Bristol Bay Summer Read online

  This was news to Zoey. Suddenly, she was interested.

  “What job could I do?” Her mind began calculating—how long would it take to earn enough to get to Colorado?

  “Well, that’s up to the Gambles.”

  “Me too. Me too!” said Eliot.

  “Maybe you too, Raven Boy.”

  Zoey wolfed down the rest of her sandwich and hurried to the little tent. She wanted to walk Thomas home, but first she had to get out of yesterday’s clothes. She had just pulled on a clean turtleneck and was about to unzip the tent flap when she heard a noise.

  Ping, ping, ping.

  Midnight!

  14

  Patrick

  Zoey peeked out through the flap just in time to see the big black bird hop twice then fly down the beach toward their old fishing boat. No time to follow because just then her mom called.

  “Zoey, come on. We’re walking Thomas home.”

  Zoey noticed her hairbrush in a corner of the tent and made a quick attempt to calm her wind-tangled hair. Curly as it was, the boat ride had made grooming nearly impossible. She put it up with a hair tie instead, threw on her jacket, took a last look in her hand mirror, then zipped up the tent flap and ran to catch up. Thomas was already hiking down the beach with Eliot. Patrick and her mom followed.

  Once they crossed the creek, Kenai bounded up to meet them. He growled at Lhasa and she turned sideways letting Kenai know, in the ancient language of dogs and wolves, that she knew he was boss.

  As they got closer to the Gambles’ fish camp, Thomas disappeared behind the Quonset hut and a man about Patrick’s age emerged. Beyond him, rows of salmon strips hung drying on a rack capped with a blue-tarp roof.

  “Don’t worry about Kenai. He’s part wolf, but he’s a sweetie. He’ll get used to you,” said the man, who wore a wool jacket and tall rubber boots. When he got closer, Zoey saw that his baseball cap said “Peter Pan Seafoods” over a picture of a silvery salmon. Under the brim, brown bangs covered his forehead. He was about Thomas’s height, but stockier.

  His eyes smiled but not his mouth.

  “Hi, Harold,” said Patrick. “Getting settled in?”

  Harold nodded. “Sure. Hey, Patrick, didn’t want to say anything coming in yesterday, but you think that old Cessna’ll make it through the season?” This time he actually gave a half-smile.

  “The plane’s gonna do fine, Harold. Didn’t think the fish would care about the paint job.” Patrick’s grin faded. “Hey, I heard about your brother. I’m real sorry.”

  Zoey realized they were talking about Thomas’s dad.

  “Comes with the territory,” said Harold stiffly.

  She froze. She had thought Thomas’s parents were just divorced, like hers. But now she realized it wasn’t that. It was much worse. Maybe the worst possible thing. There was so much that could get you around here.

  “So, who’s the sick kid?” Harold changed the subject.

  Eliot gave a dramatic fake cough.

  “That’s my son Eliot, and I’m Alice,” Zoey’s mom broke in.

  “You went all the way to Naknek for some cough drops?” Harold gave Eliot a full-blown grin. His teeth were shiny white. “Last time I had to go to that clinic was ’cause I managed to kick the fillet knife, and it stuck right in my foot. Couldn’t get there for three days, though. Fishing was too good to leave.”

  Thomas walked up just in time to add, “His foot looked like a spawned-out salmon: all green and purple. They were about ready to chop it off.”

  “What can I say? A fisherman’s gotta fish.” Harold winked at Eliot. “That health aide had to chase me around the parking lot to sew that foot back up. I had enough of those guys.”

  Zoey shuddered. She didn’t want to see any more health aides either. She noticed that Harold and Thomas had the same bright dark eyes.

  Thomas turned to her. “Zoey, this is my Uncle Harold.”

  “Hello there, miss.” Harold grinned at Thomas. “How’d a nice little city girl like you get stuck in a fish camp in Bush Alaska?”

  Zoey frowned. She just couldn’t escape being the “city girl.” She started to tell Harold she would rather be just about anywhere but Bush Alaska, but Patrick stepped in.

  “Actually, Harold, Zoey and Eliot want to work for you this summer, if you’ve got anything for them to do. Right guys?”

  Zoey looked down. She needed to earn money, but she had no idea what kind of job Harold might have for her. Three days ago she hadn’t even known what a setnet was.

  “I can do it,” said Eliot. “Zoey, you can too.”

  Eliot sounded so grown up. Zoey wanted to throttle him.

  “Well, they’re both kind of pint-sized, but I think we can keep ’em busy.” Harold’s eyes crinkled. “Women and kids used to run the setnets, you know, while the men went out in the boats. Lots of families still work the beach. Young kids just like you.

  “In fact,” Harold went on, “if you guys and Thomas can handle most of the day-work, then I can take the night shift. That would be a big plus.”

  “Hear that, Zoey?” said Patrick. “Thomas here can teach you all about it.”

  Zoey felt her cheeks get hot. She did not look up.

  “Sounds good, Harold,” Patrick continued. “We’ll be over first thing in the morning. Then I’ll fly into town.”

  “Hold on.” Harold turned toward the Quonset hut. “I’ve got something for you.” He returned with a lumpy plastic bag. “Since you’re about the only ones in this part of the Bay who aren’t set up to catch your own fish, thought I’d take pity on you.” He held out the bag. “Try the best take-home dinner in the world.”

  Patrick peeked inside. “Bristol Bay sockeye! Hey, thanks. We’ve been talking about salmon for weeks, even had a little smoked salmon before we came out here, but I don’t know if the kids have ever eaten fresh sockeye before.”

  Back at their camp, Zoey’s mom complained of a headache. “I need to lie down.”

  “No problem. Get some rest, babe.” Patrick stroked her hair, and she curled up in the sleeping area.

  Fat raindrops drummed against the canvas ceiling.

  Patrick put some rice in a pot and fried up the salmon on the Coleman stove. Zoey wasn’t thrilled with the way dinner smelled, but when she tasted the fish, she liked it. She couldn’t remember Patrick making anything but sandwiches at home.

  Before they were half done eating, Zoey’s mom was sound asleep. After dinner, Zoey got out the carving knives and the piece of driftwood Captain had given her. Eliot tried to watch her, but his eyes kept closing. It had been a long day for all of them.

  “I tried that once,” Patrick said. “I wanted to make a bentwood box.”

  “What’s that?” Zoey got out her pencil.

  “The Tlingit in Southeast make them. It’s a wooden box with no nails. Cedar, usually, and carved on top and the sides. They’re beautiful, real works of art, but I was hopeless. I think it takes years to learn that stuff.”

  He took a knife from Zoey and tested the edge, then handed it back. “Careful with that. It could do some damage. Beautiful handle. Your Captain knows his stuff.”

  “Yeah, he showed me this: the straight one is for making lines and the hooked one is for scooping out,” Zoey explained. “But first I have to draw on the wood. I think that’s the way you’re supposed to start.”

  “You’re the artist. Hey, Raven Boy,” he said to Eliot. “The faster you get to bed the faster you’ll get better.” But it was too late: Eliot was already asleep, hunched over with his head on his arm. Patrick picked him up, as if he were no heavier than a pillow, and carried him out to the other tent.

  When he came back, he put some radio parts on the table across from Zoey and started assembling them. “Hope I can fix this. The one on the plane works fine but it’s good to have an extra. Only way pilots can communicate. Communication’s important, don’t you think, Zoey?”

  Zoey concentrated on drawing. What she saw in the wood, she
decided, was a raven. That little bump near one end looked like the beginning of a beak.

  If I were a raven trying to get out of something, I’d push with my beak first. Let’s see, what comes next?

  “You miss your friend in Anchorage?”

  Zoey wasn’t ready to answer. She squinted her eyes and held the piece of wood out at a distance. Sometimes that helped her see what to draw.

  “Bet you miss your dad, too.”

  Zoey still didn’t answer.

  “Life deals out some tough cards sometimes,” Patrick continued. “I don’t talk about it much, but I was a little younger than you when my mom took her own life. Pills, I think. They never really told me.”

  Zoey looked up, startled. “What? I didn’t know that.”

  The sound of the rain pressed in on the tent. Zoey fiddled with her pencil, then outlined a wing.

  “One day she was there cooking dinner for my big sister and me, the next day she wasn’t.”

  “You have a sister? I didn’t know that either.”

  “Yeah, in California. And I had an iguana, too. Diego. A real cool one. Big. Maybe two feet long.” Patrick tightened a tiny screw in the back of the radio.

  “I guess I never thought of you … as a kid, I mean. I’m sorry about your mom.” She drew the start of an eye just above the bump, wet her finger, wiped it off, then drew it again.

  Lhasa sighed, stood up, turned around twice, then dropped down next to Zoey’s foot. Zoey put down her pencil and stroked the dog’s head.

  “I don’t talk about it. It’s just I hope we can be friends. Everybody has some holes in their life, and we have to help fill ’em up for each other.”

  The rain beat steadier, louder. They sat silent for a while, but it was a comfortable silence.

  Zoey yawned. She was tired, but she wasn’t ready for bed yet. She drew the raven’s feet. How many toes does a raven have?

  “Do you like it out here, Patrick?”

  “I like big spaces. Lots of sky overhead. I feel kind of hemmed in in the city. All those cars and people seem to suck the air out of everything. How about you?”

  “Anchorage is okay.” She yawned again. “But I like Colorado better.”

  “What do you like about Colorado?”

  “It’s dry there. And shiny.”

  “Shiny?” Patrick asked.

  “Yeah, in the winter the snow falls and everything looks shiny. Here everything is about water. The bay, the rivers, and the clouds full of rain!” She smiled up at the ceiling, where the rain was still pounding. She actually didn’t mind the rain so much.

  Patrick nodded. “I know what you mean about the rain, but stick around. It’ll snow here, too, you know.” He smiled gently.

  “You’d better get to bed, Zoey. Don’t want you to get sick, too.”

  Zoey put her wood in the carving bag and stood up.

  “Goodnight, Zoey.”

  “Night, Patrick.” She lifted the tent flap. “Come on, Lhasa.”

  As she unzipped the little tent, she heard her mom cough. A loud one. The air outside felt raw from the cold rain. She crawled quickly through the opening and let Lhasa in behind her. Eliot hardly stirred. She tucked the carving bag into a corner of the tent down near her feet. When she slid inside her sleeping bag, the icy lining made her shiver. She realized the side next to Eliot was warmer and moved as close as she could without disturbing him. Lhasa crawled up on her other side, making a warm sandwich, with Zoey in the middle.

  She felt too confused to sleep. Patrick tried to be nice to her, and he really did seem worried about Eliot, but she didn’t want to like him. She remembered all the late-night talks she’d had with her dad. She would talk and talk for hours and he would always stay up and listen to her. He gave pretty good advice, too. But where was he now?

  Zoey wasn’t feeling so tired anymore, so she reached for her stationery box.

  June 22

  Dear Dad,

  I miss our late-night talks. Are you okay?

  Eliot got really sick. He had asthma so bad we had to take him in a boat to a place called Naknek—all the way across Bristol Bay! I was really afraid. But he’s fine now and we’re back at our camp and I’m snuggled in my sleeping bag and he and Lhasa are right next to me sound asleep.

  Guess what?! I think I might have a way to make enough money to come and see you. I’m not giving up!

  Oh, one other thing … I decided Patrick isn’t so bad even though he’s still kind of a know-it-all.

  Do you miss me, Dad? Sometimes it’s hard for me to remember what you look like. Isn’t that weird? You better send me a picture.

  Your homesick daughter,

  Zoey

  Zoey put the letter away and burrowed back down into her sleeping bag. Her thoughts swirled as she lay there, one arm around Lhasa. The sound of waves rushing up and down the beach made her feel like she was rocking in a boat out on a wide sea. But which way was she going? And was anyone steering?

  15

  Fishing Begins

  The next morning, Patrick prodded Zoey to get up. She groaned and stretched without getting out of the warm sleeping bag. Patrick explained in a low voice that her mom was still sick and Eliot needed to rest another day, so it was just the two of them. Thirty minutes later they headed down the beach toward the fish camp.

  “What does Harold want me to do? He didn’t act like he thought I could do much. What if I can’t do it, whatever ‘it’ is.” Zoey had to hurry to keep up with Patrick’s long stride.

  Patrick slowed a little. “No one’s forcing you, Zoey. But I’ll let you in on a secret.”

  Zoey caught up.

  “Since Thomas’s dad died, the Gambles are short-handed. Money is tight, and I think they were going to try to get by without hiring another hand. You won’t be that expensive, so if you hold up your end, they will be more than fair with you.”

  “So he did die. I wasn’t positive about that. What happened to him?”

  “I don’t know, Zoey. I don’t think they want to talk about it.”

  “No. I guess not.”

  Zoey couldn’t think of anything else to say, and they walked in silence for a minute. Then she let her thoughts turn back to questions of work. Maybe she would just show Thomas what a city girl could do. And Harold too. And maybe, just maybe, she could earn enough for a plane ticket out of here.

  Rain still peppered the flat ocean and the air was swollen with mist. Zoey was happy to be wearing the once-dreaded rain pants and was adjusting her hat when she saw Thomas on the other side of the creek.

  When they caught up to him he said, “The first opening started at five am. It was on the radio last night. They didn’t need to wait till Saturday. I guess they got enough escapement.”

  “Escape-what?” asked Zoey.

  “It’s complicated, but you know how the salmon need to swim up into the rivers and streams to spawn, to lay their eggs?”

  Zoey nodded.

  “Well, Fish and Game has people who keep track of how many fish make it upstream in all the different parts of the Bay.”

  Patrick added, “It’s called ‘escapement’. Right now, they must think there’s been enough in our area so we can fish. Later they might tell us to hold off for a while.”

  Zoey wasn’t sure she really understood.

  “Don’t worry about it right now,” Thomas said. “All we really need to know is that it’s okay to fish. Harold already picked the net once, but it’s a lot for one person to handle. My mom said if you help me, we can give Harold a break and she’ll pay you, just like the rest of us.”

  “There you go, Zoey,” Patrick grinned. “Think you can handle it?”

  Zoey wasn’t at all sure she could handle it. But she was ready to give it a try. Fishing must pay at least as much as babysitting. If she made enough, she could get back to Colorado and find her dad. Zoey wanted him to explain why he had disappeared. Then maybe she could convince him and her mom to get back together. Anyway, she couldn�
�t let Eliot be the only fisherman in the family.

  They were almost to the fish camp when Carolyn banged out of the Quonset hut door, arms full of heavy-duty fishing clothes.

  “Zoey! So glad you’re here. I heard you might join the crew, so I got these ready just in case. Here, try on some of this old stuff. You don’t want to get your nice rain gear all covered in mud and fish slime.”

  Patrick held up a pair of neoprene waders with attached rubber feet. “These oughta do. Try ’em on. I gotta get going. Still need to put braces in the back of the plane to hold the fish totes. You guys might have enough fish by the end of the day to make our first load for Dillingham.”

  With a wave, Patrick loped off down the beach toward the airplane.

  Zoey pulled on the waders one leg at a time. They came up almost to her chin. The oversized suspenders fell around her sides so Carolyn cinched them up from behind. She chuckled. “Well, they are a little long but next summer they ought to fit just fine.”

  Next summer? Could she be serious?

  Then she handed Zoey a pair of rubber boots. “These go over the neoprene. Give you a little better footing, and you won’t ruin the bottom of the waders.”

  Zoey tried not to make a face as she replaced her own boots with a pair that was at least two sizes too big. She rummaged through the remaining fishy-smelling rain jackets and picked out what looked like the smallest. She slipped her arms in. Hmmm, she thought. Perfect for a small elephant.

  “I’ll go get the truck.” Carolyn disappeared over a gravel bank beyond the Quonset hut.

  Harold walked up the beach from the edge of the water where he had been working on the net.

  “Thomas, your crew’s got the next set. You can show Zoey the fine points of picking fish. Use the raft. It’s out behind the house. I’m gonna try to get a little sleep, and then I’ll come and check on you.”

  Before Harold disappeared into the Quonset hut, Zoey saw him look at her and shake his head. He didn’t think she could do it. Was he right? She would soon find out. Carolyn motored down the beach toward her in an ancient, rusty pickup with the name “Power Wagon” written on the side. Thomas walked up with a big inflatable raft on his shoulders.