Free The Alaskan Laundry by Brendan Jones Page B

She fooled with the ends of a quilt on the sofa, folding half hitches between her fingers. “I watched the Eagles beat the Cowboys. December tenth, 1995. It was like, seven degrees out.”
    He massaged the bridge of his nose. “Bunch of grown men in tight pants that should be working, if you ask me,” he said.
    Dick. Couldn’t he say anything nice about anything?
    But the memory of the football game with her father warmed her. Watching as the Eagles kicked a field goal in the final seconds, how Veterans Stadium had erupted with sound, and Urbano had pumped his fist in the air. The smell of espresso grounds and cigar smoke, and that earsplitting noise.
    Some thirty-five hundred miles away, her father was watching this same game at the social club with Vic and the crew. Maybe Little Vic, too—he was over eighteen. Or perhaps Urbano was at Wolf Street, tapping his cigar against the saucer and shaking his head as a Cowboys runner slashed for a gain.
    She looked around the room. Draped over the porch railing was rope—or line, as Newt had said. She fetched it, then stood over Fritz.
    â€œHold out your wrist,” she ordered.
    He leaned forward, his stomach bunching over his thighs. “What’s this? Some Italian magic trick?”
    â€œJust do it.”
    In quick twists she tied a bowline, looping the rope along the crease of his skin, then pulling it tight.
    â€œNot bad,” he said. “You know how to put a bend at the end?”
    But she was already doing it. After that she made a clove hitch, a trucker’s hitch, a mooring hitch, a double-half hitch, until his smile was gone, and he just looked down at his wrist as the knots pulled together.
    â€œWell, call me an asshole,” he said, chugging his beer and standing. “Is that what you were up to all those hours organizing that warehouse?”
    â€œGo to hell.”
    She meant it, and her heart beat, waiting for his response. He just beamed up at her, lifting his empty can. “Another?”
    When he returned from the kitchen with two beers, he said, “You talk to Laney in there about that tug you seem to have taken a shine to?”
    â€œWhat makes you think that?”
    â€œYou kidding? I saw you googly-eyed the other day. Miracle that it’s still floating.”
    She thought of the boat rocking in the waves, then suddenly saw it slipping beneath the surface—a horrible image.
    â€œThat’s coming back,” she muttered at the screen.
    The referee picked up his yellow flag, flipped on his mic, and called “holding.” Fritz smiled. “You know your football.”
    Fran called them to the table. Glasses clinked. Chipped clay bowls of stuffing and sweet potatoes and cranberry sauce with ginger and orange, as well as various dishes incorporating Fritz’s Dungeness crabs collected from the bottom of the chute at the hatchery, made their way around. There was no turkey, just venison Fritz had shot a couple weeks back on Crow Hill. Laney ladled a scoop of thick, dark gravy over Tara’s meat. “So you’ve got that city look in your eyes. East Coast? Boston?”
    â€œPhilly.”
    â€œThe city that bombs itself, right?”
    Frozen for a moment by the memory of her mother sobbing at the bakery, Tara stayed silent. By the time she recovered, Laney was speaking with her neighbor. Fran leaned toward her, patchouli scent mixing with crab and gravy, and started in on the story of how the Russians made Port Anna the capital of their fur-trading enterprise, bringing down Aleuts to hunt otter. Then how the Tlingits had stood up to the Russians, destroying their village. She felt a tap on her shoulder.
    â€œCan I interrupt the history lesson?” Laney said. “I could use company.”
    Tara excused herself and followed the woman out the sliding door. It was windy on the deck. Clouds skirted across the sky. Laney repinned her hair with a chopstick, then cupped her