but they can’t balance a checkbook.” She laughed, a brittle and harsh sound. “So anyway…”
“Are you sure everything’s all right, Allie?”
No. “Yes. I’m just… work is just really busy and I’m kind of distracted and tired.” She faked a yawn. “Sorry.”
Mom paused again. “All right. Well, I’ll let you get some rest then. Have a good night, honey. I love you.”
“I love you too, Mom.” She sniffed again and wiped her eyes on a sheet of paper towel, leaving little smears of mascara. “Give Sam and her girls hugs from me, okay? And if you need any money or anything, just let me know.”
“Thank you, but you’re already too generous. We still have over twenty thousand from the last wire transfer you sent.”
“When that starts to run out, let me know.”
“Good night, Allie.”
“Good night, Mom.”
She hung up and took out the margarita mix. She dumped some ice in a big plastic mug, filled it halfway up with mix, and then the rest of the way with pure tequila.
Last year had been a lot easier. She had held it together for nearly two hours, chatting and reminiscing about Dad with no problem. Come to think of it, the year before hadn’t been too bad either. Maybe this year was rough because it was the ten-year anniversary of the crash. She took a swig from her mug, and the strong tequila aftertaste promised a powerful buzz by the time she reached the bottom. Good.
The annual Dad calls were like going to the dentist for a checkup. Sometimes all that poking around was basically painless. But other times, ka-BLAM—it hit a nerve with no warning. It felt like being slapped with an oven mitt covered in broken glass.
She popped her iPod into the stereo and set it to shuffle. She took another swallow of super-charged margarita and flopped down on the sofa as the first song came on: “Novocain for the Soul.” She laughed and tipped back the mug again. How appropriate.
13
P REDICTABLY , THE CALL CAME AT 7:00 ON A MORNING WHEN M ITCH Daniels was trying to sleep in. First Mate Randy Jenkins told him that the Grasp II was sailing in 24 hours, and anyone not on board would be left behind. Mitch said he’d be there, hung up the phone, and rolled over. His wife, Sherrie, was snoring vigorously. He thought about trying to roll her onto her side, but if she woke up she’d yell at him, insist she didn’t snore, and they’d have a fight. Too early for that. He put on his headphones and buried his head under a fat down pillow. He had just started to drift back to sleep when the phone rang again.
Mitch groaned and dragged the handset to his ear. “Hello?”
“Mitch, pick up a can of WD-40 on your way to the dock, okay?” said Ed Granger’s voice. “I’ll see you there at eight.”
Out of deference to the sleeping Sherrie, Mitch didn’t yell. Instead he whispered, “It’s seven in the morning, Ed. Go do your own shopping.”
“Can’t. Jenkins told me Tuesday he didn’t think we’d be sailing until next week, so now I gotta get down to the G-2 and do four days worth of work on Eileen in twenty-four hours.”
“Yeah, well that sucks for you. I’m going back to sleep.”
Ed gave an exaggerated sigh. “Okay, fine. If you don’t want to know what else Jenkins told me when he called me this morning, that’s fine.”
“What’d he say?”
“I’ll tell you when we’re on the G-2.”
Mitch flopped his head back on the pillow and stared at the popcorn ceiling. There was no way he’d be able to go back to sleep now. “This better be worth it.”
Ed cackled. “Oh, yeah. And don’t forget the WD-40.”
“Up yours, Granger.”
The familiar scent of bunker oil, seawater, and diesel exhaust met Mitch as he stepped out of the cab he had taken from the 12th Street subway station to the Port of Oakland. The sharp, incessant cry of sea gulls mixed with the sound of the sea breeze and the rumble of the trucks that were picking up or dropping off shipping containers.
The Grasp II lay in her berth, her
“Are you sure everything’s all right, Allie?”
No. “Yes. I’m just… work is just really busy and I’m kind of distracted and tired.” She faked a yawn. “Sorry.”
Mom paused again. “All right. Well, I’ll let you get some rest then. Have a good night, honey. I love you.”
“I love you too, Mom.” She sniffed again and wiped her eyes on a sheet of paper towel, leaving little smears of mascara. “Give Sam and her girls hugs from me, okay? And if you need any money or anything, just let me know.”
“Thank you, but you’re already too generous. We still have over twenty thousand from the last wire transfer you sent.”
“When that starts to run out, let me know.”
“Good night, Allie.”
“Good night, Mom.”
She hung up and took out the margarita mix. She dumped some ice in a big plastic mug, filled it halfway up with mix, and then the rest of the way with pure tequila.
Last year had been a lot easier. She had held it together for nearly two hours, chatting and reminiscing about Dad with no problem. Come to think of it, the year before hadn’t been too bad either. Maybe this year was rough because it was the ten-year anniversary of the crash. She took a swig from her mug, and the strong tequila aftertaste promised a powerful buzz by the time she reached the bottom. Good.
The annual Dad calls were like going to the dentist for a checkup. Sometimes all that poking around was basically painless. But other times, ka-BLAM—it hit a nerve with no warning. It felt like being slapped with an oven mitt covered in broken glass.
She popped her iPod into the stereo and set it to shuffle. She took another swallow of super-charged margarita and flopped down on the sofa as the first song came on: “Novocain for the Soul.” She laughed and tipped back the mug again. How appropriate.
13
P REDICTABLY , THE CALL CAME AT 7:00 ON A MORNING WHEN M ITCH Daniels was trying to sleep in. First Mate Randy Jenkins told him that the Grasp II was sailing in 24 hours, and anyone not on board would be left behind. Mitch said he’d be there, hung up the phone, and rolled over. His wife, Sherrie, was snoring vigorously. He thought about trying to roll her onto her side, but if she woke up she’d yell at him, insist she didn’t snore, and they’d have a fight. Too early for that. He put on his headphones and buried his head under a fat down pillow. He had just started to drift back to sleep when the phone rang again.
Mitch groaned and dragged the handset to his ear. “Hello?”
“Mitch, pick up a can of WD-40 on your way to the dock, okay?” said Ed Granger’s voice. “I’ll see you there at eight.”
Out of deference to the sleeping Sherrie, Mitch didn’t yell. Instead he whispered, “It’s seven in the morning, Ed. Go do your own shopping.”
“Can’t. Jenkins told me Tuesday he didn’t think we’d be sailing until next week, so now I gotta get down to the G-2 and do four days worth of work on Eileen in twenty-four hours.”
“Yeah, well that sucks for you. I’m going back to sleep.”
Ed gave an exaggerated sigh. “Okay, fine. If you don’t want to know what else Jenkins told me when he called me this morning, that’s fine.”
“What’d he say?”
“I’ll tell you when we’re on the G-2.”
Mitch flopped his head back on the pillow and stared at the popcorn ceiling. There was no way he’d be able to go back to sleep now. “This better be worth it.”
Ed cackled. “Oh, yeah. And don’t forget the WD-40.”
“Up yours, Granger.”
The familiar scent of bunker oil, seawater, and diesel exhaust met Mitch as he stepped out of the cab he had taken from the 12th Street subway station to the Port of Oakland. The sharp, incessant cry of sea gulls mixed with the sound of the sea breeze and the rumble of the trucks that were picking up or dropping off shipping containers.
The Grasp II lay in her berth, her
Similar Books
