so full of balls, but this insight left as soon as the bottle passed on to Jones. “Think you could last a round up there with me?” he asked Tolly casually, in private.

  “Not me, buddy. I set nets and make bets.” Well, thought Hank comfortably, I tried.

  Somebody had to go into the Legion Hall to bring out drinks, since the children were with them. The skippers began to argue without heat over who should buy. It was more a ceremony, making little difference. Each would buy eventually.

  “I never saw such a bunch of old men for making up their minds,” said John with half a smile. “Let this one be on me. What’s everybody drinking?”

  Nothing this asshole said was right! “You mean you’re tired of advising the enemy and want to take on the rest of us?” Hank’s voice rose to the kind of roar he usually reserved for the deck with the engine gunning. “Instead of advice, why aren’t you up in that ring if you know so much? That too close to the real thing?” The group suddenly became a center of silence in the noisy square.

  “I’m not afraid, if that’s what you mean,” said John slowly. His face had a bland expression that could have masked deep feelings, but the apparent detachment made Hank even angrier. “And while we’re at it—Boss—stop riding me. And I don’t like anybody shoving me. I try to do my work—”

  “Feeble try!”

  John considered for a moment. Then, in a husky voice that had at last lost its cool: “Want to go up there in the ring with me yourself?”

  “You’re fuckin’ A!”

  Jody came between and pushed them apart. “Stop this bullshit.”

  Her tone usually gave Hank pause, but he brushed past them all and strode to the steps of the ring. “Sign on a match here, Tim.” he said calmly. The ring was empty, waiting. The others protested, Seth with vehement concern, Jody so coldly he knew he’d hear of it later. He permitted himself a few perfunctory stretches, but within minutes of their exchange he and John were stripped to the waist, gloved, and facing each other on the raised platform.

  Hank fought with spirit. But John was a dozen years his junior and, it turned out, a college varsity boxer. By the end of the two-minute round Hank had been forced to pick himself from the floor twice, and although John’s nose bled the decision was clearly his.

  The party continued for a while. But it hardly amounted to much since Jody, after watching the fight to its conclusion, took a taxi home with the kids before Hank descended from the ring. Tolly produced a box of multiple-string firecrackers. They banged with enough noise that Seth and Mo said they were just the thing. But halfway through the box Tolly stopped, because nobody was really paying attention.

  3

  BEHAVING

  KODIAK TO NAKNEK, 5 JULY 1978

  Next morning at breakfast Jody remained cool, although she served his favorite pancakes and sausage. Henny chattered around, st
ill talking about his daddy in the boxing ring. Now and then he’d hit himself in the face, cry “bop bop,” and fall to the floor. The fact that Hank had been the loser didn’t bother him. Outside the window, fog obscured all but pale shapes of houses and the harbor masts. Good. The plane to Bristol Bay wouldn’t fly.

  Hank regarded the greasy sausage glumly, and picked at the pancakes without his usual lay-on of butter and syrup. Doughy inside. Not the time to complain about it as he would on the boat and growl for a fresh batch. Was he getting old to have a hangover hold him down? And he ached! Just two minutes in the ring, and his legs, back, and arms felt like they’d been pounded for days, never mind the sore chin. Hadn’t looked in the mirror. Face bruises? Have to laugh them off. Thirty-three wasn’t old compared to Jones Henry. Not old when he did indeed own the Jody S all paid, at least eighty percent of it, and was about to graduate to a 108-foot crabber that could fish any sea. But old enough compared to that damned John. Now if he fired the kid he’d look like a prick skipper who couldn’t take his knocks. Might have remembered from Navy days. Fraternize with the enlisted, no matter how much they’re guys like yourself, and somewhere it gets screwed. He pushed at the sausage. Didn’t want new adventure. Not before some home life. Bristol Bay was all unknown, new waters. Didn’t have the energy. Should be with his Jody S to see her repaired properly before deserting her for the new crabber.

  Dawn, released from her high chair, toddled to him and draped over his leg. But when he leaned to pick her up she squirmed away with a giggle. “Bop bop,” said Henny, and pummeled his other leg. It hit a sore spot but Hank controlled his wince. He suddenly thought of an opener to start Jody talking. “B-I-R-T-H-D-A-Y,” he spelled out and nodded toward Henny. “Soon, right?”