rescuers
tried to rescue him by helicopter, was pulled in half. I don’t know if that story is true, but I do know that a handful of
people have died in the mudflats and that there have been times when it’s sucked me down to my knees and held me fast for
a few seconds before letting me up with a loud, gurgling burp.
I always tell Jay-Jay to stay off the mudflats; I tell him it’s like quicksand; I tell him if I ever catch him with even one
toe in the mud, he’ll be grounded until he leaves for college. But who knows what goes through his head, what small tidbits
of advice and remarks and petty angers will stay with him, what he’ll remember and what he’ll discard. Having a child is the
bravest thing I’ve ever done, braver than staring down a bear or encountering a horny moose during rutting season or trying
to keep my head during an earthquake. No matter how much I love Jay-Jay, there’s no guarantee that it’s enough, that I’ll
be able to keep him safe. There are so many risks! So many things that could go wrong! I could look away for a minute and
in that instant, he could be gone.
Of course, love is always like that. Or at least any kind of love worth having.
Tuesday, Oct. 25
“He’s here.” Sandee tapped me on the shoulder right as the lunch shift was heating up. Her face was flushed, her bangs frizzed
across her forehead. “The Swedish god. He requested your station.”
“God?” I had just seated a table of argumentative lawyers and couldn’t remember if the bald guy with the pink tie had ordered
Diet Coke or regular.
“The gorgeous guy with the big feet, you know, always wears high-topped sneakers? Shit, Carly, you have a pimple on your chin.”
She reached out and rubbed at my skin, as if to erase it. The “god” looked vaguely familiar but I couldn’t place him.
“Carla,” he said heartily as I approached his table. “I was hoping you’d be here.”
“Can I start you off with something to drink?”
“Water’s fine. Can’t drink on the job. Too much dirt to sift through.”
“Construction?” I asked hurriedly. From the corner of my eye the lawyer with the big teeth was frantically waving me down.
“Anthropology.” The god stuck out his hand. “I’m Francisco.”
“Fr-Francisco?” Sandee was right, he did look like a god. His hair was lighter than mine, but he was tall enough that when
he stood up to shake my hand I had to throw my head back to get a good look at his eyebrows, which weren’t all run together
like some men’s. “But aren’t you Swedish?”
“Norwegian,” he laughed, and his teeth were so white. “I get that all the time. It’s an old family name, from the 1800s. My
great-grandfather chased a woman down to Mexico…” He stopped for a moment and pulled a pair of smudged glasses out of his
pocket. “Sure you want to hear this?”
I nodded and ignored the lawyers, who were whistling and stomping their feet. I stared at the god’s hands, which were weathered
and capable.
“…and lived there the rest of his life, returning long enough to knock up my great-grandmother with my grandfather and burden
him with a ridiculous Mexican name and…What’s wrong? Did I say something wrong?”
“Ask me my name, okay?”
“It’s Carla, right?”
“My whole name.”
“What’s your whole name?”
“Carlita.”
“No shit.” He whistled. “Wow, listen, I’ll bet we’re the only non-Spanish people with Spanish names in all of Alaska.”
“Yeah.” I looked at him with interest now that we had something in common. “Yeah, we probably are.”
He ordered a bean burrito with green salsa and then excused himself to take a call on his cell phone. I took care of the lawyers,
who had decided to order a round of margaritas (“But don’t tell the boss, okay, hon?” the fat one said, his hand creeping
up my thigh), and by the time I returned to Francisco’s table, he had been joined by two more men. He
tried to rescue him by helicopter, was pulled in half. I don’t know if that story is true, but I do know that a handful of
people have died in the mudflats and that there have been times when it’s sucked me down to my knees and held me fast for
a few seconds before letting me up with a loud, gurgling burp.
I always tell Jay-Jay to stay off the mudflats; I tell him it’s like quicksand; I tell him if I ever catch him with even one
toe in the mud, he’ll be grounded until he leaves for college. But who knows what goes through his head, what small tidbits
of advice and remarks and petty angers will stay with him, what he’ll remember and what he’ll discard. Having a child is the
bravest thing I’ve ever done, braver than staring down a bear or encountering a horny moose during rutting season or trying
to keep my head during an earthquake. No matter how much I love Jay-Jay, there’s no guarantee that it’s enough, that I’ll
be able to keep him safe. There are so many risks! So many things that could go wrong! I could look away for a minute and
in that instant, he could be gone.
Of course, love is always like that. Or at least any kind of love worth having.
Tuesday, Oct. 25
“He’s here.” Sandee tapped me on the shoulder right as the lunch shift was heating up. Her face was flushed, her bangs frizzed
across her forehead. “The Swedish god. He requested your station.”
“God?” I had just seated a table of argumentative lawyers and couldn’t remember if the bald guy with the pink tie had ordered
Diet Coke or regular.
“The gorgeous guy with the big feet, you know, always wears high-topped sneakers? Shit, Carly, you have a pimple on your chin.”
She reached out and rubbed at my skin, as if to erase it. The “god” looked vaguely familiar but I couldn’t place him.
“Carla,” he said heartily as I approached his table. “I was hoping you’d be here.”
“Can I start you off with something to drink?”
“Water’s fine. Can’t drink on the job. Too much dirt to sift through.”
“Construction?” I asked hurriedly. From the corner of my eye the lawyer with the big teeth was frantically waving me down.
“Anthropology.” The god stuck out his hand. “I’m Francisco.”
“Fr-Francisco?” Sandee was right, he did look like a god. His hair was lighter than mine, but he was tall enough that when
he stood up to shake my hand I had to throw my head back to get a good look at his eyebrows, which weren’t all run together
like some men’s. “But aren’t you Swedish?”
“Norwegian,” he laughed, and his teeth were so white. “I get that all the time. It’s an old family name, from the 1800s. My
great-grandfather chased a woman down to Mexico…” He stopped for a moment and pulled a pair of smudged glasses out of his
pocket. “Sure you want to hear this?”
I nodded and ignored the lawyers, who were whistling and stomping their feet. I stared at the god’s hands, which were weathered
and capable.
“…and lived there the rest of his life, returning long enough to knock up my great-grandmother with my grandfather and burden
him with a ridiculous Mexican name and…What’s wrong? Did I say something wrong?”
“Ask me my name, okay?”
“It’s Carla, right?”
“My whole name.”
“What’s your whole name?”
“Carlita.”
“No shit.” He whistled. “Wow, listen, I’ll bet we’re the only non-Spanish people with Spanish names in all of Alaska.”
“Yeah.” I looked at him with interest now that we had something in common. “Yeah, we probably are.”
He ordered a bean burrito with green salsa and then excused himself to take a call on his cell phone. I took care of the lawyers,
who had decided to order a round of margaritas (“But don’t tell the boss, okay, hon?” the fat one said, his hand creeping
up my thigh), and by the time I returned to Francisco’s table, he had been joined by two more men. He
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