Free Absence of Grace by Ann Warner

remarks were aimed at him, and they triggered a familiar spurt of adrenaline. Trying to appear calm, he turned to John Jeffers with a questioning look.
     
    John tipped his chin toward the man. “That’s Elmer Cantrell. Convinced there’s a conspiracy behind every bush, even if it damn well looks like a bull moose.”
     
    “They ain’t going to be satisfied till they get it all,” Cantrell countered, turning around and leaning back on his elbows. “That there Native Claims Settlement Act.” He hawked, the sound every bit as disgusting as the disgust it was seeking to convey. “Don’t make no difference. They want it all. And what makes them think they’re special anyway. Wasn’t I born here? Seems to me, that makes me as native as some half-assed Tlingit damn lawyer from Seattle.”
     
    Gerrum bit down on a reply. It never paid to engage a bigot in a debate. John tossed money on the table and motioned for Gerrum to follow him outside.
     
    “Are Native claims still an issue?” he asked John, as they walked away from the bar. “I thought that was settled in the seventies.”
     
    John shrugged. “Always seems to be a loose end or two. Enough to keep your garden-variety racist like Cantrell stirred up.”
     
    “Does he have company?”
     
    “What? You mean in Wrangell?”
     
    Gerrum nodded, hoping for a negative. Until the encounter with Elmer, he’d had a good feeling about Wrangell.
     
    “Folks around here are mostly tolerant, though they do like to gossip a bit. Hell, it’s a form of recreation. But there’s no malice in it.”
     
    “Except when someone like Cantrell gets hold of it.”
     
    “That’s a man loves the sound of his own voice. No guts to back it up, though. Only picked on you because you were with me, and he knew I wouldn’t let you clean his clock.”
     

    After a week in Wrangell, time Gerrum spent both writing and checking further on the information he’d been given, he left the Joyful in John and Marian’s care and took the ferry back to Bellingham to follow up on his idea. It was one he hoped would bring in a regular income while he figured out if writing was going to pan out since he knew from Jeannie’s experience, being an author was more long haul than quick moneymaker.
     
    In Bellingham, he commissioned the building of a boat based on a New Zealand design, and paid for it by selling his Seattle house. The boat, powered by an engine lying flush with the keel, had a draft of less than a foot, making it fast and maneuverable. He expected it to be as much fun to operate as a race car, and perfect for Stikine trips with small groups.
     
    And when the boat arrived the following spring, he would need a partner. After he mentioned that to John, Terry Borges ambled down the dock and introduced himself. Lanky and relaxed, Terry stepped aboard the Joyful , his open, sunny countenance a direct contrast to one particular Wrangell resident.
     
    His handshake was firm. “Don’t make ‘em like this no more,” he said, thumping the rail.
     
    As they chatted, Gerrum could see Terry was engaged in a casual but thorough perusal of the Joyful . The troller might look a bit ragged, but she was sound.
     
    “John told me you was looking for someone to run one of your boats. Take visitors and fishermen out and about. But I only see one boat.”
     
    “The other one’s being built. It will be here next spring.”
     
    “Another troller?”
     
    “No.” Gerrum invited Terry to sit in the galley and handed him a cup of coffee, then he outlined his plans. When he finished, Terry agreed to join him the following year and shook Gerrum’s hand.
     
    Funny how life often seemed to turn out that way—the thing you thought you were running from was what saved you.
     
    Something he and his sister talked about when he visited her in Seattle that winter. “You always insisted you didn’t want to depend on a boat for a living.” Jeannie picked up her knitting and bent her head over