Read Online The Alaskan Laundry by Brendan Jones - Free Book Online

Cinderblocks poked out from the weeds. She pointed. “What about those?”
    After a moment he said, “Well, hell. Go.”
    She heaved four out of the wet grass and positioned them on end where they would catch the tank when it was lowered. He returned to the wheel of the lift. Her mind played the scene forward, the heavy fiberglass coming down over the blocks. “What about tying a rope to the straps so I can pull the tank when you lower it, make it easier to position?” she suggested.
    â€œWhat, did you fall on your head or something?” he said. “Go on then.”
    She ran across the yard, her face flushed. After organizing the warehouse she knew exactly where to look. Back outside, Fritz watched as she knotted the length of rope to the truck strap. He slid out of the seat, undoing the lump.
    â€œNow pay attention.” He folded the rope on itself. “Pretend this here’s a rabbit. Rabbit goes up out of the hole, over the log, around the tree, back over the log, gets scared and heads back down. Got it?” He sent the end through the hole, around, then in again. “Simple. You try.”
    Her fingers shook. “The rabbit comes out, and then he . . .”
    â€œGoes over the log.”
    â€œOver the log, and around the tree.”
    â€œBack over the log . . .”
    â€œBack over the log into the hole.”
    She held up the result, a ropey pile of nothing. He shook his head, retied the line, and eased the tank down. She adjusted the cinderblocks until the base of the tank hit squarely.
    â€œGood!” he shouted, turning off the lift. He poured resin into a bowl, squeezed in hardener, then dipped long strips of mesh into the syrupy liquid. It smelled bitter as he smoothed the layers with a plastic spackle knife. “Here, use this one,” he said, handing her his respirator. “Didn’t think you’d be helping out, otherwise I woulda grabbed a spare. My eggs are so scrambled, it doesn’t matter anymore.”
    Flakes melted on her forehead as she took the sander and began smoothing the fiberglass. Fritz stood up, hands on his hips, watching her.
    â€œWe just might make a worker out of you yet, Marconi.”

12
    THAT NIGHT , standing in front of the long mirror in her apartment, Tara traced the imprints on her cheeks left by the respirator. Shadows over her jaw from a summer of crackers and cream cheese were filling in. Dirt from the warehouse was trapped in the pores of her nose. When she ran her fingers through her hair, they caught on snags of matted curls. Grime rimmed her nails.
    Still watching herself in the glass, she pulled off her tank-top, splashed water on her face, then leaned forward on her hands. Her ribs appeared darker, thicker. A shadow split the muscles of her stomach. After the day spent fixing the tank, she felt stronger, in a different way from boxing. As if the strength from punching the heavy bag were vitamin C and what she was doing here at the hatchery were the thing itself, an orange.
    After her shower she slipped into sweatpants and climbed beneath the covers, the springs of the bed sagging. The temperature had dropped, and flakes drifted through the cone of light outside her window. Closing her eyes, she slipped a hand beneath the waistband. She came steeply, almost the moment she touched herself, imagining Connor over her, sweaty, that concentrated, intense expression on his face. She lay there, waiting for sleep to come, trying to ignore the feeling of the room closing in.
    It wasn’t happening. She dressed quickly, buttoning her coat to the neck. Hands shoved deep into her pockets, she walked toward the tug. Her rubber boots squeaked in the snow, which made a latticework in front of the mountains. Standing in front of the boat, she watched as flakes buffeted the wheelhouse windows, silver tracers melting into the black water. Her lungs hurt with the cold. The For Sale sign dangled from a corner in